Page 9 of Ronan

“My name is August… we met in the woods yesterday? Well,” he corrects, a hint of amusement on his face, “it might be a stretch to call it that. You hid in the bushes while I yelled at the nothingness.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” I sneer.

I totally was.

He covers his laugh with a cough, his stupid mouth twitching in another of those annoying little smiles he’s trying to hide. Defined features, sharp angles, and perfectsymmetry mark his classically handsome face, and I imagine that dimpled smile makes other people trust him.

Not me. It makes me suspicious as fuck.

“It’s understandable that you would,” he says, and I narrow my eyes further.

“Yeah,” I drawl, the wordcoatedin sarcasm as I gesture at the swollen gash on my forehead, “because coming out of hiding has been such great fun. A realbanginggood time, if you catch my drift.”

His smile falters, the thin line of his lips and bunching of his brow giving away his anger as he examines the cut. “I’m the camp medic. Would you mind if I take a look at that? Head wounds can be pretty nasty buggers.” A touch of an accent dances in his words, but I can’t place it.

Another minute passes as I study him, from his neat clothing to the leather bag slung over his shoulder. Despite his size, he looks… soft. His hands are clean and skin smooth, and he doesn’t strike me as a fighter. He maintains his spot, unmoving under my scrutiny, and allows me to set the rules of our interaction.

“You lied to me,” I finally say, and his eyebrows lift in surprise. “You told me that these were good people.”

“They are—”

“Are they?” I demand, my voice raising at the brass balls on this man. “Do good people kidnap others and bash them in the head with a baseball bat?”

Guilt pulls a grimace over his lips, and it’s telling that he can’t look me in the eyes. A bad liar, then, or afraid to face his own reality by staring at the handiwork of the people he’s defending. “That was… an unfortunate accident.”

“Accident?” My laughter is choked, and he tilts his head like he doesn’t understand me. “It was an accident that your friends chased me down, pulled a gun on me and threatened to shoot my dog? Anaccidentwhen they knocked me out and took me as their prisoner? For… what?Walking?”

“Trust me, I know this looks bad, but I swear, this isn’t how we do things around here.”

“Trust you,” I snort, digging my fingers into Boomerang’s fur as I shake my head. She tilts her face up at me, her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth from the excitement. “Trust him, he says.” I scritch her chin and she lifts her snout to give me space, happy with the attention. August’s eyes are concerned, almost sad, when I meet them again, and it causes my temper to flare.

If anyone should be sad, it’s me. Not him with his fucking khaki pants and clean fingernails. “You’ve not done a single thing to earn my trust, and despite this whole himbo vibe you have going on, you seem smart enough to realize that.”

“Himbo?” He frowns, then shakes his head. “Never mind. Perhaps that was a poor choice of words.” He shuffles between his feet, self-awareness seeming to penetrate his thick head and making him uncomfortable. “What’s your name? Let’s start there.”

I hesitate before answering, chewing on the inside of my lip. “Cameron.”

“Well, Cameron, it’s nice to meet you… officially.” He centers himself enough to stop fidgeting and gestures at my forehead. “That looks deep and probably needs stitches, so why don’t you let me earn some trust by taking care of it? Infection is the last thing you need on top of the trauma your body has been through.”

Another long second ticks by as I stare at him, my shoulders slumping before I sigh and nod. Boomerang tenses as he walks closer, but I run my palm over her head, and the raised fur along her spine settles. August sits his bag on the cot beside me and opens it, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves before he lays out his supplies.

Confident, steady hands hold me immobile as he inspects the wound, tilting my head with a grim frown. A sharp, involuntary curse rips from my lips as he sprays antiseptic onto the cut, the sting making me flinch.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, concentrating as he cleans my forehead. “That might have a bit of a bite to it.”

“You think?” I mutter, and his lips pull back in a small grin. Silence descends between us as he works, punctuated only by my few pitiful whimpers as the needle pierces the skin, closing the wound.

“I don’t have any numbing cream.” He offers an apologetic grimace as I grit my teeth against the coarse tug of the stitches.

“And probably wouldn’t waste it on a prisoner, either.”

He frowns as he pulls back, snipping the thread with a tiny pair of scissors. “You aren’t a prisoner.”

My laugh is louder this time as I gesture around the room. “I’m locked in a cell, sleeping on a cot, with a fucking bucket to piss in, after being smashed in the face with a bat and having my unconscious body dragged across the desert in the middle of the night. Listen, I don’t know what kinky shit you’re into, but in my world, that’s not a fun time. It screams ‘prisoner’ loud and clear.”

He shakes his head, hearing the words but refusing to believe them. “Every community has its share of troublemakers, and it’s… unfortunate that you had a run-in with the few we have here.”

“Unfortunate,” I snort. “Yeah, that’s a word for it.”

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