You sat on the edge of the oversized bed, the file shaking in your hands. You hadn’t gone looking for secrets. But the way Ronan had kissed you before leaving—slow, deliberate, like goodbye—had left a knot in your chest that refused to loosen.

The door opened behind you.

Cold followed him in. His coat was dusted with snow, his gloves still on. One of them was stained dark with blood. His gaze snapped to the folder in your lap, and he stopped immediately, as if the sight of it had rooted him to the spot.

“Blyad.” His voice was quiet, tightly controlled. “You weren’t meant to find that.”

You stood, heart pounding. You lied to me. You said the attacks were old business. That it was under control.

His jaw tightened. “It is.”

You lifted the photograph. Grainy. Unmistakable. You—alone, walking to your car, a red circle carved around your body like a verdict. You forgot to mention I was the problem they’re trying to solve.

The room went still. For a moment, the man who never showed cracks let one surface.

“I kept it from you because I know you,” he said. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to. “You’d run. Or you’d stay and pretend you’re not scared until it gets you killed. And I can’t breathe thinking about either.”

Your voice came out low, steady, despite the fear burning in your chest. You don’t get to make those choices for me.

“No.” His hands stayed at his sides, fingers curled inside his gloves. “But I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you alive. Lie. Spill blood. Damn myself. I don’t care.”

You searched his eyes—the ruthless man everyone feared, standing perfectly still now, as if restraint were the only thing keeping him together.

You’ve been living in the dark a long time, Ronan, you whispered. Just don’t pull me down there with you.