The way down

CHAPTER FIVE

Ronan's pov:

Being in control means knowing when to walk away, and I follow that rule blindly. Well, until about thirty minutes ago.

As I watch Quinn sit in another one of my bars, drowning glass after glass.

This is an illegal site. One of the clubs that never links back to the Sirens, and I do not need a cop snooping around here.

At first, I think that is why he is here.

Maybe there had been a leak somewhere, but with the way he seems uninterested, it feels more like a very unlucky coincidence.

For him.

Quinn Anderson. I found out his real last name. He's a man I should stay very far away from.

He is everything I am not. The very evidence of my only weakness. We are connected in a way I want buried for life.

But here I am, watching his every move, watching as people stare at him, their gazes hungry.

Does he not notice? I wonder. Does he not see the way he stands out among the crowd?

"We should leave," Riley interrupts me.

"You can leave first. I will be here for a while," I answer, not looking at him.

I know he can see right through me.

He stands still for a moment.

"Be careful," he says, stepping back.

This was one of the reasons I kept him around. He knew when to push and when to back out.

I do not take my eyes away from Quinn, watching as he smiles at some ladies.

I scoff. Does he pretend they interest him?

I know men like him. They want something more but never take the first step.

That is where I come in. I love a good challenge, giving them pleasures beyond their wildest dreams, watching them give up the control they convince themselves they have.

But this one is off the radar, I tell myself as I move closer to him anyway, watching his eyes close.

I am in front of him again.

Only this time, he is drunk.

Messy and loose. Completely unaware of himself.

Fuck. His brown eyes are darker now. He is dangerous for me.

"...are you real?" he asks, voice slurred, eyes narrowed like he is trying to focus on me and failing.

I should leave, but no, I watch him like a fool as he looks at me like he needs something.

And when he leans in, his teeth scraping my throat, that control snaps.

For one reckless second, I want to answer it. I want to close the distance between us and find out whether he would still look at me like this if he were sober.

The thought alone is enough to steady me.

Because he's drunk, and he's a detective.

More importantly, my mind takes me to all those years ago, hands trembling, a gun in my hand.

Weak.

That was what I was and what I promised myself I'll never be again.

Tonight, though, I concede, leading him to my car, my hand on his waist as he leans his weight against me.

I nod towards the driver standing at the side, taking the keys from him.

Quinn suddenly stops, his heels digging into the ground.

"Where are we going?" he slurs, his brows scrunched together in confusion.

"I'm taking you home."

He nods with surprising seriousness before his expression clouds again.

"I don't want to go home."

The words are so quiet I almost miss them.

"Why?"

He shrugs.

"Too loud."

I glance back toward the bar. The music is deafening.

"I don't mean..." He rubs at his eyes. "My head."

I gently urge him forward.

"I won't take you home then."

He seems genuinely surprised before allowing me to help him into the passenger seat.

The drive begins in silence. For a while, I think he's fallen asleep.

Then he speaks.

"Hospitals suck."

My grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel.

"They do."

"They smell weird."

Another pause.

"Mum hates them."

The words are quiet enough that I almost miss them.

"I need to fix it somehow."

He laughs without humour.

"I've been saying that for years."

He falls silent again.

A few minutes later, he mumbles something about someone named Quincy.

The pieces don't fit together yet. It makes me wonder what these past few years have looked like for him.

Guilt lances through me as I grip the steering wheel harder.

This was why the past had to stay where it was.

By the time we arrive at the hotel, he's asleep.

I hesitate before waking him.

"Quinn."

He blinks slowly.

"We're here."

"Where?"

"My hotel."

He stares at the building for several long seconds before nodding as though that somehow explains everything.

"Nice."

It's the only opinion he offers.

Inside, the staff know better than to ask questions.

The lift ride passes in comfortable silence.

When the doors open, Quinn takes two determined steps before losing his balance.

As he stumbles, I catch him, my arms circling around his waist.

"Careful," I mutter.

He laughs. Like none of this matters.

"Ronan," he says, like he's testing the name, like he likes how it sounds.

My grip tightens.

He smiles, closing in, his lips brushing my ear.

"You're shaking," he says.

I don't know what I'm doing.

His hands bunch in the front of my shirt to steady himself.

For a brief moment, neither of us moves. His forehead rests against my shoulder.

His breathing is warm against my neck.

I should let go.

Instead, I find myself listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

"Kill him."

The memory comes uninvited, but with enough force that I flinch back.

He stumbles again, and I catch his wrist before lowering him onto the edge of the bed.

I kneel to remove his shoes before he can lie down in them.

He watches me through half-lidded eyes.

"You don't seem..." He pauses, searching for the words. "...evil."

I look up at him, trying and failing to shake the aftereffects of the memory.

"I've been called many things."

"Evil wasn't one?"

"It depends who you ask."

He considers that, humming like he understands something from it.

As he settles beneath the blanket, his eyes closing, I stand there far longer than necessary, watching the tension finally disappear from his face.

Quietly, I step into the hallway and pull the door closed behind me.

I reach for my phone before I can change my mind.

Riley answers on the second ring.

"Everything alright?"

"Find out why Detective Quinn Anderson ended up in that bar tonight."

He goes silent for a beat.

"I thought we were letting him go."

So did I.

"Just find out."

I end the call before he can ask another question.

Memories threaten to overtake me as I walk away.

Weak, it says again.

I don't argue anymore.

Turns out everything he thought about me is true.