He finally turns to me, that tightly wound tension still sitting heavy across his shoulders. “Yeah. What are we supposed to do—sit here and wait for the next explosion? Ronan’s off chasing ghosts, our fathers are lying straight to our faces, and someone’s dismantling the business faster than we can keep up.” He exhales sharply. “So yeah. One night off. One drink. A little distraction isn’t going to kill us.”
It’s not like him to back off, even for a moment. But I understand it. We’ve been pulled tight for so long that every breath feels wired to a fuse. And with fires breaking out all around us—some real, some not—it’s starting to feel less like coincidence and more like a countdown. Like we might be next to go up in flames.
Still, I hesitate. Part of me wants to be the voice of reason—to remind him we’ve got work waiting, leads to chase, loose ends that need locking down before everything spirals out of control. But the truth is… I’m exhausted. Not just in my body, but deeper than that. The kind of tired that settles into your bones and makes everything feel heavy.
Maybe a couple hours of noise and neon wouldn’t be the worst thing.
Against my better judgment, I release a slow breath and lift one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Screw it,” I say. “Why not?”
Rowen gives a single nod, sharp and decisive, like he’s been waiting for me to say yes. I drop the car into gear and turn us away from the burning wreckage behind us. The night isn’t over yet, but maybe for a few hours we can pretend the world isn’t collapsing around us.
Even if we both know it is.
Chapter Twelve
Ronan
She thinks I left her alone. That I stayed buried in the shadows, watched her light up a goddamn building like a Fourth of July spectacle, and let her disappear into the night without a second thought.
She’s wrong.
Dead wrong.
That blown kiss wasn’t a goodbye. It was a dare. A twisted little invitation wrapped in amusement. She knows I understood—it was there in the way she moved, the way she met my gaze without hesitation. No fear. No guilt. Just fire. And fire like that doesn’t vanish. It waits.
And now she wants to see what I’ll do with it.
I hoped she’d remember more of me. Of us. Of what I become when someone dares me to hunt. I’m not built to let things slip through my fingers. Especially not her. Not after everything we survived. Not after years of believing she was gone—dead, reduced to ash and memory that never stopped clawing at my chest.
No.
She doesn’t get to come back from the grave and walk away like it doesn’t matter. Like she didn’t leave a crater behind.
Instead, I follow. I hunt.
Not fast. Not careless. I melt into the shadows like they’ve always belonged to me, every step measured and silent. I know how she moves—I’ve memorized the rhythms of her body, etched them into the back of my mind. Even after all these years, I can still track the way her breathing changes when adrenaline takes over. I feel it in my bones.
She’s trying to stay hidden, trying to lose me in the maze of alleys and dimly lit paths, but it’s useless. I don’t need to see her to follow her.
Because she doesn’t realize something crucial—I’ve been chasing her ghost for years.
And now that I know she’s real.
Now that I know she’s alive.
I’m not letting her vanish again.
Instead, I wait.
I trail her from a distance, every step intentional, every breath kept in check. The city fades into background noise, the night pressing in, thick with tension. I know her pace. Her cadence. The way her body moves when she thinks she’s in control. But I’ve been studying her far longer than she understands.
And when the moment is just right—when the shadows are deepest and the distance between us thins to nothing—I strike.
In one fluid motion, I’m on her. I wrap myself around her from behind, locking her arms tight against her sides with a force that’s firm but not cruel. My body molds to hers like it always has, muscle to muscle, breath to breath. She tenses… but doesn’t panic. Doesn’t even flinch.
Which tells me everything.
She knew.