Page 150 of Scars Run Deep

“Who?”

“Ronan Wilhem, Miss.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting this. “Good. Good.”

The guard stepped aside and I approached the door just as it was opened by another guard on the other side.

Ronan stepped through, nodding in his usual polite way to the guy, before spotting me and smiling brightly.

As the door closed behind him, he strode up to me. “Sorry to spring this unannounced visit on you, but can we talk for a moment? I need your advice on something.”

“My advice?”

“I’m looking at getting a motorcycle. You’ve got a custom ride, I want your input. I would’ve caught up to you around town or something, but I didn’t see you around. Now I see why with all this heavy security. You and the boys obviously have some stuff going on.”

“Uh, yeah,” I answered as I tried to process what he was saying.

And what he wasn’t.

He’d come out here just to ask me about bikes? Something he could’ve gotten from a dozen different forums or sites online?

Nope. I called bullshit.

“Ronan, what—”

He gestured with his eyes at the guards. “Can we talk in private?”

“About what?”

He lowered his voice. “I’m worried about you. I heard something from Liza earlier at Fusion. One of her friends was talking and—” He stopped and eyed the guards uncomfortably. “I’d rather tell you in private considering the content—for your benefit.”

“Okay, yeah. We can go into one of the salons. Two guards will follow, it’s protocol right now, I’m afraid.”

“No problem.”

I led him a little deeper into the house and ushered him into the first salon along the way, one I’d actually only been in once in all the time since I’d been here.

There was a bay window and a wraparound couch adjacent to it that faced a television, and that was about it.

It was one of the simpler and more plainer rooms in the mansion.

The two guards came in, shutting the door behind them, then taking position, one either side of the door.

“So, what’s the deal?” I asked as I followed Ronan deeper into the space, further away from the guards so he could have the privacy—at least from an auditory perspective—like he needed.

He was staring out the window, his back to me.

“I apologize for the way this needs to happen. He’s not happy about it either.”

I tensed. The words alone, but also the majorly ominous delivery.

“What needs to happen? Who are you talking about?” I asked.

I saw his hands moving in front of him.

I went to give a signal to the guards.

But I didn’t get the chance.

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