Chapter 26: Whiskey and Whispers
The door clicked shut, sealing away the hushed intensity of the bedroom. The air in the hallway was cooler, the silence a different quality—lighter, but charged with the echo of what they’d just witnessed.
Cash let out a long, slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, the usual devil-may-care grin entirely absent from his face. “Hell, Stone. Did you see her?”
Ronan didn’t answer with words. He just moved, his footsteps silent on the polished floor, leading the way to the kitchen. The expansive, sleek space was a stark contrast to the opulent warmth of the bedroom, all sharp angles and cool surfaces. The city sprawled beyond the windows, a galaxy of indifferent lights.
Cash went straight for the polished cabinet that housed Alistair’s liquor, his movements uncharacteristically quiet. He pulled out a heavy crystal tumbler and a bottle of amber whiskey that cost more than his first car. The glug of the liquid was loud in the quiet.
Ronan leaned against the vast island, his massive arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes were fixed on the middle distance, seeing nothing and everything. The memory of Elle, small and utterly shattered in the center of that huge bed, was seared onto his retinas. The trust in her glistening eyes, even as she fell apart.
“He’s good for her,” Cash murmured, more to himself than to Ronan, as he took a first, burning sip. “Ace… he gets the words out. The stuff she keeps locked down.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “But damn, it’s hard to watch.”
The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood made them both turn.
Elle stood at the threshold of the kitchen, dwarfed by one of Alistair’s discarded dress shirts. It hung to her mid-thigh, the crisp white fabric making her skin seem paler, her fiery hair more vivid. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her expression hollowed out. She looked young, and impossibly fragile.
Cash’s teasing grin usually arrived first, a shield of its own. This time, it didn’t come. His face just softened, all the playful energy draining away into pure, unvarnished concern. “Hey, Red.”
She didn’t speak. She just stood there, looking lost.
Ronan pushed off the counter. He crossed the space between them in three long, silent strides. He didn’t ask if she was okay. He didn’t try to hug her. He simply bent, slid one arm behind her back and the other under her knees, and lifted her from the floor as if she weighed nothing.
Elle let out a tiny, startled gasp, her hands coming up to brace against his shoulders. He carried her to the kitchen island and set her down gently on the cool, polished granite. The surface was cold against her bare skin, a grounding shock.
Cash was already there, pressing the heavy tumbler of whiskey into her hands. He curled her fingers around it. “Drink,” he said, his voice low. “It’s the good stuff. Ace’s wallet is crying right now.”
She brought the glass to her lips with trembling hands. The whiskey was smooth, a warmth that bloomed in her chest and seeped into the cold, hollow places inside her. She took another, deeper sip, her eyes closing for a moment.
Ronan stood before her, a solid wall of heat and silence, his hands planted on the counter on either side of her hips, caging her in without touching her. His presence was an anchor.
“He… he made me talk,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “About everything.”
“We know,” Cash said, leaning his hip against the island beside Ronan. He didn’t look at her with pity, but with a fierce, protective understanding. “That’s his job. To take the ugly stuff and make it make sense. Ours is to make sure you remember you’re not alone with it.”
She looked from Cash’s earnest face to Ronan’s unwavering gaze. The weight of their silent solidarity pressed in on her, but it was a good pressure. It held her together.
“I feel… empty,” she admitted, the confession leaving her in a rush.
“Good,” Ronan said, the single word a low rumble. “Means there’s room for something else now.”
A weak, watery smile touched her lips. “Like what? More of Ace’s psychoanalysis?”
Cash barked a laugh, the sound restoring a sliver of normalcy to the room. “Nah. Like my famous grilled cheese. And maybe kicking my ass at Mario Kart until you feel like yourself again.”
The simple, mundane offer was a lifeline. It wasn’t about fixing her; it was about being with her.
She nodded, finally meeting Ronan’s eyes. The darkness in them wasn’t threatening. It was a promise. A shelter. She took one last sip of the whiskey, letting the warmth spread through her limbs, and placed the empty glass on the counter with a soft click.
“Okay,” she said, her voice a little stronger. “But I get to be Princess Peach.”