Chapter Three Ronan

Chapter Three

Ronan

What am I doing? This woman is a distraction I can ill afford, yet here I am, standing in a dimly lit tavern, waiting for our room to be prepared. I’m trying to justify her presence a dozen different ways when the truth of the matter is simple: it has been an age, if ever, since a woman has intrigued me to this extent, and that fact is not easy to dismiss.

The innkeeper returns, wiping his hands on a stained apron. “Your room is being readied as requested, m’lord,” he says, handing me a tarnished brass key. “I shall let you know when it’s time to go up.” His gaze flicks to the woman at my side and the chains binding her hands. A subtle raise of his brow hints at questions he knows better than to ask.

I nod my thanks and glance around the crowded space. The Gilded Coin is a typical tavern on the main level, catering to townspeople and weary travelers alike. Patrons are packed around wooden tables, tankards sloshing as they share bawdy tales and raucous laughter. Barmaids call out orders while swatting away wandering hands. But above all the debauchery are rooms designed for a higher clientele who can afford finer amenities. Beds long enough to accommodate my six-foot-five frame and copper tubs spacious enough that my legs can almost fully extend. I am glad to pay handsomely for those features alone.

“We’ll wait here,” I tell her, guiding her to a spot near the massive stone fireplace.

Conversations falter, and a hush spreads like ripples in a pond. Rough men with unkempt beards and hard eyes take in her appearance—the fiery defiance in her gaze, the way her clothing clings to her curves. Leers stretch across their faces, whispers and snickers exchanged behind calloused hands.

A group elbows each other, and one lets out a low whistle. “Quite the catch you’ve got there.”

My muscles tighten. I position myself slightly in front of her, a silent warning to all. My hand rests on the hilt of my dagger, fingers flexing just enough to draw attention. Any who dare let their gaze linger too long are met with a glare that promises retribution. One by one, they turn back to their drinks, the clamor of the tavern gradually resuming.

She shifts beside me, the chains clinking softly. “Attracting quite the audience, aren’t we?”

“Pay them no mind,” I grind out. The urge to unleash my anger on these lecherous brutes is strong but unnecessary. Not unless they give me reason.

A serving girl passes by, balancing a tray of mugs. She casts a curious glance in our direction, her eyes darting to the chains before quickly looking away.

At last, the innkeeper reappears at the foot of the stairs. “Your room is ready, m’lord.”

“Finally,” I mutter and place a firm hand on her arm, the gesture more protective than forceful. I steer my reluctant companion through the sea of patrons already deep in their cups. All the while, I remain vigilant, eyes sharp for any hint of trouble.

Ascending the creaking steps, I can’t shake the nagging thought that bringing her here might have been a mistake. The risks are mounting, yet despite all logic, I cannot bring myself to regret it.

We reach the door to our room, and I pause for a moment, the key poised in the lock. Stealing a glance at her, I find her gaze already on me.

“You said you were going to free me, and now I’m supposed to go in a room alone with you.” She tilts her head. “Why did you bring me here?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I push open the door and motion for her to enter.

She steps inside without another word, and I follow, the door closing behind us with a soft click. The muffled sounds of the tavern fade as I lock the door and take a minute to ensure my requests have been met.

When I paid for the room and in a moment of weakness—or perhaps something else—I asked for items I thought a woman might appreciate: fresh fruits and cheeses, fragrant soaps scented with lavender, and softer, down-filled bedding. I blame the memory of my mother, who would surely haunt me from her grave if I did not act with the consideration she raised me to have.

The fire is lit in the large hearth to our left, flames licking over the logs and chasing away the chill in the room. To the side, in front of a window draped with heavy velvet curtains, stands a table set for two. It’s laden with steaming bowls of hearty stew, a fresh loaf of crusty bread, clusters of green grapes, chunks of aged cheese, and a pitcher of honeyed ale with two polished steins.

In the corner nearest the door, a large copper tub awaits, steam rising from the hot water within. Beside it rests a basket brimming with various soaps and oils, their fragrances perfuming the air, and a small stand that holds neatly folded towels. Finally, to the right and opposite the hearth, a massive bed dominates the space. Its headboard is crafted from sturdy iron rods entwined with decorative scrollwork in a pattern of pentacles. Atop the thick goose-down mattress lies luxurious bedding that looks inviting after days on the road.

With everything in order, I begin to relax. The mingling scents of savory food and fragrant oils remind me of my empty belly, and the steam rising from the tub beckons my aching body and the comforts I’ve long neglected.

“There’s only one bed.”

Her voice pulls me from my thoughts. She’s frowning, her gaze sweeping over the room as though unhappy with the accommodations.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I say, “Where do you hail from?”

“Queens. Astoria, if you want to get technical,” she replies, meeting my gaze.

I have never heard of such a ruler, but even I am not arrogant enough to believe that Towerfall is all that exists. “What is the name of Queen Astoria’s kingdom?”

She blinks in surprise, then a hint of amusement tugs at the corners of her lips. “No, it’s not—” She pauses, shaking her head with a soft chuckle. “Never mind. It’s called New York.”

“And in your land of New York , how many beds does one typically use for sleep?”

She regards me with narrowed eyes, then arches a dubious brow. “Are you saying you’re going to let me use the bed?”

Matching her expression, I ask wryly, “Would you prefer the floor?”

“Not especially, no.”

“Then make use of the bed and stop your complaints. Here, hold still.” Retrieving the key to her cuffs once more, I step closer and unlock them.

The manacles fall away, and she rubs her wrists, wincing slightly as her fingers brush the pink, chafed skin. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll try to escape?”

I set the restraints on the bedside table, my gaze lingering on her for longer than necessary. An image flickers unbidden through my mind—her, naked and bound on the bed, completely at my mercy. Heat coils low in my abdomen, and I close my eyes briefly, drawing in a slow breath to force the deviant thoughts away before they cause my body to react.

“You ask a lot of questions, woman,” I say, my tone gruffer than intended.

She perches on one of the wooden chairs at the table, tucking one leg up to her chest and resting her heel on the seat’s edge. Casually, she plucks a grape from the bunch and pops it into her mouth, chewing slowly as she surveys the spread before her. Once again, she reminds me of a woodland nymph, resting on a branch, innocent and unguarded, oblivious to the predator watching her every move.

“Occupational hazard. Be glad I’m not on repeat asking you how everything makes you feel.”

She laughs, though if that was some kind of joke, it’s one I don’t understand.

“And that, Sir Tall, Dark, and Brooding, was not an answer.”

“Only prisoners escape, and you are not a prisoner. You may leave whenever you wish.” At that, her eyes widen slightly, and I add, “But I suggest you wait until morning when the unsavory sorts are sleeping off the night’s ale-fueled misdeeds.”

She pops another grape into her mouth as she glances at the door, likely recalling the drunken chaos we passed through downstairs, then nods. “Yeah, I think I’d prefer to avoid any more nightmare situations until the drugs wear off. Thanks…” Her slim brows draw together over the bridge of her nose. “You never told me your name.”

Ronan Greve, esteemed knight in the Kingdom of Swords and member of Prince Valen’s personal guard, at your service.

My customary introduction nearly trips off my tongue out of habit, but I catch myself and hold it back at the last second. If I’m caught when at last my hands are bathed in my enemy’s blood, they will surely put me down. The consequences will prove fatal, and I cannot risk them spreading further. If my association with the royal family of Swords is discovered, my actions could incite a war between the two kingdoms.

“There is no reason for us to exchange names,” I answer at last, pulling the shirt tails from my breeches. Keeping things impersonal will help maintain the line between us.

“Whatever.” She shrugs and munches on another few grapes. “As soon as I wake up from this vivid hallucination, I probably won’t remember your name anyway. Although…”

The look on her face tells me she is about to argue the point, so I change the subject. “Why do you keep insisting this is a hallucination, that none of this is real? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I let my best friend cajole me into mixing vices because it’s her birthday, and because I have nowhere near her level of tolerance, I’m, as she would say, tripping balls.”

Tripping balls? New York must have a very different way of speaking, because I have no idea what she means. When she gathers as much from my blank stare, she tries again.

“Basically, I ate something that’s causing me to hallucinate. Although now that I think about it, if I was hallucinating, I’d still be able to communicate with Stella. This feels more like a dream.” She chews thoughtfully on a chunk of bread, her gaze drifting to the window where the moonlight casts a silvery glow. “That makes more sense. Eventually I’ll wake up, probably with one hell of a headache and a new rule about mixing gummies with wine.”

I mull over her peculiar words as I begin to undress, removing my shirt, unlacing my breeches, and toeing off my boots, the thud of leather against wood muffled by the thick rug beneath my feet.

“Do you often have dreams in which you are aware you are dreaming?” My question draws her attention just as I push the fabric down over my hips.

She slaps a hand over her eyes, the other held out as though she has the power to stop me. “Whoa, buddy, hold on! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Bathing, so I can eat and go to bed. Unless you wish to bathe first.” I pause, glancing at her. She appears freshly cleaned, her skin bearing a healthy glow, so I hadn’t thought to offer.

“No, I don’t wish that. I wish for you to warn me before you get naked so I can avert my eyes.”

A hint of a smile threatens to curve my lips, but I suppress it. Smiling leads to dangerous things—laughter, joy, attachment. Love. And love leads to loss and heartbreak. In all things, there must be balance. One cannot have the good without also the bad.

But nothing can be taken if you have nothing to begin with.

I shed the last of my garments, the warmth of the hearth enveloping me as the flames cast dancing shadows across the room. Whispers of temptation tease my thoughts, urging me to play with fire. “What does propriety matter if this is all a dream? Why not let your eyes drink their fill without shame?”

She hesitates, her hand slowly lowering from her face. “That…is a good point, actually.” Her gaze travels over me, eyes widening slightly as they take in the planes of my body. Her lips part with a sharp inhale, and a rosy blush blooms across her cheeks. “Damn. I had no idea my imagination was so good.”

A visceral heat coils in my gut, desire stirring as the blood courses south, igniting a familiar ache. My conscience will only let me indulge in this madness to a certain point. Before my cock can stand at full mast, I stride to the tub and lower myself into the steaming water.

The heat surrounds me, soothing taut muscles and easing the tension of the long journey. I try not to think about her presence mere feet away, but images of her linger unbidden in my mind. Needing to regain control of my thoughts, I dunk my head beneath the surface, letting the water drown out everything else. I hold myself there until my lungs burn, then emerge with a gasp, droplets cascading down my face.

As I blink away the water, I find her staring at me. Our gazes lock, a silent conversation passing between us—questions unasked, answers unspoken. The crackling fire fills the heavy silence, the air thick with something neither of us will acknowledge.

At last, she looks away and abruptly rises from the table. “A lot has happened, and I’m just kind of tired, you know? I mean, I get that I’m already asleep, but I’m also trying not to get too meta about it. So I’m going to lie down, if that’s okay with you.” I don’t have the opportunity to respond before she continues, pushing her fingers through her russet waves. “What am I saying? Of course it’s okay with you because it’s okay with me, and I’m in control. Great, so, thanks for the save earlier and, you know, the eye candy. Good night.”

An insatiable curiosity keeps my gaze on her as she crosses to the bed and lies down on her side, not even bothering to cover herself with the blankets. I remain silent as I wash myself, not wishing to disturb her. By the time I’ve finished, her breaths are deep and even with slumber.

I towel off and redress in my breeches, then settle at the table to eat and drink. Yet my gaze and thoughts return to her again and again. This alluring nymph is not the only mad one in the room; the idea percolating in my mind is surely born of madness.

What’s worse, as I finish my meal and gently tuck her under the warmth of the covers, I realize I have already committed myself to the foolishness clouding my thoughts.

Ensuring I have the key to the room, I exit quietly and lock the door behind me. Then I head downstairs and into the night to procure the things I will need for when she wakes.