Page 14 of Magic Unmasked

The grand ballroom was no longer the scene of elegance and opulence it had been just hours before. The crystal chandeliersstill glistened, but their light fell over overturned chairs, spilled champagne, and shattered glasses littering the floor. He directed those who were working the gala to get things cleaned up and the guests taken care of.

And in the middle of it all, he saw Lilith on the far side of the room as she slipped away with some of the rest of the crowd. She was gone. Again.

Ronan’s jaw clenched, frustration simmering in his chest as he scanned the room for her. The familiar electric charge that always seemed to hang in the air when she was near had disappeared. She’d vanished into the night, no doubt in pursuit of Phoenix or whatever lead had sparked her interest. But damn it, again?

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Lilith operated alone, always slipping away before he could corner her. She moved with the silent precision of a shadow. He’d come to expect it, but this time, it hit him like a physical blow. He thought tonight had been a turning point—that maybe, finally, they had been on the same page, both closing in on Phoenix and the rest of the Duvalls. But once again, Lilith had left him behind to clean up the mess.

Damn her.

Ronan’s fists curled at his sides, the muscles in his forearms straining. He should have known better. Lilith wasn’t a team player. She never would be, and it pissed him off more than he cared to admit. It wasn’t just her, though. The whole damn situation with the fae was driving him insane. Phoenix had triggered the chaos, Oberon had let it escalate, and Lilith… well, she had done her usual disappearing act, leaving Ronan to deal with the aftermath.

The problem was that no matter how much he tried to stay out of fae politics, they kept dragging him back in. He’d tried to keep his head down, tried to stay focused on his own world,but between the Duvall sisters, the High Council, Morrigan and Lilith, he was being pulled deeper into the mess. And the more involved he got, the harder it was to extricate himself.

With a low growl rumbling in his chest, Ronan pushed through the remnants of the crowd, ignoring the curious glances and hushed whispers as he strode toward the exit. The cool night air hit him as he stepped outside, but it did little to quell the tension coiling inside his body. The sounds of the city—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter—faded into the background as his mind raced.

He needed space. Distance. The importance of the night hung heavy all around him, and the tiger inside him was restless, agitated. There was only one place where he could clear his head.

The bayou lay cloaked in the deep shadows of the night, its thick, humid air hanging heavy between the towering cypress trees draped with Spanish moss. The stillness of the water mirrored the darkening sky above, broken only by the occasional ripple as frogs leapt from the muddy banks. But amidst the serene silence, a new presence cut through the wild landscape like a bolt of lightning—a creature moving with raw, untamed power.

Ronan's sabretooth tiger surged forward, its massive paws thudding against the soft, damp earth with a sound almost too quiet for something so large. His fur—sleek, golden-brown with dark stripes—blurred as he sprinted between the trees, his powerful muscles rippling beneath his coat with every stride. His long, saber-like fangs glinted in the dim light, the cold, calculated intelligence of the predator gleaming in his golden eyes.

The air tasted of earth and decay, laced with the rich scent of cypress and swamp water. Each breath filled his powerful lungs, feeding the beast within as it propelled him through the thick undergrowth. Vines and brush scraped against his fur, but nothing slowed him. The landscape around him became a blur of green and gray as he tore through the bayou, his pace relentless, unstoppable.

The waterlogged ground gave way beneath his feet, but his paws barely hesitated, each movement calculated and precise as he leapt over gnarled tree roots and patches of stagnant water. Ronan's sabretooth instincts honed in on every shift in the wind, every slight rustle in the vegetation, a kind of hyper-awareness that came from centuries of evolution. The bayou was his domain tonight, and the swamp—a labyrinth of shadows and reflections—was nothing but his hunting ground.

His ears flicked, catching the distant calls of owls and the low croaks of bullfrogs, but his focus remained razor-sharp, his body moving like liquid muscle, seamless and powerful. His long tail swept through the air behind him, acting as a counterbalance as he made sharp turns through the winding trails, the mossy trunks of the cypress trees a blur as he dodged past them with ease.

As he ran, the moon continued to rise, casting its silvery light over the bayou, illuminating the mist that clung low to the water's surface. Ronan's eyes, sharp and predatory, reflected the glow as he moved, navigating the wild terrain with the grace of a creature born to this untamed world. He was both man and beast, but in this form, the tiger’s primal need to run, to hunt, tofeelthe pulse of the earth beneath him took over.

The familiar chorus of frogs and insects faded into the background as Ronan’s heartbeat matched the rhythm of the bayou—steady, powerful, and wild. He could feel the pulse of lifeall around him, the way the swamp seemed to breathe, alive with secrets hidden beneath its dark surface.

He was in his element, a force of nature moving through the swamp with lethal intent. Every fiber of his being was alive, thrumming with energy as the wind whipped through his fur and the swamp opened up before him like an endless expanse of possibility.

Ronan leapt over a fallen log, landing in a low crouch just before a shallow stretch of water. The reflection of the moon rippled as his paw brushed the surface, but the stillness of the bayou returned as he paused, his golden eyes scanning the shadows ahead. The swamp stretched out into the horizon, a labyrinth of darkness and light, but the tiger within him reveled in it, thrived in it.

With a low growl vibrating deep in his throat, Ronan surged forward once more, his powerful limbs carrying him deeper into the wild heart of the Louisiana bayou, where nothing and no one could catch him.

Not tonight.

His cabin stood at the water’s edge, perched on sturdy wooden stilts that kept it high above the marshy ground. Warm light spilled from the windows, casting a soft, amber glow on the surrounding swamp. The cabin was simple but solid—constructed from dark wood, with a wraparound porch that offered a perfect view of the bayou. Lanterns hung from the porch beams, their flickering light creating a soothing, rhythmic dance as they swayed in the breeze. It was quiethere, peaceful, a world away from the noise and chaos that had consumed the city.

This place was Ronan’s sanctuary. Here, the ever-present tension between man and beast could dissolve. The steady hum of frogs and crickets filled the air, a familiar melody that always managed to settle his nerves. He inhaled deeply, savoring the earthy scent of moss, damp wood, and cypress, the cool night air calming the tiger inside him. He stepped onto the porch, the wood creaking softly beneath his weight, and for the first time that night, some of the tension began to bleed away.

He could almost forget the fae, the Duvall sisters, and everything that had happened at the gala.

Almost.

When he went inside, he stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the shower, allowing the hot, pulsing water to begin to wash away some of the lingering stress and tension from his body. After his shower, he dried off and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, but before he could even set foot into the main room of his home, a ripple in the air caught his attention—a shift, subtle but unmistakable. Magic. His muscles tensed, his senses sharpening as he scanned the shadows around his cabin.

He wasn’t alone. He grabbed a couple of beers and stepped out onto the porch.

“You’ve always had a good nose for danger, shifter,” came a low, familiar voice from the darkness. “It’s a shame it didn’t help you tonight.”

Ronan stiffened as a figure stepped into the soft light of the lanterns, emerging from the shadows like a wraith. Zephyr Windchaser. The fae leader moved with an effortless grace, his tall form draped in fine, silver-hued robes that caught the light. His long white hair gleamed under the moonlight, and his silver-blue eyes glinted with something far more dangerous than amusement.

“Windchaser,” said Ronan, handing the fae a beer. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Zephyr’s lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cold as he took the beer and made the bottlecap disappear. “I could ask you the same, Ronan Rousseau. Hiding away in your little slice of paradise while the world crumbles around you.”

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