Ronan

Chapter Twelve

Regina Raya.

Rosa feasted her eyes over the page, demolishing the old words as they appeared to her.

Ut sanguinem tuum influunt in aeternum.

"May your blood flow forever."

Conveniently, Ronan hadn't been in his office when she'd bolted in an hour or so ago, her heart pounding right out of her chest. Even more conveniently, he had a book on just about everything. She'd searched through witches, then emptied the contents of history and monarchs. Sceptical of anything made by humans, the Other World still looked down on mortal technology now. But Gods, a photo of the woman would've helped.

Instead, she had nothing but an aged illustration of a woman who kind of looked like Annaliese. Rosa tried matching it to the woman she'd seen in the cells. The image had no doubt been commissioned by her loving bastard husband Sylvester, so Rosa had little to no faith in the accuracy of the artist.

Despite this, conclusions were forming.

Rosa didn't need a picture of Fenrir to know that was the man she'd seen. The dead living man she'd seen.

"Now this reminds me of times past."

Her head shot up, nigh slamming into the bookshelf behind her.

"Ronan! I—"

"Snooping?"

She placed a hand over her heart, struggling to calm it. Would he be mad she was in here? He hadn't put any measures in place to keep her out.

"You've given me nothing to do," She answered as calmly as someone who'd almost had a heart attack could. "I found a way to entertain myself."

"Usurping my knowledge, as ever." He crossed the room as Rosa hurried up from the ground, neatening herself. "Find anything interesting?"

She heard the accusation in his voice.

"I haven't been through your drawers."

He headed over to them, finding the locks still intact. Normal, run of the mill locks. Locks she could've easily picked if she'd put her mind to it.

Locks that—if she didn't know any better—she'd say he wanted her to pick.

"You're telling the truth."

Shocked?

"I imagine you already emptied them anyway. Y'know, making sure I don't find out about anything I shouldn't."

"I don't like your tone." He moved away from the desk, turning to face her, hood and all. "Why don't I like your tone?"

Because I'm prying?

She shrugged, trying to seem casual. "You don't like much I say or do."

"That's not true." Her heart started up again with its rapid beating. Her back hit the bookshelf as this dangerous man got closer to her, their chests almost touching. With a fine, gloved finger, he softly caressed her jawline. "Rosie..."

Fuck it. She yanked his hood down. Ronan made no attempt to stop her. Hard blue eyes met her green ones, relaxed. His eyebrow quirked.

"I wanted to look into your eyes." I need the reactions—

Ronan didn't have smile lines. Whenever his lips quirked up like this, it always struck her as odd. Visually pleasing, but odd.

"Happy now?"

She nodded, returning, "You're in a good mood."

A muscle in his jaw ticked as his head tilted. "What don't I like about your tone?"