Chapter 7

RONAN'S POV

I watch her walk away.

She doesn't look back. Of course she doesn't. That's not who she is anymore.

My hand goes to my throat. Comes away red. Just a little blood. She barely pressed.

But she could have. She had every reason to. And she didn't.

I stay against that tree for a long time, watching the space where she disappeared. The forest is quiet. My heart is not.

She's real.

The thought hits me like a physical thing. I slide down the trunk, crouching, head dropping forward.

She's real. She's alive. Last night wasn't some broken part of my brain finally snapping. The kiss happened. Her mouth on mine, her hands in my hair, the sound she made—

I press my palms into my eyes.

She's real.

I pull out my handkerchief, press it to my neck. Look at the blood. A thin line, already drying.

A laugh escapes me. Quiet. Disbelieving.

This woman. This woman who just held a blade to my throat and meant it. Who looked at me across her husband's desk like I was a stranger, then dragged me into the trees and drew blood.

She is nothing like the girl I fell in love with.

That girl was soft. Sweet. She laughed at my stupid jokes and fell asleep on my shoulder and believed the world was good. She wouldn't have lasted a week in this woman's skin.

I shake my head, still smiling. The girl I loved is gone. Has been gone for years.

But this woman—this fierce, terrifying woman who plays wife to a monster and assassin in the dark—she might be even more incredible.

I push off the tree and start walking again. My car is somewhere ahead. I need to move. Need to breathe. Need to—

The feeling hits me like a hand on my spine.

I stop. Turn.

Nothing. Just trees. Just shadows shifting in the wind.

I wait. Listen. Nothing moves but leaves.

But the feeling doesn't leave. That prickling at the back of my neck. Like eyes on me. Like someone watching.

I scan the tree line. The path behind me. The spaces between trunks.

No one.

I keep walking. Get in the car. Start the engine.

The feeling stays with me all the way down the road.

…….

I walk into my building and barely make it three steps before my assistant appears like he's been camped out by the door waiting.

"There you are." he falls into step beside me, tablet in hand, already mid-sentence. "The lawyers have been waiting for almost an hour. I've been calling your phone—"

I patted my pockets for my work phone,

"I think I forgot it at home." I rub the back of my neck. Feel the small cut there. Drop my hand. "Sorry. Which lawyers? What are they here for?"

My assistant gives me a look. The one that says I told you this before. "The inheritance case? The Whitmore estate? You set up the appointment yourself. Today. Ten a.m."

Right. Whitmore. Old money, dead client, contested will. I remember now.

"Okay." I keep walking. "Anything else?"

"Actually—" he hesitates. "A man stopped by. Random name, I didn't recognize it. Said he'd come back later."

I file that away. Probably nothing. "Fine. Let me deal with the lawyers first."

He leads me to the conference room. Opens the door.

Three of them. Expensive suits, pinched faces, the kind of lawyers who bill by the half hour and make sure you know it. They stand when I enter.

I don't sit yet. Just look at them.

"Have you been briefed or do I need to start from scratch?"

One of them—the oldest, clearly in charge—clears his throat. "We've been offered water. That's the extent of the briefing so far."

I almost smile. Almost.

I sit. They sit. I let the silence stretch a beat longer than comfortable.

"None of your clients are getting any money."

Three faces blink at me.

"I'm sorry?" The oldest one leans forward. "Mr. Ronan, I don't think you understand the situation. The Whitmore estate—"

"I understand it perfectly." I lean back. "The person your client expected to inherit? The girl? She's been found."

Silence.

"Well." The youngest lawyer adjusts his tie. "That's... excellent news. Then the will simply needs to be executed, and—"

"She doesn't want it."

Another silence. Longer.

"She... doesn't want it." The oldest repeats it like the words don't make sense together. "Mr. Ronan, this is a multibillion-dollar estate. Are you telling me this young woman simply doesn't want to inherit?"

"That's what I'm telling you, yes."

"But why?" The middle lawyer—a woman with sharp glasses and sharper cheekbones—sets her pen down. "Is she being advised properly? Does she understand the implications? The tax consequences alone—"

"She understands." I shrug. "She's moving everything to charity."

"Charity." The youngest looks genuinely ill.

"Charity," I confirm. "All of it."

"That's outrageous." The oldest's face is reddening. "That's—that's wild. You can't just—does she have any idea what she's throwing away? The property alone—"

"She can do whatever she wants with it. It's hers."

"But she's refusing it." The woman lawyer's voice is climbing. "Mr. Ronan, our clients have standing. They're family. They have expectations. You can't just let her—"

"I'm not letting her do anything. I'm informing you of what she's already decided."

The youngest slams his briefcase open, pulls out papers, starts flipping through them like the answer might be printed somewhere. "There has to be something. A clause. A stipulation. She can't just—people don't just—"

"People do all kinds of things." I watch them flounder. It's almost entertaining. "This one decided she doesn't want your clients' money."

"Our clients are her family." The oldest is standing now. "They have rights. They have—"

"They have nothing." My voice stays level. "The will was clear. The heir has been found. She's made her choice. The money goes to charity. End of story."

"This is unacceptable." He's gathering his things, movements jerky with anger. "We'll fight this. We'll—"

"You'll waste your clients' money and lose. But that's your choice."

The woman lawyer stands too, slower, more controlled. She looks at me with something like respect. Or maybe just acceptance.

"You enjoyed that," she says quietly. Just to me.

I don't answer.

They file out. The youngest is still muttering. The oldest is already on his phone, probably yelling at someone else.

The door closes behind the lawyers. Their voices fade down the hall—still arguing, still outraged.

I don't move.

I sit alone in the quiet for a minute. Then two, staring at nothing. The quiet settles in. The adrenaline from earlier—the woods, her knife, her eyes—has drained out, leaving something hollow behind.

Then my assistant’s voice crackles through the intercom. "That sounded intense. You okay in there?"

I press the button. "Fine. That man who stopped by—what was the name?"

"Um—" Papers shuffling. "Kendrick. He said Kendrick."

Kendrick. One of my investigators. The one looking into the victims' backgrounds.

"Did he leave any form of contact, I need you to inform him that I'm free now."

“No, he didn't but that is no issue. He walked in not long ago and said he would be meeting with you in the room you are in”, he replied.

I stand. Roll my sleeves back down and waited for a few more minutes but no one came in.

After a while, I walk to my office, hoping he will be there.

Kendrick is already inside, leaning against the wall. Doesn't sit until I close the door behind me.

"I thought you were supposed to meet me at the room I was in and I wasn't in this room, I was in the conference room and I didn't see you there," I say. "My assistant said you stopped by earlier."

Kendrick nods. "I know. I wanted to be here. I don't want anyone else hearing this."

That gets my attention. "Hearing what?"

He gestures at the chair across from my desk. "You might want to sit down for this."

I sit.

Kendrick takes the chair opposite. Leans forward. Lowers his voice even though we're alone.

"I've been going through the victims. All of them. Not just the ones from the last few weeks—going back further. Checking records, medical histories, autopsy reports where they exist."

"And?"

He lets out a breath. "I think this is more than just killing. I think this is a business."

I wait.

"Most of the victims," he says slowly, "are missing organs. Kidneys. Livers. Hearts. Lungs. Not all at once—two or three per body. The ones that are worth money on the black market."

I stare at him.

"How did we miss this?"

"Because they're dead." He shrugs. "When someone's been ripped apart by claws, you don't usually stop to inventory what's still inside them. But I went back. Checked the early reports. The ones before anyone knew we had a serial situation. The medical examiners noted it—just nobody connected the dots."

I lean back. Let it settle.

Organs. Not just killing. Harvesting.

"How much are we talking?"

"Per victim?" He calculates. "Depends on the organs. But if you're moving them through the right channels... tens of thousands. Maybe more. And there have been a lot of victims."

I think about her. About the knife at my throat. About the way she moved—controlled, efficient, deadly.

What else have you been doing, Elara?

"Who else knows about this?"

"No one. Came straight to you."

"Good. Keep it that way."

Kendrick nods. Waits.

I don't have orders for him yet. My mind is spinning too fast.

"Give me tonight," I say finally. "Tomorrow, we figure out next steps."

He stands. Leaves without another word.

I sit alone in the darkening office.

Organs. Business. She's not just killing for revenge. She's building something.

The question is: What kind of woman does that?

And the harder question: Do I still want to find out?