You in the Ruins

Ronan 2

This was a major inconvenience. By the time they cleared the fallen trees from the trail, the light would be fading anyway—they’d have to stop and camp. You didn’t travel at night. Night belonged to the predators. Since the fall of mankind, the animals had reclaimed the top of the food chain. Here in what used to be the Midwest of the old United States, wolves had made a fierce comeback. Coyotes, too, also bears, and mountain lions. There were even wilder stories—animals once kept in places called zoos, creatures from every corner of the world. Supposedly, their keepers, not wanting them to starve when everything collapsed, had simply opened the cages. The ones hardy enough to survive the winters were still out there, people said. Ronan had heard the tales his whole life but never seen anything beyond wolves and the occasional black bear. It was the brown grizzlies and white polar bears he feared most, and the whispered rumors of Siberian tigers—massive striped killers from the frozen east, once caged in those zoos. You stayed by the fire at night. You kept watch. Always.

Ronan’s gaze drifted back to the green-eyed beauty standing with Iain. He could still feel the memory of whispering against her ear, the way her scent had wrapped around him—hay and honey, warm and sweet. The little hitch in her breath when he’d leaned close. It took real effort to keep his body from reacting too obviously to stop the tightening in his britches. Just her smell did that to him. She carried the clean, earthy scent of her horses, but on her, it wasn’t rank—it suited her, made her seem alive in a way nothing else did. God, she was beautiful. He’d never been pulled toward a woman like this before. Most he discarded after they’d served their purpose; he’d been raised to see them that way. His own mother had been a slave, kept far too long in hopes she’d give his father more children. When she never did, Ronan suspected Doma had quietly ended her. He never understood his father’s obsession with repopulating—breeding like it was some holy mission. Weakness, in Ronan’s eyes.

But this girl—Sage—he couldn’t shake her. The name alone sent his heart stuttering. He wanted her in every way a man could want a woman. Another glance: she was deep in talk with Iain now, Titan standing close beside her like a guard. Ronan looked away just as her eyes flicked toward him. She was probably questioning everything, piecing it together. Better Iain explain what waited for her than him. The thought sank like lead in his gut.

The women marked for breeding would be cleaned up, collared, cuffed for the bedrooms. The less desirable ones—the ones the higher men didn’t claim—would be turned into public whores. Anyone could have a turn. If they got pregnant, the children went to the city foster houses his father fed and ran. Future warriors, he called them. Long-term loyal subjects bred across generations. Sage, though… even thinking her name made something in his chest twist. She’d be chosen by his father’s best. Ivar would be first in line—the biggest, most lethal of the raiders, leader of the fighting men. The man liked his drink, and the drink liked him back. As huge as he was, rumors said he’d killed whores just by bedding them. Not only his fists were lethal; they said he was hung like a horse.

One of Ronan’s best men approached—Colin, his second, his closest friend on raids. Tall, lean but thick through the arms and legs, soft brown hair always falling like a curtain over his brown eyes.

“I’ve got our tent ready,” Colin said. “Food and mead from the village—a whole hog that’d been smoking for some kind of celebration. We can share it with the men if you want. Left twenty or so back there to take the harvest, plus a few able-bodied young villagers. They’ll trail us in a couple days if the crop comes in clean and the kids don’t die on the march.”

Ronan nodded. “Last place was jerky and cheese. This one had real variety. Father will be pleased. The women aren’t bad either—for farm girls.”

His eyes slid back to Sage. Colin noticed.

“I put a large wooden crate in your tent for her,” Colin said quietly. “Figured you wouldn’t want her left out here all night.”

Ronan’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Colin gave a small, knowing shrug. “I see how you look at her. Never seen you stare at a woman longer than five minutes. You’d have had your fun and moved on by now. But you keep looking. She’s really beautiful. I suspect even your father would want her.”

Ronan’s face twisted into a snarl before he could stop it. Colin was right. The thought of his father claiming her made bile rise in his throat. He wanted her for himself—only himself.

“Put her in the crate,” Ronan said, voice low. “And see if her horse will be aull right tied just outside the tent.”

Colin nodded once—no questions, no prying. He simply observed, understood, and went to work. Ronan loved that about him.

He turned toward the tent. Food, drink, and a beautiful woman waited inside. Tonight, at least, she’d be his company.

Ronan started toward the tent, the promise of hot food and mead quickening his step. His stomach growled at the thought—real meat, not the dried jerky, hard cheese, and stale bread that had been his rations for days. They'd claimed livestock from the village, but the breeders came first: the animals would be sorted, the old and weak slaughtered soon enough, just like the women who didn't measure up. The strong ones lived to serve.

The tent stood at the center of the camp, canvas held taut by felled trees lashed together—no wasted weight on heavy poles when wagons were already groaning. Setting up was always hard work, but his was the first pitched, the largest, the one with the fewest patches and the sturdiest frame. Inside waited a simple cot piled with furs, a low fire pit already smoldering, and the large wooden crate Colin had prepared. Thick furs lined the bottom, metal supports braced the sides and lid. Unless the girl turned out to be a beaver with teeth like chisels, she wasn't getting out.

He paused at the flap, fingers brushing the rough canvas. She hated him—he could feel it like heat off a brand. He'd killed someone close to her, that much was clear from the way she'd looked at the body. Cousin? Brother? No... the grief in her eyes had been deeper, more personal. Husband, probably. The thought twisted something in his gut, not guilt exactly, but a sharp, unwelcome pang. He pushed it down. She was his now, or would be soon enough.

A horn blast cut through the evening air—one long, low note. Unknown people approaching. Ronan tensed, hand dropping to the hilt at his belt. Then a second blast followed, sharp and urgent. Creatures.

Screams erupted from the far side of camp, raw and panicked. A guttural roar rolled over the noise, deep enough to rattle bones, familiar in a way that iced his blood.

Bear.

He knew that sound too well—the bellow of a grizzly, massive and furious, announcing itself before it charged.

Ronan shoved through the flap without entering, spinning back toward the chaos. Men were already grabbing weapons—axes, spears, bows—yelling orders over the rising din. The bear's roar came again, closer, answered by the panicked whinny of horses and the crash of something heavy barreling through brush at the camp's edge. His mind flashed to Sage and Titan tied nearby, to the blacksmith's big liver chestnut still saddled somewhere in the fray.

No time for food or mead now. Night had come early, and the predators were already claiming it.