Page 176 of Lady and the Hitman

He leaned in, just close enough to whisper, “Then let me show you.”

His mouth met mine.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t wild.

It was slow.

Steady.

Searing.

His lips moved against mine like he was memorizing every shape I made, every sound I gave him, every breath I’d ever held back.

When he finally pulled away, my body ached with everything we hadn’t said and everything we would.

He studied me for a beat longer. “How’s your dad?”

The question caught me off guard—not because I didn’t expect him to care, but because he asked it so gently, like the answer mattered to him in a way that had nothing to do with me owing him anything.

“The recovery’s going to be long, but … he’s going to be okay,” I said, my voice catching a little.

Relief flickered across Ronan’s features, so subtle most people wouldn’t notice. But I did.

“I don’t even know how to say thank you in a way that feels like enough,” I added.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said quietly.

“I don’t think this is about owing,” I replied. “I think it’s about being seen. And I’ve never felt more seen in my entire life than I do with you.”

A beat passed between us. Thick with meaning. Then his hand slid back to mine, and he murmured?—

“Come upstairs,” he said.

I’d been to Ronan’s bedroom before, but stepping into it now felt different, like crossing a threshold into something sacred.

The room was a cocoon of shadows, lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp on the nightstand, its amber light pooling over the dark wood floors and the massive bed draped in charcoal linens. The air carried his scent—cedar, smoke, and something primal that made my pulse quicken.

My eyes caught on a corner table, cluttered with sculpting tools—chisels, a small mallet, a clay-stained cloth—surrounding a half-finished stone figure, delicate and fluid in form. The sight stopped me cold. He was working on something new now. The piece at my parents’ nursery was done—finished and installed—and yet he hadn’t stopped creating. He’d kept going. Pouring himself into more of this quiet, reverent work. His hands, once trained for destruction, now coaxed softness and story from stone. And that realization hit me harder than I expected.

Ronan stood behind me, his presence a quiet storm. “Told you I’d try my hand at sculpting,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with an edge of vulnerability. “Walked away from the other life. For you.”

His words landed like a vow, and I turned to face him, my breath catching at the intensity in his dark eyes, the faint scar near his brow softened by the lamplight.

He stepped closer, his hands finding the hem of my jeans, his fingers deliberate as they unbuttoned them, peeling the denim down my hips with a reverence that felt like worship. Not just lust, but something deeper. My shirt followed, then my bra and panties, until I stood bare before him, my skin prickling under his gaze. He didn’t rush, didn’t devour me with the hunger I knew he felt. Instead, his fingers traced the curve of my shoulder, the dip of my waist, as if committing every inch to memory.

“Look at me, Zara,” he said, his voice a quiet command, his hands cupping my face. “Trust me. Let me see you—all of you.” His eyes searched mine, not just for my body but for the parts I’d guarded so fiercely: the doubts, the fears, the vulnerability I’d buried under defiance and principle. I nodded, my lips parting, and let myself fall into his gaze, letting him see the woman who’d chosen him, not just tonight but for always.

He guided me to the bed, the linens cool against my back as he lowered himself over me, his body strong and magnificent. His mouth found mine, slow and deep, a kiss that tasted of whiskey and promises, his tongue teasing with a tenderness that made my chest ache. His hands roamed, stroking my breasts, my thighs, each touch a confession of everything we’d withheld, everything we’d endured to reach this moment.

“Lady,” he whispered against my lips, the name a tether to our beginning, to the Alpha Mail service thathad brought us together, where he’d been just a fantasy. But now he was mine, real and raw and irrevocably here.

“Ronan,” I whispered back, his name a benediction. My hands slid up his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart, and I pulled him closer, needing to feel him, all of him. He entered me slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine, each movement a vow that we were forever.

The stretch of him was exquisite, filling me completely, and I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders as we moved together, a rhythm that started soft, almost tentative, like we were learning each other anew.

But the tenderness gave way to hunger. His thrusts deepened, harder, more desperate, his hands gripping my hips as he drove into me, his breath ragged against my throat.