Beneath the Ashes

IRA

I shouldn't have come here.

The bar hums with low conversations, the distant melody of an old jazz song threading through the air. But all I hear is my pulse, pounding too fast, too loud. All I feel is his gaze, a ghost of a touch that hasn't landed on my skin, but still burns.

Ronan Vale is watching me.

I can feel it.

Even now, as I try to focus on David—who, bless him, is attempting to make conversation—I can sense Ronan's presence. He isn't in my line of sight, but it doesn't matter. It never has.

He's always had a way of swallowing up a room. Always made me feel like I was standing too close to a fire—one I knew would burn me, but I stayed anyway.

And God help me—I want to turn around.

I want to look at him. See if the sharp, too-handsome face in my memory still matches the one in reality.

But that would be a mistake.

So I sip my drink. I laugh at something David says. I pretend the air around me isn't tight, that my body isn't reacting to something it shouldn't want anymore.

I think I'm doing a good job—until David shifts uncomfortably.

"That guy is still staring at you."

I keep my face neutral, but my fingers tighten around my glass.

That guy.

Ronan Vale has been called a lot of things. Arrogant. Brilliant. A walking warning sign.

But never just a guy.

David gives me a small, awkward chuckle. "Ex-boyfriend?"

Something like ice creeps up my spine. If only it were that simple.

"Something like that."

I don't know why I say it. Maybe because I don't have the words to explain what Ronan and I were. We were never defined by labels, never wrapped up neatly in something understandable.

We were obsession. Destruction. A love so tangled in pain that neither of us knew where one ended and the other began.

David shakes his head, reaching for his beer. "Well, he looks like he wants to murder me."

I let out a short laugh, ignoring the way my skin prickles. If only he knew.

---

RONAN

Ira thinks she can pretend I don't exist.

She's trying so fucking hard.

Smiling. Laughing. Sipping that drink like she isn't aware of every breath I take. But I know better.

I know her.

I know the slight tension in her shoulders, the way she angles her body—like she's forcing herself not to look at me.

Like she knows what will happen if she does.

The man beside her—David, whatever the fuck his name is—leans in closer, talking, touching. I don't hear the words. I don't fucking care.

What I care about is his hand.

His fingers grazing her wrist. The way she doesn't pull away.

Something tight and primal snaps inside me.

I'm moving before I think.

Crossing the room in long, unhurried strides, until I'm beside them. Until I can feel the heat of her skin, the air she's breathing.

She looks up.

And it hits me like a blow to the chest.

The same fucking eyes.

The same face I've dreamed about, the same mouth I've kissed a thousand times.

Five years. Five years since she left, and she still looks like she belongs to me.

"Ira."

One word. A quiet possession.

She freezes.

David shifts beside her, clearing his throat. "Look, man, I don't know what your deal is, but—"

I ignore him. He isn't important.

Only she is.

"Walk away, little star." My voice is soft, but she hears the steel beneath it.

Her throat bobs. "Excuse me?"

I lean down, close enough that only she can hear.

"If you don't want to watch me break him, you should leave. Now."

She inhales sharply, something flashing behind her eyes—anger, frustration, fear.

Good.

Because she remembers.

She remembers what I'm capable of.

David must feel the tension between us because he shifts uncomfortably, looking between us.

"Ira, do you want me to—"

"No." Her voice is quick, controlled. But her hands? Shaking.

She's afraid of what I'll do.

She should be.

She exhales, pushing back from the table. "I'll call you later, David."

I don't even bother to smirk as she stands, grabbing her purse. Because I know she isn't coming back to him.

She never will.

She brushes past me, and I catch the scent of her—vanilla and something darker, something deeper.

And then she's moving, weaving through the crowd, leaving the bar.

I wait.

Let her think she's gotten away.

Then, slowly, I follow.

Because I never learned how to stop chasing her.

And this time?

I won't let her run.