Chapter 3
Alistair closed his eyes tightly. A single, shuddering exhale escaped him, sounding dangerously close to a sob.
"You fool," Alistair whispered to the dark interior of the car, leaning his head back against the glass. "You absolute, arrogant fool."
He didn't speak again for the rest of the drive.
***
The iron gates of Vance Manor groaned open, swallowing the car into the secluded, mist-draped estate on the city’s western bluffs.
The ancestral home was a brooding, sprawling fortress of dark stone and ivy, perched above the cliffs where the ocean crashed against jagged rocks below. To the outside world, it was a monument to the ancient wealth and unassailable prestige of the Vance dynasty. To Ronan, it was the only home he had ever known that didn't smell of blood, wet sawdust, or cheap gin.
Ronan pulled the car into the private courtyard beneath the stone portico. The moment the engine died, he was out of his seat and opening the rear door, extending a sturdy hand.
Alistair looked up at him. For a second, the nobleman seemed reluctant to move, his body curled inward as if protecting a fresh, invisible wound. But when his eyes met Ronan’s—open, watchful, filled with an unvarnished devotion that no contract could ever buy—Alistair sighed, letting his gloved hand slide into Ronan’s bare palm.
Alistair’s fingers were icy, yet a burning, unnatural heat radiated through his wrist.
As Alistair stepped down, his legs buckled again.
Ronan didn't hesitate. He caught him smoothly, sliding an arm behind Alistair’s shoulders and pulling the nobleman close against his flank. Alistair groaned, a tiny, choked sound of pain slipping past his teeth, his hand instinctively clutching Ronan's upper bicep.
"I've got you," Ronan murmured, stepping into the warm foyer out of the driving rain. "Lean on me."
"I am fine," Alistair gasped, though he was leaning almost all of his weight against Ronan’s broad shoulder. Every step seemed to cost him an immense, agonizing effort, his breath catching in his throat like broken glass. "Call for Julian... tell him to prepare the western suite. But do not let the staff fuss."
"The hell with Julian's herbal teas," Ronan muttered, guiding Alistair toward the grand mahogany staircase. "I'm calling the chief of surgery at St. Jude's."
"No!" Alistair's grip on Ronan's arm tightened with startling, desperate ferocity. His gray eyes flared wide, wild with a sudden, sharp panic. "No outside doctors. Ronan... you gave me your word. My health remains an internal matter. If the Morvath syndicate suspects I am physically incapacitated, the board of directors will move against the estate by sunrise."
Ronan gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw ticking. He hated the politics. He hated the boardroom vultures circling Alistair's family legacy. But above all, he hated that Alistair used his duty like a martyr’s shroud, wrapping it tighter around himself every time he started to fall apart.
"Fine," Ronan growled, his arm tightening protectively around Alistair’s waist as they ascended the stairs. "No outside doctors. But I'm staying in your quarters tonight. I'm not leaving you alone while you're coughing like this."
Alistair didn't immediately refuse. In the quiet, shadowed corridor of the upper gallery, where the portraits of dead Vance lords looked down with austere judgment, Alistair let his head rest briefly against Ronan’s shoulder.
It was a micro-gesture, lasting no more than three heartbeats, but it sent an electric jolt straight through Ronan's veins. Alistair smelled of cedarwood, expensive bergamot, and rain—but beneath it, faint and almost undetectable, Ronan caught the sharp, metallic tang of copper.
*Old blood,* Ronan thought, his brow furrowing. *Why does he smell like blood?*
Before Ronan could question it, they reached the heavy oak doors of Alistair's private bedchamber.
Dr. Julian, the elderly, tight-lipped physician who had served the Vance family for four decades, was already waiting inside the dimly lit foyer, his sleeves rolled up, a basin of steaming water and rolls of white linen set upon a silver cart. The old doctor’s eyes widened the moment he saw Alistair leaning heavily on Ronan, and a look of profound, horrified understanding crossed his wrinkled face.
"My lord," Julian breathed, rushing forward. "The docks? Again?"
"An ambush," Ronan answered for him, maneuvering Alistair toward the velvet chaise lounge near the hearth. "Gunman caught us near Pier 9. Alistair took a fright from the shooting. His lungs are acting up again."
Dr. Julian looked up from Alistair to Ronan. The old man’s gaze swept over Ronan’s torn shirt, the soot mark over his heart, and the completely uninjured bronze skin beneath. Julian’s mouth parted slightly, his eyes filled with a bizarre, trembling pity that made Ronan’s instincts bristle.
"You... took fire, Ronan?" Julian asked, his voice shaking.
"Point-blank .45," Ronan said with a cocky grin, though his eyes remained glued to Alistair’s pale profile. "Bounced right off. Lord Alistair got the scare of his life, though. Fix him up, Julian. He's running a fever."
Alistair suddenly pushed himself up from the chaise, his breath catching as he raised a pale hand to cut the doctor off.
"That is enough, Ronan," Alistair said, his voice cold, steadying itself through sheer force of aristocratic will. "Leave us."
Ronan frowned, crossing his thick arms over his bare chest. "I told you, I'm staying. You can barely stand."
"Ronan. That was an order."
The tone was absolute. The wall of social rank slammed down between them like an iron portcullis, sharp and unyielding.
Ronan stared at him, hurt flashing briefly behind his hazel eyes before his professional mask snapped back into place. He hated when Alistair used that voice. It was a reminder that no matter how many bullets Ronan took, no matter how many times he held Alistair’s shaking body in the dark, Ronan was the hired help, and Alistair was the master of the house.
"Understood, my lord," Ronan said softly, stepping back toward the doorway.
He paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the polished brass handle. He looked back at Alistair, whose dark head was bowed, his slender fingers already moving to unbutton his high-collared cravat, his shoulders hunched as if trying to shield his body from Ronan's view.
"Don't stay up late working on the ledgers," Ronan added, his voice losing its formal edge, returning to that low, intimate rumble he reserved only for the dead of night. "And call me if you need anything. Anything at all. I don't care if it's three in the morning."
Alistair didn't look up, but his fingers paused on the silk buttons of his collar.
"I know," Alistair whispered. "Goodnight, Ronan."
Ronan pulled the heavy door shut, hearing the distinctive click of the interior deadbolt sliding into place immediately from the inside.
Standing alone in the silent, cold corridor, Ronan looked down at his own chest.
He touched the smooth skin right over his heart where the hollow-point slug had hit him an hour ago. The soot was still there, but beneath his fingers, his pulse was steady, rhythmic, entirely untroubled. He felt strong. He felt invincible, as if he could wrestle the incoming tide and tear apart any syndicate assassin with his bare hands.
Yet, as he began his solitary patrol down the darkened halls of the manor, a strange, persistent knot twisted in the pit of his stomach.
