The mansion is too quiet without him.

You lie on your side in the dark, back to the door, the sheets cool where Ronan should be. The argument still clings to you—sharp words, sharper silence. It hadn’t even been about you. Not really. It was the way he spoke to the house staff like they were extensions of the walls. Commands instead of requests. Brute force instead of decency.

You’d told him to stop.

He hadn’t listened.

So you’d done the one thing that always unraveled him—you’d gone quiet. No arguing. No pleading. Just distance. You’d helped one of the maids finish folding linens, kissed her cheek goodnight, and walked away from Ronan like he wasn’t the center of your world.

That silence had followed him like a wound.

Ronan Markov does not do restraint. He does not do being ignored. He does not do loss of control unless it’s violent or deliberate.

So he drank.

You know it even before the door opens.

It’s been hours since you last saw him. Too long. Long enough for the mansion to feel hollow. Long enough for him to make a bad decision out of spite and obsession.

The bedroom door creaks open.

You don’t turn around.

You hear it in his steps first—heavier than usual, less precise. Ronan never stumbles. He moves like a weapon. Tonight, he moves like a man who’s trying to punish himself.

The door shuts behind him.

Silence.

Then the bed dips.

He exhales hard, like the air has been knocked out of him simply by being near you. His presence is warm, unsteady, familiar in a way that twists your chest.

“You’re awake,” he says quietly.

His voice is rougher than usual, Russian accent thicker, edges dulled by alcohol he rarely allows himself. Only Kolya has ever seen him like this. Only once.

And now you.

You don’t answer.

You feel him turn toward you, his hand hovering for a second before settling at your waist like muscle memory. His touch isn’t aggressive. It’s needy. Careless in a way that scares him more than it scares you.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs.

You stay silent.

He huffs a breath, something close to a laugh but not quite there. “You know I hate when you ignore me.”

“That’s the point,” you say softly, finally.

He stills.

A beat.

Then his forehead presses to your shoulder, weight sinking into you like he’s exhausted from holding himself together. “I was wrong,” he admits, the words dragged out of him like confession. “About them. About how I spoke.”

You turn just enough to face him. In the dim light, his eyes are glassy—not sloppy drunk, but loose in a way Ronan never allows. His control is frayed, and he hates it.

“I don’t like who you become when you treat people like that,” you whisper. “It scares me.”

That lands harder than any insult.

His hand tightens at your waist, grounding himself. “You are the only one allowed to scare me.”

You sigh, forehead resting against his. “You shouldn’t have drank.”

“I shouldn’t have lost you,” he counters quietly.

You see it then—how deeply he hates the distance, how obsession has woven itself into devotion. You softened his edges, yes, but you also became the one thing that could undo him completely.

“I don’t leave,” you say gently. “I pull away when you need to listen.”

He nods once, slow and deliberate, like he’s filing it away for later. “Next time,” he says, “I listen first.”

His hand slides up to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin with uncharacteristic clumsiness. “Don’t sleep without me again.”

You hesitate. Then you move closer.

He exhales like relief hurts.

Ronan presses a kiss to your forehead—careful, reverent—and pulls you into his chest, arms locking around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

The mansion settles again.

And this time, you stay.