Beneath the Ashes

IRA

I don't look back.

Not when I push through the doors of the bar. Not when I step onto the rain-slick pavement, my pulse hammering.

Not even when I feel him watching me.

Because Ronan doesn't chase.

Not in the way you expect.

He lets you run, lets you pretend you have a choice—then he makes sure you realize you never did.

The street is quiet, the night swallowing the sound of my footsteps as I move faster. My hands tremble when I pull out my phone, my breath unsteady.

I should call a cab.

I should get in, go home, lock the door, and drown out the way my body still feels him.

Instead, I stop.

Because a car is already there, sleek and black and familiar.

And he's standing right beside it.

Waiting.

Of course, he is.

A flick of his wrist, and the passenger door opens. He doesn't say anything.

He doesn't have to.

"Get in the car, Ira."

The words are soft. Deceptively gentle.

But they are not a request.

I could say no. I could turn around and walk away.

But the problem is—I've never been able to walk away from Ronan.

Not really.

So I slide inside.

And I hate the way it feels like coming home.

---

RONAN

She's quiet.

Sitting beside me, stiff and uncertain, hands clasped in her lap like she's bracing herself.

Like she's preparing for war.

Good.

I want her ready.

I watch her out of the corner of my eye as I pull onto the road, fingers tightening around the wheel.

"You still run when you're scared," I murmur.

She exhales sharply, turning to me with fire in her eyes. "And you still think you can control me."

I smile.

Because I can.

Because I always have.

She just doesn't realize it.

"Where are we going?" she demands.

"Home."

Her hands clench into fists. "I have a home, Ronan."

I hum, tapping my fingers against the wheel. "You have an apartment."

She turns away, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

"And you're still mine."

I hear the sharp intake of her breath, the way her body tenses.

Good.

Let her fight it. Let her deny it.

It won't change a fucking thing.

Because I don't care if she ran. I don't care if she thinks she can untangle herself from me.

She can't.

Because Ira isn't just another girl.

She's the only one.

And she always has been.

Even back then.

---

THEN

"You can't just beat the shit out of people, Ronan!"

Ira's voice was high, shaking with anger. She stood in front of me in the hallway of our home, arms crossed, eyes burning.

"The fuck I can't." I wiped the blood off my split knuckles, unfazed.

"Jesus," she whispered, stepping closer. "What is wrong with you?"

I smirked. "You really wanna know?"

She didn't.

Because it was her.

It had always been her.

"Who was it this time?" she demanded.

I rolled my shoulders. "Some fucker who thought he could talk about you."

Her lips parted slightly. "Talk about me?"

I took a step forward. She should have moved back.

She didn't.

"You have no idea, do you?" I murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

"No idea about what?" she whispered.

I smiled. "How they look at you."

Her throat bobbed. She didn't believe me.

She never did.

She thought she was just another girl. That I was just another boy. That we weren't already tangled in ways she couldn't unravel.

She thought I kissed her that night because I was reckless.

She thought I touched her because she was there.

She thought I took her that night—her first time, our first time—because it was inevitable.

But the truth was simpler.

I did it because I couldn't fucking breathe without her.

And I never planned on letting her go.