Chapter 2 - The Sound of a Locked DoorThe intercom hissed with static, followed by a heavy, metallic rattle as someone shook the lobby security door downstairs.
“Open up, Iris! Don't make me come up there!” Gregor’s voice roared through the speaker, muffled by distance but dripping with the toxic fury I had spent my entire life learning to fear.
I couldn't breathe. The air in the pristine, grey-and-cream kitchen suddenly felt thick, heavy with the smell of cheap bourbon and old sweat that always preceded his blows. I backed away until my spine hit the pantry door, my hands trembling so violently I hid them behind my back.
Kian looked over at Ronan, his expression tight, professional, and entirely devoid of fear. “He tracked the burner phone we picked up from your car last night, boss. Amateur hour, but he’s persistent.”
Ronan didn't look at the intercom. He didn't look at Kian. His eyes stayed locked on me, watching the panic unraveling every shred of composure I had managed to pull together.
“Iris,” Ronan said, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade. “Look at me.”
I swallowed hard, forcing my eyes up to meet his cold, pine-green gaze.
“Is he going to come up here?” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Does this building have security? He’s... he’s crazy, Ronan. When he drinks, he doesn't care who’s watching. He’ll break the door down.”
“Let him try,” Ronan said simply.
He turned away from me, walking toward the entryway with the slow, terrifying grace of a predator tracking a wounded animal. He pressed the intercom button.
“Gregor Easton,” Ronan spoke into the speaker, his voice dropping into a dark, resonant rumble that made the metal housing of the intercom seem to vibrate.
The shouting downstairs cut off instantly.
“Who the hell are you?” Gregor demanded, his voice laced with confusion and sudden, cowardly hesitation. “Where’s my daughter? If you’ve got her locked up in there, I’ll call the cops—!”
“Call them,” Ronan interrupted smoothly. “Tell them you’re standing outside the private residence of a man who owns half the commercial real estate between here and the loop. Tell them you want to report a kidnapping while you have three active felony assault warrants under your belt.”
A heavy, breathless silence hung over the intercom.
“Give me my daughter,” Gregor snarled, though the venom in his voice was noticeably thinner now. “She stole from me. She’s my property.”
“She isn't property,” Ronan said, his eyes shifting up to where I stood frozen by the pantry. “And you’re about thirty seconds away from discovering what happens to men who scream outside my building.”
“Ronan—don’t,” I breathed, shaking my head frantically.
Ronan let go of the talk button, cutting off the feed completely. He turned back to Kian, who was already tapping furiously on a sleek tablet device.
“Clear him out,” Ronan ordered quietly.
“On it,” Kian said, tapping his earpiece. “Unit four is already moving into the lobby. They’ll escort Mr. Easton off the premises before he finishes his next threat.”
I slid down the pantry door until I was sitting on the hardwood floor, pulling my knees up to my chest and burying my face in my arms. The adrenaline was draining out of me, leaving behind a hollow, nauseating ache in my bones. I had thought running away would fix it. I had thought a single night in a luxury apartment would wash the blood off my lip and erase twenty-four years of fear.
I was an idiot. Monsters like Gregor Easton didn't just let go because you ran across town.
Footsteps approached softly across the floorboards. A shadow fell over me, blocking out the sterile morning light from the windows.
A large, warm hand settled gently on the back of my neck.
It wasn't a casual touch. It was heavy, grounding, anchoring my floating panic back into the physical world. I flinched involuntarily, but I didn't pull away.
“He’s gone,” Ronan said softly, kneeling down beside me so we were at eye level.
“He’s never going to stop,” I whispered into my knees, my voice trembling. “Even if he goes to jail, even if you scare him off today... he knows my face. He knows where I sleep. I’ll spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”
“No, you won't,” Ronan said.
I lifted my head, looking at him through a blur of unshed tears. There was no pity in his face—pity was for weak things. What I saw in his eyes was absolute, terrifying certainty.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice cracking. “You don't know me. You found me crying on a dirty street corner at midnight. I’m a liability. I’m danger wrapped in a oversized sweater. Why didn't you just drive past?”
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Ronan’s thumb brushed lightly across my cheekbone, right over the dark bruise blooming beneath my eye. The callouses on his skin scraped against my flesh, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my chest.
“Because,” Ronan murmured, his voice dropping so low I almost couldn't hear it over the hum of the city outside, “four years ago, someone stood on a street corner just like that and didn't get an answer. I spent a long time deciding never to let that happen again.”
