Page 67 of In the Shadows
“You didn’t call me.” Her voice was tight as she worked. “You didn’t text. I found out from Caleb that someone tried to run you off the road, and you sat here alone for two hours treating yourself like you’re still some lone operative with nobody who cares.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Too late.” She pressed a fresh bandage into place, harder than necessary. He caught her wrist.
“Hey.” His voice was low. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay. You have a gash on your head and bruised ribs, and someone deliberately tried to hurt you, and you sat here alone because you don’t know how to let someone in.”
His thumb rested against her pulse point. She knew he could feel how fast her heart was beating.
“You’re right,” he said. “I should have called you.”
“Yes. You should have.”
“Old habits. I’m not used to having someone who—” He stopped. Looked at her wrist in his hand. “I’m not used to this.”
“Well, get used to it.” She finished with the bandage. “Because if you ever shut me out like that again, this conversation will be a lot less gentle.”
Something softened in his face. Not quite a smile. The shadow of one, hiding behind the bruises.
“Understood.”
“Tell me what happened with Warren today.”
"He threatened me," she said finally. Her voice sounded strange. Hollow. "He sat across from me and told me my father died because he asked too many questions, and then he offered me a seat on the town council."
"Tell me exactly what he said."
She told him. Every word she could remember. The warning about accidents. The comment about machinery and gears. The way he'd covered her hand with his while explaining how her father had trusted the wrong people.
When she finished, Ronan's knuckles were white on the table.
"We're not waiting."
"Ronan—"
"The plan was to let him give his speech on Monday. Let him stand up in front of the whole town, talking about legacy and sacrifice, and then destroy him." His jaw was tight. "That was before he looked you in the eye and told you he'd have you killed if you didn't fall in line."
"He didn't say that directly?—"
"He said enough." Ronan turned to face her. His eyes were hard in a way she hadn't seen before. Not cold—hot. Controlled fury barely contained. "I've spent twelve years running operations. I know how to be patient. I understand the importance of patience. But I am not going to sit back for eleven more days while that man decides whether you're useful enough to keep alive."
Lila sat quietly and let him get it all out.
"He doesn't get to stand in front of the building your father dedicated his life to, and put his hand on his heart. He doesn't get the applause or the speech or the handshakes from people he's been stealing from for thirty years. We take him in the dark, before breakfast, before anyone's watching. That's the point — not the date, not the optics. He was counting on Monday to be his. His legacy. His last performance."
She took a deep breath.
Ronan's jaw was tight. "He doesn't get that."
"What about the mission? The bigger picture?"
"The mission was to expose the syndicate. We have enough evidence to do that now." He reached over and took her hand. His grip was warm, solid. "The bigger picture doesn't matter if you're not in it."
Something cracked open in her chest. She'd spent so long being careful, being smart, being alone with the weight of what she knew. And here was this man—this operative who'd been trained to put the mission first—choosing her instead.
"Ronan."
