The mansion is too quiet for guests.

Ronan Markov notices it immediately—the way sound carries differently, the way his space feels occupied instead of invaded. He doesn’t like it. He tolerates it because Christian asked, because Gianna is pregnant, because Kat is small and curious and not a threat.

Still, his hand settles at your lower back the entire time they’re brought in, a silent reminder to himself more than anyone else that you are the constant. The one thing that hasn’t changed him—just narrowed his world.

Christian clocks it instantly.

His brother’s posture. The way Ronan positions himself between you and everyone else without thinking. The subtle possessiveness that used to be pure control and is now… something sharper. More dangerous.

“You look settled,” Christian remarks dryly as a maid leads them down the corridor.

Ronan doesn’t look at him. “You are staying in the east wing.”

Christian smirks. “Still bossy.”

Gianna shoots her husband a look, already tired, one hand resting on her stomach while Kat peers up at the ceiling like she’s counting chandeliers. “It’s beautiful,” she says gently.

Ronan inclines his head, polite enough. Distant as ever.

That night, when the mansion finally goes still, Ronan locks your bedroom door out of instinct. Not paranoia—habit. He doesn’t soften with you the way people expect. He focuses. Everything else fades.

“Ronan,” you murmur against him, breathless, fingers curling into his shirt. “We have guests.”

“They are not near us,” he replies calmly, mouth brushing your temple. “And I waited all day.”

There’s no apology in him. Just intent. Just you.

—

Morning sunlight pours into the formal dining room through towering windows, glinting off marble and crystal. The house is awake again, and the mood at the table is… strained.

Christian sits rigidly, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up like he hasn’t slept. His coffee is untouched, jaw tight, eyes sharp and irritated in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine.

Gianna looks exhausted, dark circles beneath her eyes, patience hanging by a thread. Kat hums happily, coloring with absolute peace.

Then you and Ronan walk in.

He’s calm. Perfectly composed. His hand rests at your waist like it belongs there—because it does.

Christian looks up.

His gaze flicks from Ronan to you.

Then he exhales slowly. “Unbelievable.”

Ronan pulls out your chair, kisses your hair without shame, and sits.

“Good morning,” he says evenly.

Gianna closes her eyes. “Ronan.”

Christian finally snaps, voice low but sharp. “You couldn’t have exercised any restraint?”

Ronan lifts an eyebrow. “In my house?”

Christian laughs under his breath, humorless. “Some people are trying to sleep. My wife is pregnant.”

“And alive,” Ronan replies coolly. “I did not endanger her.”

Gianna glares at him. “I did not need to hear my brother-in-law reaffirming his virility at two in the morning.”

You sink a little lower in your chair.

Ronan glances at you instead, expression softening just for a second. “You slept?”

You nod. He looks satisfied.

Christian notices. Of course he does.

“You really did it,” Christian mutters. “You let someone in.”

Ronan’s gaze sharpens—not angry, but warning. “Choose your words wisely.”

Gianna studies the two of you quietly, something thoughtful behind her tired smile. “He’s different,” she says softly. “Not better. Just… anchored.”

Christian scoffs. “He’s still an asshole.”

“Yes,” Gianna agrees. “But a consistent one.”

Kat looks up. “Why is Uncle Ronan grumpy?”

Ronan slides a bowl of fruit toward her without a word. Gentle. Precise.

Gianna’s eyes soften at that.

“You’ve change him,” she says to you quietly. “You gave him something to protect. A reason to live.”

Ronan’s hand tightens at your waist—possessive, grounded, unmistakably his.

The mansion remains guarded. Private. Cold to everyone else.

But with you there, it no longer feels empty.