Scarlet
The cold air bit at my skin as I stepped back toward the glowing doors of the gala, the sound of music muffled now, like the world had been placed under a glass dome. My heels crunched against scattered gravel, and my breath came out in soft clouds—short, shallow, trembling.
I was still trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Of what he said.
I hated how they lingered.
I hated that they meant something.
I hated myself for caring.
My hand was already reaching for the old wooden handle of the side door when a figure stepped into view.
Ronan.
He was leaning against the archway just off the path, half in shadow, half under the golden wash of fairy lights strung above us. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled, hair a little tousled from the chase. He didn’t look angry. He
