Page 57 of Yours

“Ronan, you can’t just?—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice calm, but unyielding. “You don’t get to tell me no, Kiera. Not about this. Not about anything. You’re staying here where I can keep you safe, and that’s final.”

I folded my arms, trying to muster up some defiance, but it felt half-hearted at best. “You could’ve at least asked me.”

His smirk returned, this time much darker. “And you would’ve said no.”

“That’s not the point!” I huffed, pouting despite myself.

He reached out, his fingers brushing my cheek before tilting my chin up slightly. “It’s exactly the point. You’re mine now, Kiera, my woman. That means I look after you. That means I take care of you. You don’t have to like it, but you will accept it.”

Ronan’s claim over me was overwhelming, consuming, and utterly inescapable. He’d said it with such conviction—as if the decision had always been his and his alone to make, as if I hadn’t been part of the equation at all. And yet, as much as I wanted to fight it, to tell him he had no right to decide my life for me, a small, traitorous part of me didn’t hate it.

That small part of me actually kind of liked it.

The idea of belonging to someone like Ronan—strong, ruthless, unwavering—terrified me, but it also sent a pulse of warmth straight to my heart. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run from his claim or sink deeper into it, but either way, I knew there was no escaping the way he made me feel.

I wasn’t allowed to say no, after all.

Not that I even wanted to…

He turned away, walking toward the sleek kitchen as though the argument had been settled. I watched as he rolled up the sleeves of his black dress shirt, exposing forearms corded with muscle. He pulled out a skillet and set it on the stovetop.

“What are you doing?” I asked, trailing after him, curiosity overpowering my annoyance.

“Making breakfast,” he said without looking back. “Unless you’d rather pout on an empty stomach?”

“I’m not pouting,” I muttered, crossing my arms.

He glanced over his shoulder, his grin firmly in place. “Sure, you’re not.”

I huffed, but stayed quiet as he opened the fridge, pulling out eggs, butter, and some fresh herbs. He turned on the stovetop, the blue flame flickering to life, and cracked the eggs into a bowl with a sort of practiced skill that caught me off guard.

“Since when do you cook?” I asked, leaning against the counter.

“Since always,” he replied, whisking the eggs effortlessly. “You think I survive on takeout and intimidation alone?”

The corners of my mouth twitched despite myself. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

He chuckled softly, tossing a small pat of butter into the pan and swirling it until it melted. The eggs followed, the sizzle filling the air as he reached for a spatula. Then he set up a French press on the counter and began to brew coffee for the two of us. I couldn’t stop watching him, the way he moved with such confidence even in something as mundane as making breakfast.

“Go sit,” he said, nodding toward the island where two stools waited. “This won’t take long.”

I slid onto one of the stools, watching as he worked. He sprinkled a pinch of salt and pepper into the eggs, then added a handful of chopped herbs. It was almost domestic—except for the fact that he was Ronan O’Malley, one of the most powerful Irish mafia bosses in New York City, a man who could end someone’s life with no more than a single crook of his finger.

When he plated the scrambled eggs, he added two slices of toast and slid the plate in front of me. He poured a mug of coffee and set it down beside it before finally sitting across from me, his own plate identical.

“Eat,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I picked up my fork, the smell alone enough to make my stomach growl. As I took the first bite, I couldn’t stop the small sigh that escaped me. It was perfectly creamy, the herbs adding just the right amount of freshness.

He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Good?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” I replied, though my tone lacked any real bite.

Ronan leaned back slightly, his coffee cup in hand as he watched me. There was a quiet intensity in his gaze, like he was contentjust to sit there and share this moment. And for a few minutes, the tension between us melted away, replaced by something softer.

The silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. For the first time in what felt like days, the world outside—the chaos, the danger, the Benedettis—faded into the background. It was just the two of us in his pristine penthouse, sharing breakfast like… well, like two normal people. Almost.

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