Being addicted to something is the worst thing that can happen to anyone. It’s like your entire life is based on that high.
While I always wanted to get rid of the trance mode, I never slipped into addiction. I never let anything become the centre of my life.
Not even my pain.
I got around it, fought it, and eventually, I made friends with it. That was the only way for me to survive.
What I never thought about was becoming addicted to someone rather than something.
Since I left the Meet Up over the weekend, all I’ve been thinking about is him. My unwanted addiction.
Fucking Ronan.
Around him I become this junkie in need of one more hit, one more smile.
One more touch.
If you asked me what I’m addicted to when it comes to Ronan, I wouldn’t have an answer.
It could be his voice with the slight rumble, his symmetrical face that somehow became a piece of art in my mind. Perhaps it’s his smiles — the genuine ones — or his clingy nature that for some insane reason comes across as adorable rather than creepy.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the care he showcases discreetly.
Around him, I’m levitating before I realise it. I’m smiling like it’s the most natural thing to do.
It isn’t.
It shouldn’t be.
I tell myself I’m only in his house because of Charlotte, but soon after I said my hello, I told her I’d be bringing up tea, even though she said Lars would do it.
I pass by Ronan’s room and linger there for a second too long — or maybe ten seconds; I don’t know.
God. I’m starting to be like one of those idiotic hormonal teenagers I thought I was above. Turns out I’m not — far from it.
Damn it.
Fine, I’ll pretend I’m cool with what happened at the Meet Up. After all, the reason I left was stupid. I was overreacting and being a fool and…fuck, I’ve been stalking his Instagram all weekend, waiting for him to post a picture with any other girl so I could pounce on him.
He didn’t.
He posted two pictures. One was of him and Xander half-naked, wearing shades and lounging by the latter’s pool.
The caption said: He hates me for waking him up, but I’m happy to have mon fréro back.
That put a smile on my face. Ronan always seemed to get along with Xander more than Cole and Aiden. Something tells me Xander is also more tolerant of Ronan’s personality than the other two.
The second picture was of Ronan making a face behind an oblivious Cole, who was reading from a book.
The caption said: Nerd.
That’s it.
He didn’t send me a text or call or anything. Okay, maybe the way I left wasn’t encouraging, but come on, this is Ronan. I expected a text that same night.
I kept staring at my phone through all of dinner until Knox made fun of me.
Then, he skipped this morning. Ronan is known to sleep in, but there are no parties he’d lose sleep over.
One thing led to another, and the next thing I know, I’m at his house.
Very tactful, Teal.
Well, since I’m already here, I might as well go with it.
I push open his bedroom door, and the sound of voices coming from the inside stops me in my tracks.
“Edric isn’t pleased,” says an older voice with a posh accent. It’s not as posh as the earl of the house, but close.
He stands by the window. Ronan sits on the pane with a huge grin plastered on his face.
“I’m afraid my father’s pleasure is none of my business.” Ronan releases a long mocking breath. “Phew.”
“You always had an attitude that doesn’t suit your parents,” the man says. His voice is familiar, I suppose because he’s Edric’s brother — the one who returned from Australia to help with the company.
From my position, I can only see the back of Eduard Astor. He’s wearing a hideous dark red suit and brown, leather shoes.
“I know, right?” Ronan’s grin widens. I can almost feel the force behind it and how he’s trying to keep his muscles in place.
“Some might even suspect you take after me.” Eduard’s voice turns sinister, smooth. “Wouldn’t that be the irony?”
“Fuck. You.” Ronan stands so he’s toe to toe with his uncle, but the smile doesn’t leave his face.
“Language.” I can hear the smirk in Eduard’s voice. “You’re an earl’s heir.”
“And you’re an earl’s brother. Act like one and stop fucking around or I swear—”
“What?” Eduard urges. “Finish what you started, nephew. Your noble blood says as such, right? As far as everyone knows, of course.”
Ronan continues staring at him as if he wants to run a pole through his chest and snatch it from the back. The hate is so tangible I can almost feel it crawl on my hands and wrap its meaty fingers around my throat.
In this moment, I want to grab Eduard and bash his head against the wall — or better yet, throw him out the window and watch as his body splinters to pieces.
Ronan doesn’t do hate; he does rivalry and he does spite, but hate always felt beneath his status, his name, and his entire aura. The fact that his fists are clenching and he’s stopping himself from punching his uncle means something.
“Watch it, Uncle.” Ronan snarls the last word, enunciating it, as if wanting Eduard to feel it.
“Run your mouth and I’ll run mine, my dear nephew. Remember Charlotte…” Eduard clutches Ronan’s shoulder and smooths invisible wrinkles off his shirt. “Poor, soft Charlotte. Breakable, depressed Charlotte.”
I lean over to get a better view of Ronan then a hand clasps my arm. I yelp, but the sound is muffled by a gloved hand wrapping around my mouth.
Lars.
He drags me away from Ronan’s doorway, opens another door down the hall, and ushers me inside the room. He does a sweep of his surroundings before following me and closing the door.
Lars is the head butler of the estate and a character straight out of a period drama. Though Ronan likes to say he’s his accomplice in murder plots, I don’t believe that’s the case. All the guy cares about is order, cleanliness, discipline, and tea.
Lots of tea.
He knows everyone’s taste in that.
Dad has only been here a few times, but Lars already knows he prefers black tea over anything else.
Oh, and he brings me dark chocolate whenever I visit Charlotte, so I am always thankful for that.
While his expression never betrays his feelings, I’ve somehow gotten the idea he doesn’t approve of me. He’s like Charlotte’s substitute in being my mother-in-law.
“What are you doing?” I fold my arms over my chest, going straight into a defensive mode, as if he didn’t just catch me eavesdropping on his master.
“That’s what I’m supposed to ask, Miss. What were you doing?”
“Passing by.”
His expression remains neutral. “Didn’t seem like passing by to me.”
“Don’t beat around the bush, Lars. If you have something to say, say it.”
He remains silent for so long I start to notice the grandfather clock ticking behind me. If he’s doing this to unnerve me, it’s starting to work.
“Don’t tell the madam about whatever you heard.” He pauses. “However, if you feel inclined to tell his lordship, I’ll pretend I know nothing.”
“But why?”
“What do you mean by why?”
“Why tell Edric but not Charlotte?”
“It’s his lordship to you, young lady.”
“Stop with the title bollocks. What’s going on, Lars?”
He tips his nose up as if he’s the aristocrat in the house. “If you haven’t figured it out yourself, why should I tell you?”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Perhaps I was right — perhaps you don’t deserve the young lord.”
“What?” I scoff. “I don’t deserve him?”
“You haven’t proven you do, now have you?”
I open my mouth, but I’m incredulous so nothing comes out.
“That’s what I thought.” He heads towards the door. “Your tea will be up in fifteen minutes. Actually, make that thirty – and no chocolate for you.”
I flip off the door as it closes behind him. The fucking snob.
Though he’s a snob who obviously knows about whatever is going on between Ronan and Eduard, and he wants me to tell Edric.
I lean against the smooth surface of the table. From what I gathered, Eduard seems to be holding something over Ronan’s head, and it has to do with Charlotte. He also mentioned something about Ronan’s origins.
It has to do with Charlotte.
I gasp. No. It can’t be.
I storm out of the room, not knowing where I want to go. No, actually, I do, and it’s not back to Charlotte’s room, that’s for certain.
I want to make sure Ronan is fine, make sure he’s not raging or bottling everything up inside. Even those who have a problem recognising emotions know when they hit.
At the top of the stairs, a presence halts my plan — a presence I wished to never see in this house.
I wish it were only occupied by Ronan and Charlotte. Even Lars snobbishness would’ve been fine.
Anyone but him.
A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead, and it takes everything in me not to fidget or run or dig a hole and disappear in it.
It takes all my willpower to stand in place as he strides towards me.
Edric is a big man, even bigger than his son, and because of his title, his presence seems to suffocate everything in its vicinity.
He stops in front of me, and a small smile pulls at his thin lips. “Teal, it’s lovely seeing you.”
I can’t say the same.
The information I just learnt — the fact that he’s probably not Ronan’s biological father — should delight me, because it’s this man’s downfall. A week ago, it probably would’ve.
Now, it doesn’t.
Now, all I think about is Ronan’s pain.
Just how and when the hell did I start recognising his pain when I’ve been doing everything in my power to ignore mine?
Even now, my feet are urging me to go to him, to hug him.
Wait…
Hug him?
What the hell, Teal?
“Mr Astor.”
“Edric is just fine, and don’t let Lars tell you ‘It’s his lordship to you.’ He tends to do that a lot.”
I smile because I think that’s what’s expected in response to his dry humour.
“Listen, Teal.” His smile slips, and I don’t like what I see on his features. I don’t like it at all.
In fact, I hate it.
I loathe it.
I wish there was an option to return his smile.
A man like Edric doesn’t get to show the shadow of pain or sorrow. He doesn’t get to be a human when he stole humanity from other people.
“I wanted to say I’m thankful for the time you spend with Charlotte, and even the text messages and the articles you send her. She looks forward to them every day and shows them to me with a big smile on her face. Your care means a lot to me.”
I’m at a loss for words, unsure why he’s telling me this. Besides, I didn’t do it for him.
“Once again, thank you.” His hard, stern expression returns. “I apologise if my son has done anything to disrespect you. He’ll grow up…eventually.”
“He’s grown up,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Excuse me?”
“Your son is grown up. In fact, he might have been grown for a long time and you just haven’t noticed it.”
He pauses, fingering his tie before he drops his hand to his side. “What makes you say that?”
It’s my turn to pause. Could it be that Edric knows?
No. It can’t be possible. He’s so proud, so sure of himself, so aristocratic and pragmatic.
“Nothing. I’ll go see Ronan.” I turn and leave before he can question me anymore. If I spend one more minute in his vicinity, I might lose control over my mouth. As Knox says, I have a problem with keeping my thoughts to myself.
I knock on Ronan’s door, but there’s no answer.
“I’m coming in.” My cheeks heat as I push the door open.
I expect to find Ronan and Eduard and I think about the possibility of punching the latter.
But there’s no one in the room.
“Ronan?” I call.
No answer.
I tiptoe to the bathroom, calling his name again, but there’s nothing.
Maybe he’s in the wardrobe? I fling the doors open and sigh in defeat.
What was I thinking? In the wardrobe, really?
I’m about to close it when I inhale his spicy scent. It does things to me now. I’m starting to notice it on other people when I’m in the supermarket or at school, and that’s not all. I even stop and think — no, it’s not quite Ronan, not quite as sexy or rough or warm.
That’s the problem with him. He can be rough, can give me what I want, but he can also be warm, like how he hugged me to his side after that nightmare.
I let my fingers run through his tidied shirts and T-shirts. They’re organised by colour, which has Lars’ fingerprints all over it. I’m tempted to ruin them just to get on his nerves.
I’m still contemplating that idea when I see some pink lace sticking out of a drawer. I pull it out, and my jaw nearly hits the floor.
It’s a bunny outfit. Scratch that, it’s one of those stripper bunny costumes with ears and the string-like underwear.
Elsa and Kim always mention Ronan’s bunny hooker fantasy. Hell, he brings it up every chance he gets, but I thought it was just that, a fantasy.
I never thought he took it to the next level by keeping the costume in his wardrobe.
A noise comes from the door and I shove the outfit back where I found it then exit before he can find me.
“Hey,” I say lamely and then wince.
He’s in black jeans and a white T-shirt, his muscles rippling at the biceps. He’s smiling, but the tension I sensed from when he was talking to Eduard still rolls off him in waves.
“Lars mentioned you were here. He forgot the part where you were going through my wardrobe like a stage-one stalker.”
“Shut up.” I pretend to be offended. “Did Lars mention anything else?”
“Aside from the fact that you can get your tea yourself because he’s PMSing and not serving you today, no.” He pauses. “Nice shirt.”
I blush.
I fucking blush.
And the problem is, I also blushed when I ordered this shirt over the weekend and when I snatched the package from Knox’s fingers and when I put it on this morning.
I don’t blush. Ever.
Just like I don’t feel like hugging people, and yet I’ve been doing both of those things lately.
“It’s not about you,” I try to deflect.
“Belle, it says ‘Talk French to Me’. If it’s not about me, I don’t know what is.” He approaches me, still smiling, but this time, it’s not forced or camouflaging pain.
I wonder how he does it, how he hides so much and can be this happy to see me.
“You haven’t answered my texts, trésor.”
“That’s because you didn’t send them.”
“Of course I did.” He brings out his phone then his brows furrow. “Ah, fuck. I sent them to the group chat. Those bastards won’t let me live this down.”
I chuckle; I can’t help imagining their replies to Ronan’s consecutive messages. Deep down, I allow myself a moment of relief. He didn’t actually ignore me over the weekend.
“What are you laughing at? You like my misery?”
“No.” I snort out laughter.
“Okay, I’ve been called a pussy in five hundred ways.” He shoves his phone back in his pocket. “This is all your fault, ma belle. How are you going to make it up to me?”
“Why would I?” I fold my arms, no longer laughing. “I’m the one who’s mad at you, remember?”
“I’m not apologising for that. Cole needed to know you belong to me so he’ll keep his claws to himself. Not sorry.”
“It’s not that.” My voice is so small, pathetic.
His brows furrow. “Then why the fuck did you walk out on me?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Teal,” he warns, gripping my arm in a tight hold. “Don’t make me use force.”
“Aren’t you already?”
“This is only a preview. My actual force includes not giving you an orgasm.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Tell. Me,” he insists. “Or Lars won’t give you any more dark chocolate. I’m the one who sends them over, you know.”
“You…are?”
“Of course. How would Lars know, genius?” He inches closer. “Now, tell me why you left.”
“It’s stupid, okay?”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“I…” I trail off, staring at an invisible point at my side. “I didn’t want to have sex in that position. I wanted to look at you, and you didn’t listen.”
Silence stakes a claim in the room, and I chance a peek at him. Ronan watches with an intense focus that almost makes me squirm.
“Ronan…?”
“You wanted to look at me,” he repeats, as if not believing the words.
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.
He pulls me to him by the arm he’s holding and wraps me up in a tight embrace. The same embrace I wanted to give him after I listened to his conversation with his bastard uncle.
“You’re fucking me up, Teal,” he whispers against my head, his hot breaths tickling my hair.
“Not as much as you are me.” There’s so much vulnerability in my voice, so much surrender, and for some reason, I don’t hate it.
“I’m glad you’re here, my crazy but beautiful belle.”
For the first time in my life, I wrap my arms around someone. I feel his heartbeat against my chest and his breaths in my hair and his arms squeezing me too tight.
I do the same.
My nails dig into the cloth of his shirt and sink in there, soaking in the warmth.
The belonging.
The care.
I never allowed myself addictions before, because addictions screw you up and mess with your logic and your head.
But as I hug Ronan, I know I have no choice in this addiction. It’s the type you just surrender to. You fall into it and let yourself float.
So I do just that, confessing in a soft voice, “I’m glad you’re here too, Ronan.”
