Ronan

Chapter Twenty-One

Ronan was giving her the cold shoulder. Big time.

At first, she thought she'd imagined it. The day after he'd emptied her brain, she'd caught him leaving his room just before her. She'd called his name before he'd turned at the end of the hallway, but he never answered. That one, he could get away with. But not others.

By the second day, that doubt had disappeared.

He's ignoring me.

Like a fully grown warlock baby.

He locked his room at night, stopping her from ambushing him then. If she was feeling petty, she'd try and pick the lock—but then she was almost certain he'd locked it using dark magic. Their 'sessions' had been pushed backwards because he was 'always busy'. And when he returned from a day of being busy, he never visited his office like he normally would. She wouldn't be surprised if the other warlocks were updating him on her position within the castle.

Oh yes. The fully grown warlock baby was having a tantrum.

Still don't regret it.

He could give her the cold shoulder for the next hundred years and she still wouldn't regret it.

She could take it for a thousand had the boredom not been eating at her. Rosa needed interaction—annoyingly, Ronan had been her primary source. Beyond that, there wasn't much reconnecting with his emotions going on when she couldn't so much as get near him.

In the day, she busied herself by talking to Raya—but that constant heat from the door beside her made staying for too long difficult. Raya didn't seem to mind it, having spent her entire life under Veneficus' unforgiving sun.

By the end of the week, Ronan couldn't avoid her any longer without fessing up to what he was doing. And of course, admitting he'd been avoiding irrelevant barmaid Rosa would fester at his strong warlock ego. Oh, the shame.

So, in silence, he sat across from her at the dinner table, calmly eating his food.

He looked at Rosa, but not properly. It was more like he was seeing through her, or above her. his gaze seemed to swap between her nose and the space above her head.

And this is the man the Other World is deathly afraid of.

A round of applause for that.

It was almost comical.

Rosa, for one, stared at him unabashedly. She wanted to see him squirm. Or at the very least annoy him. And so she cleared her throat, smiling innocently.

"Can you pass me the salt please?"

Mechanically, Ronan reached to his side. He handed it over, careful to make sure their skin never touched.

She sprinkled some over her dinner, then asked again, "Could you pass me the vinegar?"

Ronan did so without comment.

"Ooh, could you pass me the pepper please?" Their eyes met briefly. She shrugged, feigning innocence. "I can't reach it from here."

He handed it over, a muscle in his jaw ticking. This time she didn't even pretend to use it, setting the small container straight to the side.

"Could you hand me that mint sauce?" He looked to his side, eyes narrowed. Then back to her. "Made you look."

Miraculously, he didn't curse her out or call her names.

How could I forget? Not talking was easy for him. His basic factory settings.

"Nothing to say to that?" She asked. "Nothing about how precious your time is and how every second I sit here rambling is another second of your precious time wasted? Nothing? Nothing at all?" She slumped back in her chair with an eyeroll. "Wow, tough crowd."