Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“Why do you do that?” I ask.
He blinks up at me and his cheeks flush under my scrutiny. “I don’t like a certain sort of foods,” he says.
“Okay…” I draw out the word, choosing my next ones carefully. “Like which sort?”
“I don’t know.”
If it were anybody else, I might think they were being intentionally vague. But Ronan’s answer is an honest one, and I have a feeling that most of the time his answers only make sense to him. He doesn’t understand the need to elaborate. I always took it as a sign he didn’t want people to talk to him, his being so short and blunt. But then I think about him and Crow, and how close they are. Crow always pushes him for more answers, and I’ve never seen Ronan get angry with him for it.
So I decide to test it out myself.
“Why don’t you know, Ronan?”
He eats a potato and thinks about his answer before he replies.
“Where I was reared, there was sometimes a sort of strange smell in the food. I don’t know exactly what it was. But it made us sick. So I always check, just in case.”
“Oh.”
The room is silent again while I gather the courage for my next question. “That was at the compound, right?”
He sets his fork down. And I can’t read his expression. I never know what he’s thinking. But I know that I never will if I don’t work at it.
“Lachlan said you were raised in a sort of training camp,” I add, hoping he will explain further.
“Aye,” he answers. “I was.”
“Would you tell me about it?” I ask softly.
He frowns, and then, “what would ye care to know?”
“Did your parents live there with you?”
“Maybe,” he says. “I only met my father once. Never met my mammy.”
There’s no emotion in his voice. It’s like he’s telling me the weather outside is cold. Or it’s Monday. It’s just a fact to him. Nothing else. And that devastates me.
“So who raised you?”
“A lady,” he says. “I didn’t know her name. She reared us until we were eight, and then our training began.”
“Training for… killing, right?”
“Aye.” He nods. “But mostly just war. They believed a war was coming. And they were making us into soldiers.”
“So how did you meet Lachlan?”
“I met him in a church,” he explains. “After I left the compound. His mammy took me home and looked after me until she died.”
This time, there is warmth reflected in his voice. Even though he doesn’t say it, it’s obvious he cared for her very much. His relationship with Lachlan becomes so much clearer with those simple words. And I find myself wishing that his mother were still alive so I could hug her and thank her for helping Ronan. For raising him to be the man that he is today.
“Will you tell me what kind of things they made you do at the compound?”
He’s quiet, and his eyes are dark again, shutting me out. This is a question he doesn’t want to answer. And I have to accept there are just some things I may not ever know. It’s up to him to tell me if he wants to. But I will break down his barriers, one by one.
“You could show me,” I offer instead.
“How do you mean?” he asks.
I leave the plates on the table and stand up, taking his hand in mine. Ronan stares at our linked fingers for a moment before he relaxes in my grip and follows me where I lead him. To the bedroom.
I release his hands and step in front of him, nervous.
“I want to feel you,” I explain. “All of you, Ronan. I want to feel your skin against mine. To know you. Will you let me?”
He’s frowning. His eyes are downcast, and I can’t get a read on him. I’m afraid he’s going to say no. So I reach up and touch his face, stirring the magic that lingers between us every time we come together. I want him to feel it too. To take comfort in the knowledge that he’s safe with me. That I would never hurt him or judge him. Because at this point, I can no longer deny that we are connected on some strange level. And I know I can’t be the only one who feels it.
“Tell me what you’re worried about,” I say.
“I don’t know,” he answers.
“But you like it when I touch you?”
“Aye,” he says.
“Do you trust me?”
He nods without a moment’s hesitation. I stand on my toes and brush my lips against his, giving him the softest of kisses. His body relaxes into me, and he tries to pull me closer, but I stop him.
“I want to feel you,” I insist.
Our gazes lock, and then finally, he nods. That mournful look is back in his eyes again, and a part of me hates that I’m making him uncomfortable. But the other part of me, the one that wants to help him see there’s nothing to worry about, wins out.