Ronan, formerly known as Reaper.
I’d seen his photo in the files Hellhound had left us. Read about his escape, his breaking of Prima generation conditioning, his relationship with the journalist who’d freed him. Xavier’s sister.
But photos didn’t capture the coiled danger in his stance. How he positioned himself between the doorway and potential threats. The protective instinct radiating off him in waves. So similar to the man beside me.
His gaze locked on Xavier. Recognition flickered, operatives acknowledging each other, maybe. Or just understanding that passed between men who’d survived the same hell.
Brief nod. Acknowledgment without words.
Then he stepped aside.
A woman appeared in the doorway.
My breath caught.
Maeve.
Slender but fit, she had dark reddish-brown hair in the old pictures, but now was blonde, her mane falling past her shoulders. Dark brown eyes that caught the light and turned almost amber. Freckle below her jawline. Rope bracelet visible on her left wrist, worn, faded, clearly precious.
Xavier’s last birthday gift before he disappeared, that’s what he told me. I didn’t think she still had it.
She froze when she saw him.
Complete stillness. Like her brain needed a moment to process what was before her.
“Xav?” Her voice broke on the single syllable. Disbelief and hope tangled together.
He couldn’t speak. I felt his grip tighten, felt him trying to force words past whatever was locked in his throat.
He took one step forward.
She ran.
Crashed into him so hard he stumbled backward. Arms wrapping tight, face buried against his chest, sobbing, raw, broken sounds that made my own vision blur.
He caught her. Held her like she might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly.
“I’m here, Mae.” His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. I’m here.”
“You’re alive.” She pulled back enough to look at his face, palms coming up to cup his cheeks as though she needed physical confirmation. “You’re really alive.”
“I’m really alive.”
Fresh tears spilled down her face. She pulled him close again, holding on with desperate strength.
He buried his face in her hair, his own shoulders shaking.
I looked away. This moment was too private, too raw.
Ronan was already moving toward the cabana, giving them space.
I followed.
The interior was simple. Weathered wood floors, open layout with ocean visible through every window. Minimal furniture. Couch, table, chairs. Lived-in but not cluttered. Palm trees surrounded the property, creating natural privacy.
Sound of waves constant in the background. Peaceful.
A sanctuary.
