Page 10 of Yours

Kiera

The line went dead, and I sat there, staring at my phone in my hand like it might start hissing or burst into flames.

You don’t get to tell me no.

His words curled around my brain like smoke, clinging to my every waking thought. Calm, controlled, cold—Ronan hadn’t raised his voice, not even once, but he hadn’t needed to. He’d meant every word. And there had been something in his tone, a quiet certainty, that made my stomach twist into knots like I was a bad little girl waiting for her daddy to come home and spank her because she’d been naughty.

I swallowed hard.

I set the phone down on my desk and leaned back in my chair, running both hands through my still-damp hair. My body felt tight, coiled like a spring that wouldn’t release. The nerves in my chest were buzzing, my mind looping through every possible outcome of what I’d just done.

I’d called him. Ronan O’Malley.

For as long as I’d known him, he’d always been a step too intense for me to fully understand. The kind of man who could make people shut up with a single look, who could shift a whole room’s energy just by walking into it. Even back when he’d been nothing more than Leena’s cocky older brother, I’d felt it—the way he loomed, the way his presence demanded attention.

Back then, though, it had been easier to dismiss him. He was just a player, a guy with a too-sharp smile and a string of girls who followed him around like moths to a flame.

But that was before his father died. Before he took over everything that he’d inherited. Before he became… this.

A ruthless Irish mafia boss with more power than I could even remotely imagine.

This version of Ronan was harder to brush off. He wasn’t just intense anymore; he was dangerous. A predator in a tailored suit.

And the way he’d spoken to me on the phone… it hadn’t felt like a threat, exactly, but it hadn’t felt safe, either.

You don’t get to tell me no, not even once.

I stared at the faint reflection of myself in the dark window. What exactly was I getting myself into? I had no doubt Ronan could make Benedetti back off. Hell, Benedetti would probably piss himself the second Ronan so much as looked in his direction. But what would it cost me?

What did Ronan mean by ‘you’ll owe me’?

A shiver crawled down my spine, and not entirely because of fear.

I hated the way my brain kept circling back to the sound of his voice, low and controlled. There was something about him—there had always been something about him—that made me feel too many things at once. Fear. Frustration. Anticipation. And underneath all of it, there was a simmering heat that glowered between us like dry tinder catching flame.

That wasn’t all either…

He’d called me ‘good girl’ before hanging up.

The words had been soft, almost casual, but they’d landed like a jolt of electricity, setting every nerve in my body alight. I’d spent the last five minutes trying to convince myself it hadn’t meant anything. That it was just another part of his manipulation. But the heat in my cheeks said otherwise.

“Stop it,” I muttered to myself under my breath, pushing away from the desk.

I crossed the room to the bed, flopping down onto the mattress and pulling the blanket over my head like that would somehow make the situation disappear. It didn’t. All I could think about was the look on his face the last time I’d seen him, at that barbecue last summer. The way his eyes had lingered on me from across the yard, dark and unreadable, like he was taking in every inch of me and memorizing every curve.

I’d avoided him for most of the night, staying close to Leena and pretending I didn’t notice the way his gaze followed me. But at one point, I’d caught him by the grill, his sleeves rolled up, his forearms streaked with grease. He’d glanced up as I passed, and for a split second, I’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Evening, Kiera,” he’d said, his voice low and teasing, like he knew exactly how much he was getting under my skin.

I’d just nodded, my cheeks burning, and kept walking.

Now, months later, I was practically handing myself to him on a silver platter. I’d called him for help, put myself in his debt, and I had no idea what he’d do with that power.

Would he keep it professional? Handle Benedetti, save my scholarship, and move on like it was nothing? Or would he use this as an opportunity to finally take me good and hard the way I strongly suspected he would?

I could still hear his voice in my head. That thinly veiled edge of control. That quiet promise of his retribution.

You don’t get to tell me no.

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