The city slipped past in blurred neon streaks—empty streets, shuttered shops, quiet late-night markets flickering under streetlights.

But Ronan’s focus was fixed. On you.

You sat curled beside him, bare feet tucked beneath you, your dress riding up just enough to reveal skin beneath his hand.

Since leaving the dinner, his touch hadn’t faltered—not once.

His palm rested heavily on your thigh, fingers spread wide, as if pressing into your skin could stop time itself.

His tuxedo was half undone now—tie loosened, collar open—but he was still taut, like he’d been holding his breath ever since your hand found his across that cold, polished table.

You shifted slightly.

His grip tightened without hesitation.

There was no pretense anymore. He needed to hold you. To anchor himself.

Because letting go, even for a moment, was unthinkable.

The radio whispered quietly in the background. You said nothing, but he didn’t need words.

His thumb traced slow, obsessive circles on your skin—deliberate, steady, like a lifeline.

He didn’t want the night to end, didn’t want to lose this—you—to the darkness outside or the ghosts inside.

Ronan Markov had killed men for less. But now, sitting in the stillness of the car, clutching your thigh like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity, he knew one truth with cold clarity: if he let go, even for a second, he would lose himself forever.