Page 22 of Her Outlaw Prisoner
But what about Ronan?
I close my eyes. How far can I run…before I have to stop?
Chapter Seven
Ronan
Another fake stomachache.
That’s the best I could come up with this morning.
Not exactly my proudest con, but it works. Anything to get to her.
And I needed to see her today. I couldn’t find an opening yesterday, not before her shift ended. And if I get injured too often it’ll start to be obvious. But today…today Anderson is on guard duty. And he owes me. He knows he has a sweet payout coming if he can give me some uninterrupted time with the nurse.
When he finally clears me through and I step into the medical wing, it’s like the air shifts…lighter, easier. Or maybe that’s just because Eleanor is here…
My eyes find her immediately, and as always, it hits me like a fucking punch to the chest.
She’s gorgeous. But something’s off.
She’s trying to smile, going through the motions, clipboard in hand, brows furrowed in faux concentration, but there’s something in her eyes. Something tight and distant that I don’t like.
“Back again?” she says when I sit on the table, her voice too sweet to be genuine. “You know there are rumors flying around, right?”
“Like I give a damn.” I smirk. “As long as I get to see my favorite nurse, I don’t mind being the object of attention.”
That earns me a real smile, but it’s fleeting. Her eyes drop back to her clipboard.
I lean in a little. “You okay?”
She hesitates. Just for a second. Then shrugs. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Bullshit.
I know her too well now. This isn’t fatigue. There’s something else. Worry? Or maybe it’s that innate terror that clings to her like a shadow…
But I don’t push. As much as I want to know what’s eating her up inside, I know the subject of her stepbrother is a difficult one. Talking about him will only hurt her.
Still, I have my suspicions.
Especially after the message I got last night. My guy on the outside says Daryl’s been moving strangely. Showing up in places he shouldn’t. Asking questions. Watching. And I’ve got a bad fucking feeling about it.
I glance at Eleanor again. Her hands are steady, but her jaw is tight.
“Where do you live in town?” I ask, casual as I can manage.
She nods. “Eastside. Why?”
I wince. “That area’s shit.”
She lifts a brow at me, challenging. “It’s what I can afford. Rent’s cheap.”
“There’s cheap and there’s dangerous,” I reply, lowering my voice. “That neighborhood’s the kind where people disappear and no one asks questions.”
“I’m still repaying my student loans,” she says with a tired sigh. “I don’t exactly have the luxury of choices.”
Something sharp twists in my gut. I hate that for her. I hate that she’s out there alone while I’m stuck behind these walls. I hate that she’s too fucking proud to ask for help.
