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I still never got that rose drawn correctly, and after that day, I never tried again. I haven’t dreamed of Carter in years, and it must’ve been because of a Ronan, and I’s conversation last night.
If I were told I would be sitting in a living room drinking tea with him, out of all the people, talking about my brother, I would’ve snapped my own neck from the lie.
But nope. It happened.
I learned two rules. Basic rules. Probably rudiments no one would ever agree too because that would mean losing that piece of your life that humans naturally crave. For me, it was a given,
1. There’s no making friends or falling in?—
I swallow the lump, the simple four-letter word that I can’t even fathom thinking about.
You know what I’m saying. No relationships.
2. Never associate with the enemy.
I place my hair back in a slick bun, I brush the extra bangs and curls, sure none stick out like a sore thumb.
I wouldn’t say Ronan is the enemy anymore. He’s proven he’s substantiated. It’s been confirmed. Being stuck on killing him is far from my view, but it doesn’t mean I want to hash things out and be kumbaya.
This is still a mission, and I still stick to my rules; it protects me. Keeps me on the straight and narrow, not falling off—it prevents me from getting hurt. That’s why I’ll continue to add extra clay and mold on the walls around my heart.
You don’t have a selfish bone in your body. Not from what I’ve seen so far.
I suck in a light breath through my teeth, the pesky little flap hitting my belly.
I recall the stare he gave, a look of wonder and curiosity. That gaze you give when you’re discovering more than a single piece of information. One that you reach your hand out to, to behold what’s beneath the hard skin of the snake.
I wash the access gel off my hands before throwing on my black tank top and the leather jeans Kyra gifted me for my birthday two years ago.
That was the most thoughtful thing she has ever done, by the way. And I have held dear to them since then. Also, it fits me very well.
I quickly put on my combat boots—the ones with spikes sticking out the ankle rim. Then I do it once over in the middle, and head out of my room.
Random thought:I wonder if Ronan is still deciding to give me my own room?
I check my nails as I ponder on that question while walking out to the front.
“Bom dia.”
My heartstrings draw out, squeezing the muscle to death, and stunting my breathing. I nearly puddle to the floor at the baritone voice. I glance up and?—.
Everything in my body awakens, flying and flapping around like thousands of fireflies swarming together from the grass to sparkle in the night.
I inhale a tiny breath through my teeth. He’s leaning back on the kitchen counter, foot crossed over the ankle, and his arm across his chest while he chews on something; two water bottles sit in line on the kitchen island.
I stepped in further to investigate. He wears a crisp black shirt that hugs every curve and hard muscle on his broad shoulders, with all black denim jeans, and his hair is slightly wet, while some strands fall to the side of his eye.
Fuck me. There is no reason someone should look so good in such simple attire. He exudes his seriousness exceptionally well and tenacity of power. I swallow the log that never seems to go away.
“Bonjour.” I stroll further in the kitchen, and I realize he’s eating a mango. There are shaved skin remnants neatly bunched on a plate. I lean my waist into the island.
“Want some?” he asks, strolling slowly to the island as well with a piercing stare.
Do not clear your throat; he’ll know you’re affected by his stature.
I sit down on the black barstool. “No, I’m good. Thank you.” I tap my finger on the cold countertop, attempting, not very well, to avoid the way he watches me as he bites into the mango. His mouth slightly opens to take a hunk of the meat from the fruit, then his lips glide over the seed in a leisurely motion.
I clear my throat, gazing away until I’m back on the sight of the man who’s eating a mango more sensually than it should be.