The Shadows at the Door | Ronan's Perspective

Ronan

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Some men enjoy playing the hero. Nathaniel Aldridge is one of them.

As I stride down the penthouse hallway, I can already hear his voice—a mix of frustration and desperation, laced with an edge of self-righteousness. He's pushing her, trying to convince her of something. Likely, that he knows better. That he's her saviour.

It's pathetic.

The moment I step into the room, the tension is palpable. Amara's eyes dart to mine, wide and uncertain, her body half-turned toward the door as if she's ready to flee. Nathaniel stands in front of her, his shoulders squared, his jaw tight, like he's preparing for a fight.

The urge to end this now—to silence him before he can say another word—claws at me, but I keep my steps measured. A single word is all I need.

"Enough."

Their reactions are immediate. Nate stiffens, and Amara's breath catches.

The sound is faint, but it hits me square in the chest. She's scared, of him, of me, of the whole damn situation. And that fear? It's a weapon I can't allow anyone else to wield.

"Nate." I force myself to keep my voice low, controlled. Calm fury is more effective than shouting, and right now, I want him to feel every ounce of it. "You've overstayed your welcome."

His jaw tightens, and he squares his shoulders like he thinks this is a fight he can win. Foolish. "She deserves to know the truth."

The truth? The truth would shatter her. It would leave her vulnerable, afraid, and more likely to make mistakes that could cost her everything. But Nate doesn't see that. He only sees a chance to be the hero, to swoop in and save her from the villain he thinks I am.

"And you think you're the one to tell her?" I take a step forward, my movements deliberate, calculated. "You have no idea what you're playing with."

Nate's defiance doesn't waver. If anything, it strengthens, and I can't decide if I admire his stupidity or pity it. "I know enough," he says, his voice rising. "Enough to see through whatever game you're playing. Amara deserves better than to be dragged into your mess."

My smirk is cold, devoid of humour. "And you think you're better, Nate? You think you can protect her from something you don't even understand?"

His gaze shifts to Amara, softening in a way that makes something primal flare in my chest. She's mine to protect. Not his. Not anyone else's.

"She's in danger with you," Nate says, his voice lower now, but the conviction in it remains.

My patience snaps, and I close the distance between us. "The only danger to her right now is you."

"Stop!"

Her voice trembles, but it's enough to cut through the charged atmosphere. She steps between us, her hands rising to press against my chest. The contact sends a jolt through me, sharp and grounding.

For a moment, it feels like we're standing on the edge of something volatile, the air between us charged with the threat of violence. And then, Amara steps forward.

"Stop!" Her voice trembles, but it's enough to break the moment. She presses her hands against my chest, the warmth of her touch cutting through the cold fire burning inside me.

I glance down at her, at the defiance in her eyes. She's afraid, yes, but she's also angry. That anger is what holds her together, what keeps her from crumbling under the weight of everything that's happened. I can respect that. Hell, I admire it.

"Go," she says, turning to Nate. Her voice is steadier now, firmer.

He hesitates, his gaze darting between us. His lips part, like he's about to argue, but then he nods, his jaw tight with frustration.

"Be careful," he says, his voice soft.

I don't miss the way his eyes linger on her, like he thinks he's leaving her to the wolves. As if I'd let anything touch her.

The sound of the door closing behind him is a relief. The silence that follows, however, is heavier than before.

When she rounds on me, anger blazing in her eyes, I almost welcome it. Anger is easier to handle than fear.

"What the hell was that?" she demands, her words cutting through the silence.

I turn to the window, needing a moment to compose myself. The anger I felt toward Nate is fading, replaced by something harder to manage.

"A warning," I say finally, my voice cold. "And a reminder."

Her glare doesn't waver. "A reminder of what?"

"That trust is a luxury you can't afford."

When I glance back at her, her arms are crossed, her expression a mix of defiance and uncertainty. She doesn't trust me, not fully. And that's fine. She doesn't need to trust me.

She just needs to survive.

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