His house is the size of a small castle, and it looks like one too. But it isn’t overly luxurious. In fact, it’s a little cold, and it reminds me of Ronan’s house in that way. Stark. Used for function, but not a home.
He leads us through a maze of halls and directs the men to leave Ronan on the bed. His man Franco is on the phone, and I’m staring at him impatiently, wondering what he’s going to do. He seems to understand this, because when he hangs up, he tells me what I need to hear.
“The doctor will be here shortly. In the meantime, I will tend to the wound. You can wait downstairs where Magda will tend to yours.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I argue. “He doesn’t like people touching him. He needs me here. He won’t understand if I’m not here…”
“Sasha.” Rory gives my arm a squeeze as he dips his head to meet my gaze. “I will stay here with Ronan. He’s not going to wake up right now, because he’s lost too much blood. Alexei and Franco know what they’re doing, okay. But we need to respect their wishes so that Ronan gets the best treatment. They can’t do that if you’re here.”
My lip trembles and I want to keep arguing. My eyes move to Ronan on the bed, his face soft and relaxed and too pale. The longer I stand here and argue, the longer it’s going to take for them to help him. Logically, I know this. But I still don’t want to leave him.
I glance at the man with the blue eyes, who is watching me quietly. The one who I know is in charge.
“Promise me you’ll take care of him,” I demand. “Promise me you’ll do everything you can to help him.”
His head dips and he gives me a small nod. “You have my word.”
My eyes dart back to Ronan once more and then Rory is easing me out the door, directing me to go downstairs. He tells me the housekeeper will help with my cuts, which are the last thing on my mind. I’m barely holding myself together as I stare at the maze of hallways and the door shuts behind me. Locking me out. Keeping me in a void of questions with no answers.
This is the way of the mafia world. They see women as weak. As not being able to handle these types of situations. If it was anyone else, I wouldn’t want to see. But it’s Ronan. My Ronan.
My troubled, strong, proud man. The man I love beyond all reason. Beyond all limits. It almost knocks me off balance thinking how much I love him in this moment. Tears are tracking down my face as I stumble down the hallway, looking for the way that I came. Maybe I could just wait on the stairs. That way, if he does wake up, I will hear him.
But before I even make it that far, I catch someone peeking at me through another door before she slams it shut. I pause and stand there in confusion. It can’t be the housekeeper, because they said she’s downstairs. I’m not in the mood to care, but there was something about her face that looked familiar.
Needing the distraction, I walk to the door and knock on it. There isn’t a response. But when I turn the knob, it opens without protest. And sitting there on the bed, staring up at me with hazel eyes is the last person I ever expected to see again.
“Talia?” her name leaves my lips in a shocked whisper.
She stares back at me, her face devoid of any expression at all. At first I’m not even certain she recognizes me. This girl is supposed to be dead. She is supposed to be overseas somewhere where she was sold into human slavery and then killed. That’s what Mack said. What Mack believes.
And yet, here she is. In the Russian mobster’s house. There are a lot of different conclusions I could draw from that. She’s probably seen more horrors than I could ever imagine. I wonder if she even remembers her past life. If she even knows what she’s doing here. Or how she got here. Which is the question lingering in my mind. What is Alexei doing with her?
“Do you remember me?” I ask her.
“Of course I remember you,” she answers. “I’m not brain dead.”
Her snappy attitude takes me by surprise. My eyes scan over her body, assessing the situation. She’s healthy and well cared for. Dressed in nice clothing and a little thin, but otherwise in good condition. But I never remember her being so hard. Her eyes are different now. They aren’t soft like the girl I first met at Slainte. She’s looking at me like I’ve left her with a sour taste in her mouth, and I can’t understand why.
“Everyone thinks you’re dead,” I tell her. “You do know that, right?”
She shrugs.
That’s it. There’s no emotion there. Nothing. Just a shrug. Like it doesn’t matter.
“Do you realize what this has done to Mack?” I ask her. “She’s been sick over this whole situation for months. Do you have any idea what she went through to try to get you back?”
This time, a hint of remorse swirls in her pale irises. But it doesn’t last long. She looks me dead in the eye and speaks with unwavering conviction.
“I don’t want to go back there.”
“Okay…” I draw out the word. “But can’t you call her? Let her know you’re alright?”