Chapter 5
"Don't do it again," Alistair said, his grip tightening with surprising, feverish urgency. His nails bit into the back of Ronan's hand. "At the docks. When you saw the barrel turn toward me... you didn't even blink. You threw yourself into the line of fire."
"That's my job."
"It is not your job to die for me!" Alistair's voice broke, a sharp rasp that ended in a muffled wince as he clutched his side. "Do you hear me? If a bullet is meant for me, you let it hit me! You do not step in front of it! Never again!"
Ronan stared at him, bewildered and stubbornly defiant.
"Are you insane?" Ronan growled softly, leaning closer until their faces were inches apart, until he could smell the faint scent of mint and dried blood on Alistair's breath. "A .45 would have blown a hole through your heart the size of a teacup! You would have died on that wet dock, Alistair. I survived it without a scratch. Look at me! Not a single mark!"
Alistair looked at him—not with pride, but with an expression of such agonizing torment that Ronan felt physically struck.
"You think... because the skin doesn't tear... there is no cost?" Alistair whispered, his gray eyes shining with unshed tears in the firelight. "You think the universe simply forgives a bullet?"
"I don't give a damn about the universe," Ronan said fiercely, his hand turning to cradle Alistair's narrow jaw, his thumb brushing against the corner of the lord's trembling mouth. "I care about you. If I have to take a hundred slugs to keep you breathing, I'll take every single one and smile while they dig them out. You're not dying on my watch. Not from Morvath, and not from whatever this sickness is."
Alistair stared into Ronan’s hazel eyes, searchingly, hopelessly. For one agonizing, suspended second, Ronan thought the nobleman was going to lean forward and close the remaining inch between their lips. The air between them hummed like a severed power line, thick with five years of unspoken devotion, shared close calls, and stolen glances across crowded ballrooms.
Then, Alistair’s gaze flickered to the high collar of his own shirt, and the shutter came down.
He pulled back, his hand slipping out of Ronan's grip with deliberate, agonizing restraint.
"Go to sleep, Ronan," Alistair said, his voice flattening into that cold, aristocratic veneer once more, though his chest still heaved with shallow, strained breaths. "Tomorrow we review the surveillance logs for the Charity Gala. I need you sharp."
Ronan remained on his knee for another three seconds, his jaw clenched, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged beast.
"Fine," Ronan rasped, standing up and towering over the bed. He pulled the heavy quilt up over Alistair's shoulders, lingering for a second to tuck the wool around the lord's shivering frame. "Try to rest. I'll be right outside."
Alistair turned his face toward the wall, not answering, his hand clutching his ribs beneath the heavy covers.
***
The morning sun broke through the coastal fog, spilling cold, gray light across the mahogany-paneled library.
Spread across the massive oak conference table were blueprints, shipping manifests, and surveillance photographs of the Grand Provincial Museum—the venue for the annual midsummer Charity Gala. In three days, the city’s political elite, financial magnates, and aristocrats would gather under crystal chandeliers to celebrate the opening of the northern maritime trade routes.
And according to the decrypted telegrams intercepted by Ronan’s security contacts, the Morvath Syndicate was planning to turn the ballroom into a slaughterhouse.
"The catering company has been thoroughly compromised," Ronan said, tapping a photograph of a grease-stained loading dock with his pen. He was leaning over the table, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, forearm muscles corded and scarred from dozens of street brawls in his youth. "Morvath bought out the service contractor two weeks ago. That gives them unvetted access to the service corridors behind the main hall three hours before the guests arrive."
Sitting opposite him, Alistair looked immaculate—and ghostly.
He had donned a three-piece suit of tailored navy wool, his silk tie knotted with geometric precision. The collar of his shirt stood high and stiff, entirely concealing his throat. He had applied powder to his face to disguise the pallor from the night before, but he couldn't hide the dark purple crescents beneath his eyes, nor the faint, brittle tremble in his right hand as he picked up a bone-china teacup.
"The municipal police chief assured me that private security would be stationed at every entrance," Alistair said quietly, his voice thin and dry.
"The police chief is in Morvath's pocket, and you know it," Ronan snorted, pacing around the table until he stood beside Alistair's high-backed leather chair. He placed one heavy hand on the armrest, leaning in close. "If we rely on the city badges, we'll end up cornered in the banquet hall with no perimeter support. I’m bringing six of my own men from the docks to hold the rear service exit."
Alistair looked up from the blueprints.
From this angle, Ronan was standing so close their shoulders nearly brushed. Ronan could see the fine grain of Alistair's pale skin, the slight dryness on his bottom lip, and that persistent, faint undercurrent of copper beneath his sharp bergamot cologne.
"I cannot have armed dockworkers drawing automatic weapons in front of the provincial governor, Ronan," Alistair scolded, though the rebuke lacked any real bite. His eyes lingered on Ronan’s bare forearms, trailing the thick veins down to his calloused knuckles. "The Vance name already draws enough whispers regarding our... unorthodox security measures."
"Unorthodox keeps you alive," Ronan countered, leaning in another fraction of an inch, testing the limits. "Let the bluebloods whisper. As long as you walk out of that hall on your own two feet, they can write whatever they want in the society papers."
Alistair let out a quiet sigh, the warm plume of his breath brushing against Ronan’s jaw.
Without thinking, Alistair reached up. His cool, slender fingers caught the lapel of Ronan’s jacket, tugging it slightly to straighten the seam, smoothing the rough wool over Ronan's broad shoulder. It was an impossibly tender, domestic gesture—the kind of touch a man gave his husband before sending him out into the world.
"You never wear your tie straight," Alistair murmured, his gray eyes fixed on the crooked knot at Ronan's throat. His fingers lingered on the fabric, his knuckles brushing lightly against Ronan's collarbone.
Ronan's breath caught. He didn't move. He stood statue-still, letting the nobleman's fingers rest against his chest.
"You could straighten it for me," Ronan said, his voice dropping into a low, smoky murmur. "Every morning. If you wanted."
Alistair’s fingers froze.
His gray eyes flicked up to meet Ronan’s. For a heartbeat, the air in the vast library seemed to vanish entirely. The distance between them was nothing—less than six inches of sunlight and dust motes. Ronan could see the tiny gold flecks in Alistair’s irises, could hear the rapid, fluttering rhythm of the nobleman’s pulse jumping beneath his high collar.
"Ronan..." Alistair whispered, his voice catching in his throat.
"I mean it, Alistair," Ronan pressed, his hazel eyes burning with fierce, uncompromising earnestness. "After this gala is over. After we crush Morvath’s crew. Let me stop pretending I’m just a hired gun on your balance sheet. Let me—"
