Page 19 of Ronan

That much I understand perfectly.

Ronan tries to maintain a stoic expression, but he betrays himself with the heavy grief in his eyes.

“I didn’t know that.” My tone is gentle as I fight the urge to reach over and touch him again. “So, your home is…”

“Gone,” he confirms quietly, and the sorrow in his voice causes the tug of sympathy to tighten in my chest. After a moment, his eyes refocus and he clears his throat, mask sliding back into place. “But that wasn’t enough to please the Fates, and a prophecy was foretold to fix what had been broken.”

“A prophecy… like a spell? Magic?”

He tilts his head back and forth as he considers that and finally nods. “That would be the best way to explain it in human terms, yes. This prophecy stated that every being from our side was to be matched with a mortal.”

“When you say matched…” I trail off, letting my silence ask the question.

“A fated mate… one destined to be the other half of their soul. Their connection is said to be so profound that nothing could come between them once they found each other—not distance or time, not even fate itself. It was meant to unite the sides, begin to heal the void between our kinds.”

“A soulmate?” I ask, full of skepticism, and he thinks for a moment before shaking his head.

“Beyond that. Fated mates are not compatible souls, but two halves of the same soul. It would be like a missing piece of yourself was finally found… a sense of total completeness. Love and devotion greater than any human has ever experienced.”

My palm lands over my chest and rubs, a small frown forming on my mouth. “Wouldn’t you know if part of your soul was missing?”

Ronan stares at my hand for a moment before meeting my eyes once more. “Do you ever miss what you’ve never had?”

I dip my head in a slow nod as I consider that. “Alright, I’ll bite. How’s that been helping the relationships between your kind and mine?”

One of Ronan’s shoulders lifts in a slight shrug and he starts to drum his fingers again. When he realizes what he’s doing, his hand settles flat against the table, twitching in a way that almost makes me crack a smile. “There’s never been a reported case of fated mates finding each other.”

“Well, that’s ineffective,” I mutter, but he shakes his head and meets my eyes.

“Until now.” I raise my brow at him again, and he gestures at my arm. “That mark you’re hiding under your jacket? It tingles under the skin, doesn’t it? Gets warm sometimes and you can’t figure out why? It’s probably more active right now than it has ever been.” My heart speeds upin my chest at the truth in his words, and as much as I want to deny them, I can’t. “There’s a tug in your gut trying to lead you somewhere, but you don’t understand where it wants you to go.”

“How do you—”

“Where does it pull you now?” I stare at him for a long time, desperate to ignore that magnetism that wants me to close the distance between us. “Where is it leading you, Cameron?”

“Forward,” I finally answer, and he becomes completely still as he watches me slide my denim jacket off, his gaze glued to the swirling light under my skin. “Why is it pulling me forward, Ronan? Why does it want me near you?”

His eyes squeeze shut, the muscles in his face visibly tightening as though he’s fighting some grand internal battle. When he opens them again, he tugs at the worn leather of his glove. “Because,” he finally says, and another light adds to the glow in the room as his palm is revealed. “I have one, too.”

Chapter 7

Ronan

Cameron stares at my hand, his eyes wide and unblinking, and it goes on for so long I start to wonder if he’s in a trance. “Well,” he finally croaks, before a slightly hysterical, high-pitched laugh sneaks out of his mouth. He chokes it back immediately, though a few rogue, panicked giggles slip free as he speaks. “That’s a thing. That’s definitely a thing that just happened.” He reaches for his jacket with shaky hands, shoving his arms through the sleeves.

A deep heaviness settles in the pit of my stomach at the loss of his light, but I take my cues from him and pull my leather glove back onto my hand. The room sinks into the dim gleam of the flickering bulb overhead.

Thick silence stretches between us as Cameron stares at the table. His feet fidget, squeaking against the concrete floor, and he absentmindedly reaches up to push his glasses higher on his nose. Even with his squirming, it’s the longest he’s sat still since we’ve been in here, and I use the opportunity to take in his appearance.

Tall and lanky, his golden skin is sun-weathered and spotted in dark freckles. His shoulders are narrow and his wrists thin, although his hands are quite large and elegant for a man who lives his life on the road. A prominent Adam’s apple leads to a defined jaw with very little facial hair, even after several days in captivity with no chance to shave.

A barely perceptible bump on the bridge of his nose hints at a past injury, and his cheekbones are high, accentuated by his lean build. Chestnut brown hair is wild on top of his head, and he keeps it pushed out of his face. Those bright blue eyes, razor-sharp and intelligent, shoot up to meet mine.

He may claim no allegiance to any camp, but his rebellious nature can’t be hidden.

Cameron leans forward on his elbows, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for him to speak. “Yeah, no, I’m good.”

“What?” I snap, taken aback.

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