Travis stands in the frame, breathing hard, a tire iron in his hand. His eyes lock on me immediately. “There you are.”
Ronan steps between us. “You’re done.”
Travis laughs low, ugly. “You again. The guard dog.” He swings the tire iron in a lazy arc. “Move. This is between my girl and me.”
“She’s not yours,” Ronan says, voice flat. “And you’re trespassing. On private property. With a weapon. That’s felony territory.”
Travis’s gaze flicks to the shotgun, then back to me. “You think this changes anything? You think some backwoods musclemakes you safe?” He takes a step forward. “If I can’t have you, Isla, no one will.”
The words land like ice water. I’ve heard threats from him before, quiet ones, hissed in the dark, but never this raw. Never this final.
Ronan doesn’t flinch. “Last chance. Walk away.”
Travis lunges.
It happens fast. Ronan sidesteps, catches Travis’s wrist mid-swing, twists hard. The tire iron clatters to the floor. Travis snarls, swings with his free hand. Ronan ducks, drives an elbow into Travis’s gut, then sweeps his legs. Travis hits the floor hard, air whooshing out of him.
Ronan plants a knee in his back, wrenches his arms behind him, zip-ties appearing from somewhere in his pocket—military habit, I realize. Travis curses, struggles, but Ronan’s hold is iron.
“Stay down,” Ronan says quietly. “Or I stop being nice.”
Travis spits blood onto the floorboards. “She’s mine.”
“She’s not anyone’s,” Ronan answers. “Least of all yours.”
I’m shaking so hard my teeth chatter. Ronan glances at me, assessing, then pulls his phone from his pocket with his free hand. “Yeah, it’s Ronan Black up on the bluff. Got a break-in. Assault with a deadly weapon. Suspect subdued. Send someone now.”
He stays on the line, voice calm, giving details while keeping his knee firm in Travis’s back. Travis stops struggling after a minute, goes limp, breathing ragged.
Sirens wail in the distance, close enough that the sheriff must’ve been patrolling nearby. Minutes later, red and blue lights flash through the windows. Boots on the porch. Voices. Hands pulling Travis up, cuffing him properly, reading rights.
The deputy, a woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense voice, takes my statement while Ronan gives his outside. Travis glaresat me the whole time he’s being walked to the cruiser, lips moving in silent promises I don’t want to hear.
When the car pulls away, the cottage feels too quiet again.
I stand in the doorway, arms wrapped around myself, watching the taillights disappear down the road. Ronan comes back up the steps, face unreadable.
“He’s gone,” he says. “For now. They’ll hold him. Charges will stick: breaking and entering, assault, and threats. He won’t walk easy.”
I nod. My voice comes out small. “Thank you.”
He looks at me. really looks. Something raw flickers in his eyes. Then he steps back, puts deliberate space between us.
“This ends now,” he says quietly.
The words hit harder than Travis’s threats ever did.
“What?”
“I’m broken, Isla.” His voice cracks on the last word. “I couldn’t save him. I can’t save you. Not from him. Not from me. You deserve someone who isn’t carrying ghosts in every breath.”
Tears burn my eyes. “You’re not broken. You’re healing. We’re both—”
“No.” He cuts me off, gentle but firm. “I’m not. And I won’t drag you down with me. You’ve fought too hard to get free. Don’t chain yourself to someone who’s still in chains.”
I reach for him. He steps back again.
“Please,” I whisper. “Don’t do this.”
