Page 54 of Yours

There was a pause, then a low chuckle on the other end of the line. “And who might that be?”

“Kiera Delaney.”

“Oh! The firecracker from Velvet. I remember that one. Threw a drink in my face in front of the entire club.”

My grip on the phone tightened, my voice dropping into a dangerous growl. “Yes. And let me make this perfectly clear, Marco. She’s mine now. And any move you make against her, any attempt to touch her, will be a direct challenge to me.”

Marco’s laughter faded, replaced by a sharp edge in his tone. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Deadly serious,” I said, my voice cold as steel. “Kiera is under my protection now. So whatever grudge you’re nursing, let it go. If you come after her, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The silence that followed was tense, stretching just long enough to feel like a challenge. Then Marco sighed, his tone shifting into something more measured.

“I don’t want to make waves, Ronan,” he said finally. “Kiera pissed me off, sure, but I’ve got bigger things to worry about than some girl. If she’s yours, fine. Consider this me stepping aside.”

I didn’t relax, didn’t let my guard down for even a second. “I hope you mean that, Marco. Because if you cross me, this city won’t be big enough to hide you.”

“Message received,” he said, his voice tinged with annoyance. “Anything else?”

“Stay out of my way,” I said bluntly.

“Right,” Marco replied, his tone flat. “Well, this has been lovely. Let’s not do it again anytime soon.”

The line went dead, and I lowered the phone, my jaw still tight.

Marco Benedetti was a lot of things—arrogant, reckless, opportunistic—but he wasn’t stupid. If he said he’d back off, he likely meant it. For now.

But I wasn’t about to let my guard down. Not when Kiera’s safety was on the line.

CHAPTER 19

Kiera

I woke up alone.

I blinked awake, the softness of the bed beneath me so unlike my own that it took a moment to remember where I was. And then it hit me.

Ronan.

I sat up quickly, clutching the thick duvet to my chest, scanning the room for him. The space was empty, the spot beside me cold, though the faint scent of him still lingered on the pillows—a mix of cedar, leather, and something dark that was purely Ronan.

He’d put me to bed inhisbed last night.

We’d slept together.

I remembered the warmth of his arms, the weight of him curled around me as he drifted off, his presence both suffocating and strangely reassuring. But now, the room felt cavernous and cold, reminding me of just how out of place I was in his world.

The events of last night crept in, vivid and impossible to push aside. I bit my lip, my cheeks burning as fragments of his touch replayed in my mind, of how he’d put me over his knee, about how he’d fucked me over his couch after whipping me with his belt, about how he’d taken me to dinner and made me come with his finger in my bottom in the restaurant.

I hated how my body responded even now, a pulse of reluctant heat coiling low in my belly. My clit pulsed as if to spite me.

“Fuck me,” I muttered under my breath, throwing off the covers.

But even still, my heart pulsed just thinking about him.

I hated how easily he unraveled me, how his touch made me feel both safe and utterly exposed. And yet, as I’d sat there watching him, I couldn’t deny the truth that had been quietly blooming inside me: I didn’t just want his protection. I wanted him—all of him.

Trying to distract myself from the thought of him, I padded to the closet in search of something to wear, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug. My clothes from last night were scattered somewhere, but the sight of Ronan’s neatly arranged shirts caught my attention instead. I reached for one, a crisp white button-up that smelled like him, and slipped it on. It was far too big, the hem brushing mid-thigh, but it would do.

---