“Don’t.”
He kisses me harder, claiming, reverent. His mouth moves to my jaw, my throat. I tilt my head back, fingers digging into his shoulders. He lifts me again, carries me to the bedroom without breaking the kiss.
The bed is soft, the sheets cool against my back. He follows me down, weight braced on his forearms, mouth never leaving mine. Clothes come off slowly. First, his shirt, my borrowed sweatshirt, jeans, everything until there’s only skin and heat and the sound of our breathing.
He’s careful with me, slow hands, gentle touches, eyes locked on mine like he’s memorizing every reaction. When he finally slides inside me, it’s with a low groan that vibrates through both of us. I wrap my legs around him, pull him deeper. We move together, slow at first, then faster, desperate, chasing something we’ve both needed for too long.
It builds fast—pleasure sharp and bright. I come with his name on my lips, nails scoring his back. He follows a moment later, burying his face in my neck, body shaking.
We stay tangled like that, breathing hard, hearts pounding in tandem.
Then he rolls to the side, pulls me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, tight and protective.
For a minute, it’s perfect. Quiet. Safe.
Then he tenses.
I feel the shift in his breathing, the way his hand stills on my back.
He pulls away slowly. Sits up. Runs a hand through his hair.
“Ronan?”
He doesn’t look at me. “This was a mistake.”
The words land like cold water.
I sit up, pulling the sheet around me. “Don’t say that.”
He stands, grabs his jeans from the floor, and pulls them on. “I shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re Declan’s sister.”
“Ronan—”
“I’m no good for you.” His voice is rough, cracked. “I couldn’t save him. I can’t fix what’s broken in me. You deserve better than someone who’s still carrying ghosts.”
Tears sting my eyes. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”
He finally looks at me, eyes dark with regret. “I know. But I’m deciding what I can live with.”
He turns away and walks to the door. Pauses with his hand on the knob.
“I’ll take you home,” he says quietly. “Or you can stay, but it can’t happen again.”
He steps out and closes the door softly behind him.
I sit there in the quiet room, sheet clutched to my chest, listening to the wind move through the pines.
The lighthouse beam is still sweeping somewhere out there—steady, endless.
But tonight, the light feels farther away than ever.
Chapter eight
Ronan
The bed is cold when my eyes open. Not just empty, but cold in a way that says it’s been that way for hours. I lie there a moment, staring at the ceiling beams, the faint gray light of pre-dawn seeping through the window. The sheets still carry the faint scent of her—rain, salt, and something softer, warmer, like vanilla and skin. My hand reaches across the mattress anyway, palm sliding over the place where she curled against me last night. Nothing. Just cool cotton.
I sit up slowly, the ache in my chest sharper than any bruise I’ve taken in years. The room is quiet except for the low crackle of last night’s embers dying in the woodstove. Her borrowed sweatshirt is folded neatly on the chair where she left it. The socks are gone. So is she.
