You in the Ruins

Ronan 3

Ronan had the men rig the tub before the bear even showed—three sturdy barrels lashed together with rope and iron bands, hauled near the fire pit until the water in them steamed. A rare luxury after weeks of cold rivers and quick wipes with rags. He’d earned it. Two settlements stripped clean, bellies full of plunder, and his father’s favor hanging like a blade overhead. Ivar and the others were circling, sniffing for weakness. Ronan wouldn’t give them any.

He was down to his britches when the flap rustled. Sage stepped inside, hair tangled, hands still faintly bloody from Titan’s wound, eyes wide and skittish as a yearling colt. He bent to tug off one boot, then the other, peeling damp stockings away from his feet. The air smelled of woodsmoke, iron, and the faint metallic tang of bear blood still on his skin.

She froze just inside the entrance, gaze darting anywhere but at him—ceiling poles, the low fire, the furs on the cot. Her cheeks flushed pink. Ronan smirked to himself. Endearing, the way she tried so hard not to look. Like nudity was some foreign weapon she didn’t know how to counter.

He straightened, fingers going to the ties of his britches. Before he could slide them down, her voice came out small but steady.

“I’m not going to run. Not without my family and friends. I’ll do whatever you ask, but…I’m not exactly experienced. Or knowledgeable. In the pleasuring of men. I fear I’d only disappoint you.”

Ronan chuckled, low in his throat. “As beautiful as you are, I have no interest in taking you by force. I prefer my women willing participants.”

He tugged the knot loose. Sage spun around so fast her braid whipped her shoulder, hands fumbling at nothing, shoulders hunched like she could disappear into them.

He let the britches fall, stepped out, and crossed to the tub. Steam curled up around his legs. “You can look now. Your eyes aren’t in any danger from my naked body.”

She turned slowly, inch by inch, still avoiding anything below his shoulders. Ronan sank into the hot water with a groan he didn’t bother hiding. Gods, it felt good.

“On the cot,” he said, scrubbing at the grime on his arms, “there’s smaller men’s britches and a tunic. Noticed your dress is torn to hell and filthy. Figured you might want to change.”

Sage glanced down at herself. Her expression crumpled—disgust, realization dawning all at once. She hadn’t even noticed how bad she looked until now.

“I’d let you in the tub,” he went on, working soaproot into his hair, “but I’d rather you not strip naked among my men. That’ll start fires I’m not ready to put out. There’s a wash basin and rag if you want to wipe up first.”

She moved quietly behind him. He heard cloth rustle, the soft splash of water in the basin, the squeeze of excess dripping back. He surprised himself by keeping his eyes forward. The temptation burned—What color are her n*****s? How soft is the skin over her ribs?—but he didn’t turn. Not yet.

She cleared her throat. “So…do you treat all your hostages like this? I’m trying to understand why I’m not with the others. What is my fate?”

The tent went quiet except for the pop of the fire and water sloshing against the barrel sides. Ronan thought for a long moment.

“Honestly? No. I never wanted to keep hostages close. But you…” He exhaled through his nose. “I’ll be blunt. I find you the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. The warlords will fight over you. Kill each other—or you—before anyone claims you. Beautiful young women who might be fertile are worth more than food or gold out here. If I claim you as mine, my men and I will protect you from the worst of the city. Hopefully you can help us too. I want to grow our own food, raise animals, sustain ourselves instead of bleeding villages dry forever. You learn our ways. I’ll teach you. You can teach me yours.”

He realized he was rambling—more words than he’d strung together in months. It wasn’t like him. He didn’t explain himself. He didn’t need to.

“So you’re…protecting me?” Her voice was curious now, edged with disbelief.

“You’re new to our ways. I saw fire in you. I think you could hold your own here—maybe even thrive—but you’ve got a lot to learn. I want you. Maybe someday you’ll want me too. Until then, I won’t touch you unless you give me permission.”

Her reply came fast, anger rising like a struck match. “So you kill the only boy I ever loved, kill my neighbors and friends, steal everything of value we had, and you think I’ll ever want you to touch me?”

She scoffed. Ronan glanced over his shoulder. Her back was to him, bare skin smooth and unmarked in the firelight, tugging the tunic down over her head with sharp, furious jerks. A pang hit him—guilt, sharp and unfamiliar. What the hell was wrong with him?

He stood abruptly, water cascading off him. “It’s easy for you to think you know us. Savages. Brutes. We just take and steal. But you don’t know what we’ve endured in the city. It’s be tough or die. No room for weakness. The smallest crack, and everyone tries to take a piece of you. You lived comfortable in your little village while I watched nine out of ten people I ever cared about die—sickness, hunger, or because someone stronger wanted what they had. One loaf of bread could mean life or death. So yes, I do things I don’t want to. It’s our way. Soon it’ll be yours too—or you’ll die.”

He stepped out of the tub, not caring that he dripped everywhere, not caring that she was staring now, cheeks flushed crimson, eyes wide. Annoyance burned hotter than shame. He grabbed clean clothes from the pile and started pulling them on—rough linen shirt, then britches.

He jerked his chin toward the crate lined with furs. “That’s your bed for the night. If you’re dressed, get in.”

He didn’t look at her again as he finished dressing, buckling his belt with short, angry movements. The tent felt too small, the air too thick.

But he waited.

Ronan finished buckling his belt with a sharp tug, the leather snapping against his hip like a whip crack in the quiet tent. He didn’t sit. He stood there, arms crossed, staring at the crate as if it had personally offended him. The fire popped, sending sparks up the vent hole, and the silence stretched until it hurt.

Sage hadn’t moved toward the crate yet. She stood frozen in the borrowed tunic and britches—too big on her, sleeves swallowing her hands, pant legs pooling at her ankles like she’d raided a giant’s wardrobe. Her arms were wrapped tight around herself, not quite hugging, more like holding pieces in place so they wouldn’t fly apart. Her eyes were glassy, fixed on some invisible point between them.

He should have left it there. Should have barked an order, turned his back, pretended the conversation hadn’t happened. But the words she’d thrown at him still burned under his ribs like hot coals.

“The only boy I ever loved.”

He hadn’t even known the man’s name. Just another body on the ground, another scream cut short. Another obstacle between Ronan and what he wanted. He’d stepped over dozens like that without a second thought. So why did this one feel like a splinter lodged too deep to dig out?

“You think I enjoy this?” The question came out rougher than he meant, voice scraping low. “You think I wake up every morning looking forward to burning another village, chaining another family, watching another man die because he reached for a knife he never should have drawn?”

Sage’s gaze flicked to him then—sharp, wounded, furious all at once.

“I don’t know what you enjoy,” she said quietly. “I only know what you do.”

Ronan laughed once, bitter and short. “Fair.” He dragged a hand through his still-damp hair, water dripping down the back of his neck. “I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t even expect you to forgive. But don’t stand there acting like your little farm was paradise and we’re the only monsters in the world. You had walls. You had food most seasons. You had a boy who loved you back. Most of us never had any of that.”

Her chin lifted, trembling. “And you think taking mine away makes us even?”

“No.” He stepped closer—slow, careful, like approaching something that might bolt or bite. “It doesn’t. It just keeps breathing.”

She flinched when he stopped a pace away. Not from fear, he realized. From the heat coming off him, the smell of soap and smoke and the faint copper of old blood. From the fact that he was still too close, still looking at her like she was the only thing in the tent worth seeing.

“I killed him,” Ronan said, the words flat and final. “I won’t lie and say I’m sorry, because if I hadn’t, one of my men would have. Or he would have killed one of us. That’s how it works out here. But I see the way you look at me now—like I’m the bear that came out of the woods tonight. And maybe I am.”

Sage’s breath hitched. A single tear slipped free, carving a clean track through the grime on her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“Then why keep me here?” she whispered. “If I’m just another thing you take, why not… why not finish it? Send me to the others. Let them fight over me like dogs over scraps. At least then I’d know where I stand.”

Ronan’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. “Because I don’t want you like that.”

Her eyes searched his—desperate, disbelieving. “Then what do you want?”

He didn’t answer right away. The firelight played across her face, catching the wet shine in her lashes, the stubborn set of her mouth. Something in his chest twisted—painful, unfamiliar, almost tender.

“I want you to stop looking at me like I’m going to eat you alive,” he said at last. “I want you to eat something that isn’t forced down your throat. I want you to sleep without wondering if you’ll wake up in chains somewhere worse. And yeah—I want you to look at me someday without hate in your eyes. Even if that day never comes.”

Sage let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. “You’re asking for miracles.”

“Maybe.” He reached out—slow enough she could pull away—and brushed the tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Her skin was warm, soft, alive in a way that made his pulse stutter.

“I’m not a good man, Sage,” he murmured. “Never claimed to be. But I’m not going to hurt you. Not like that. Not unless you ask me to stop protecting you—and even then, I’d probably fight you on it.”

She swallowed hard. Her voice came out small. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“I hate what you’ve done.”

“I know that too.”

Another tear fell. This time she didn’t let it linger. She dashed it away with the back of her hand, angry at herself for crying in front of him.

“Then why does it feel like…” She stopped, lips pressing into a thin line.

“Like what?” he pressed, softer than he meant to.

She shook her head, refusing the words.

Ronan exhaled slowly. “Get in the crate. Sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be long, and Titan’s going to need you clear-headed.”

He turned away first—gave her the space, the dignity of not being watched while she climbed into the furs. He heard the soft creak of wood, the rustle of blankets, the way her breathing stayed uneven long after she should have settled.

He didn’t look back.

But he didn’t sleep either.

He sat by the dying fire, elbows on knees, staring into the embers, wondering how the hell a woman he’d known for less than two days had managed to crack open something inside him he’d thought long since rusted shut.

And wondering—dreading—what it would cost them both when it finally broke wide.