Each stroke drags a sound from me, helpless and raw, my body clinging to his like it never wants to let go. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to. His body says it all—the possession, the hunger, the unspoken promise that this night is far from over.
We spend the rest of the night wrapped around each other, tangled in sweat-damp sheets and whispered need. Time blurs, and I lose count of how many times we fall apart in each other’s arms—how many times he brings me to the edge and pulls me over with nothing but a touch, a look, a word spoken against my skin like a vow.
There’s no urgency, no awkwardness, just an unspoken understanding between us—every time the ache rises, we answer it. Again, and again. Sometimes slow, sometimes wild, alwaysreal. Even when exhaustion tugs at my limbs and sleep begins to take me under, I still feel him. The gentle press of his lips on my shoulder. The heat of his body is never far from mine. And sometimes, when I drift off for just a moment, I wake to the slow, steady rhythm of him inside me, coaxing me back to life with nothing more than his touch and the deep, reverent way he says my name.
There’s something sacred about it. In this kind of closeness. In being claimed over and over without ever feeling owned—justwanted, desperately, wholly, without apology.
And for the first time in years… I don’t feel broken.
I just feel likehis.
By the time we’re finally spent—when Ronan’s breathing evens out and his body sinks into stillness—it’s nearly dawn. The faintest light creeps along the edge of the curtains, soft and silver, casting shadows across his face. His arm is draped heavily over my waist, anchoring me to the bed, his bare chest rising and falling in a rhythm that says he’sfinallyout.
It took all night to get him to this point. Not just the pleasure, not just the exhaustion—but the comfort, thetrust.
And now, with the house quiet and his guard completely down, I know this is my only window. If I’m going to search foranything—clues, records,signs of Reign—this is the time to move.
I shift slowly, inch by inch, careful not to disturb the warmth of his embrace too suddenly. My fingers gently lift his arm, just enough for me to slide out from beneath it. He mumbles something low and unintelligible, a grumble laced with sleep, and my heart seizes for a second. I freeze, holding my breath.
But he doesn’t budge.
Damn, I must’ve really worn him out. Any other night, any other version of Ronan, he would’ve stirred the moment my weight left the bed. He’s too protective. Too tightly wound. But tonight… he’s still.
I pull the blanket up around him, watching his face soften in sleep for just a beat longer. There’s a tenderness in that moment I want to cling to—but I can’t. Not now.
Now… I need answers.
Chapter Fourteen
Rowen
According to Dean, Emerson and I spent the night investigating the blazes. Following leads, shaking hands, showing face. Keeping things quiet while the empire he’s so desperate to preserve smolders from the inside out. That’s what he’ll tell others. That’s the version of us he’s proud of. Dutiful sons. Sharp and composed. Always where we’re supposed to be.
But the truth?
We were at the club. From moments after the blast until the sky started to lighten again. Drenched in bass and flashing lights. Music so loud it rattles your bones. Heat thick in the air from too many bodies trying to forget the weight of their own stories.
We weren’t investigating shit.
We wereescaping.
And yeah, I’m more than just buzzed. There’s a pleasant heaviness in my limbs that dulls throb in my head that signals I’ve had one too many. I’m not proud of it—but pride hasn’t mattered in a long time. Not when everything around me is cracked and bleeding. Not when guilt festers in every breath. Sometimes a shot of whiskey and a stranger’s body are the only things that silence the noise for even a second.
I tried twice tonight to fuck a girl in the bathroom. Two different girls. Both of them gorgeous in that forgettable kind of way. Willing. Eager, even. Hands on me, mouths on my neck, moaning like they knew me. Like I could betheirsfor just ten minutes.
But it didn’t happen.
Not once. Not even close.
I couldn’t stay hard. Couldn’t staypresent.
Because none of them wereher.
I try to forget.Hell, I’ve made it a full-time job.
The liquor helps. So does the fighting. So do the nameless women who press themselves into me, thinking they’re what I need. I let them try. Let them kiss me, touch me, drag me into bathroom stalls and dark corners of clubs. But even when I’m there—hands gripping someone else, body going through the motions—it’sherthat claws her way into my mind.
Berkley.
