Chapter Thirteen - A Different Kind of Hunger
2275 Words
The compound was quiet in the early morning. The kind of silence that hummed just under the surface—peaceful, expectant.
Evelyn padded down the hall barefoot, drawn toward the scent of coffee and the promise of quiet. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, a soft hoodie wrapped around her frame. She hadn’t planned to see anyone. Especially not him.
But when she stepped into the kitchen…
Ronan was already there.
He stood at the counter in a sleeveless black shirt, damp at the collar and clinging to his skin. His arms glistened faintly with sweat, and his hair—usually combed back with the same quiet control he wore like armor—was tousled, damp, and free.
Raw.
He looked up when she entered.
His eyes met hers, steady and alert despite the early hour.
Evelyn froze for half a second. She hadn't braced for this. Not after last night. Not after the way Jules' words had followed her all the way to her bed.
“That explains why Ronan looks at you like someone handed him a priceless artifact…”
She hadn’t wanted to think about it.
But she had.
And now, standing there in the soft light of morning, her pulse kicked.
He looked at her for a moment longer than necessary. Not in a way that demanded. Not in a way that took.
Just… saw her.
Like he always did.
“You’re up early,” he said, turning back to the coffee pot.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she murmured.
He poured a second mug without asking and slid it across the counter to her.
She stepped forward, their fingers brushing for a split second as she took it.
Her skin prickled at the contact.
Ronan turned, leaned against the counter with one hip, arms folded. “You doing okay?”
She nodded, sipping the coffee. “Yeah.”
He waited.
She let the silence sit between them for a moment before adding, “The women had their Friday night thing.”
His mouth curved slightly. “Yeah, I know. Maddox came home smelling like lime chips and regret.”
That made her smile—small, but real.
She looked down into her mug. Her heart still beating faster than normal.
She shouldn’t be thinking about it.
About him.
But she was.
And something deep in her chest fluttered at the thought that a man like Ronan—a man who could lead an army, who could make others fall silent with a glance—might look at her the way Jules had described.
Like she was precious.
Like she was worth something.
She'd never seen herself that way. Not really.
But the idea that he might…
It did something to her.
It made her breath catch just slightly when he moved past her to grab his own mug, close enough for her to smell the heat of his skin and the hint of salt and clean sweat.
It made her wonder what his hands would feel like if he wasn’t handing her coffee.
She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to ground herself.
Still, she couldn’t stop her voice from sounding a little softer when she said, “You always up this early?”
Ronan took a slow sip. “Routine.”
“Morning run?”
He nodded.
“You do that every day?”
He glanced at her, brow raised slightly. “You thinking of joining me?”
She flushed instantly. “No—God, no. I mean—maybe. I don’t know.”
He gave a low chuckle, and the sound hit her low in the stomach. Not mocking. Not harsh.
Just warm. Rough. Real.
“It’s not a bad way to clear your head,” he said.
She smiled faintly. “I think my head might need a little more than cardio.”
“Lucky for you,” he said, tilting his mug toward her, “this place offers all kinds of therapy.”
Her cheeks flushed again, but she didn’t retreat.
She stayed.
And as the sun rose higher and the kitchen filled with quiet light, Evelyn realized something that both thrilled and terrified her:
She wanted him to keep looking at her that way.
The soft clink of mugs and the low hum of the world outside were the only sounds for a few moments. Evelyn sat at the far edge of the island, her fingers wrapped around her mug like it was keeping her anchored to the ground.
Ronan stood across from her, quiet as ever, but it wasn’t the kind of silence that made her nervous. It felt... intentional. Comfortable, in a way she was still learning to trust.
He didn’t fill the space with idle talk or shallow questions.
He just waited.
Letting her come to him.
She lifted her eyes. “Why did you really take me in?”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t dodge.
Instead, he stepped closer, resting his hip against the counter across from her.
“Because when we found you… you looked like someone who’d already been taken apart piece by piece. And I’ve seen too many people get left that way.”
She blinked, throat tightening.
“You didn’t even know me.”
“I didn’t have to.”
That sat heavy in the air between them.
She looked down at the swirling steam in her cup. “I don’t know how to be normal.”
Ronan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “No one here is normal.”
She smiled softly, but her voice stayed small. “I mean… I don’t know how to talk. How to be with people. How to want things.”
“Wanting something doesn’t make you weak.”
She looked up at him. “It always felt like it did.”
“Your father taught you that,” Ronan said quietly. “He taught you silence. Obedience. Fear.”
He leaned in slightly, eyes steady on hers.
“But that’s not who you are. That’s who he made you into so he wouldn’t have to face what he broke.”
Her breath caught.
No one had ever said it like that.
So plainly. So calmly. Like truth didn’t need to hurt—it just needed to be known.
“I don’t know how to be anything else yet,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to be anything,” he said. “Not today. Not tomorrow.”
He paused, voice lower now.
“You don’t owe anyone a version of yourself that doesn’t exist yet.”
That hit somewhere deep—somewhere tender and still healing.
She nodded slowly, her voice barely audible. “Thank you.”
He gave her a long look, and something shifted in his expression. A c***k in the armor. A flicker of softness.
“Can I tell you something?” he asked.
She nodded.
“When you walked into the kitchen last night with that glass of wine and that tiny smile on your face…” He paused. “I’ve never seen this place look more like home.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
He straightened, taking a final sip of his coffee, the moment not pushed but left hanging between them like something precious.
Then he turned toward the sink, rinsed his mug, and said quietly, “Whenever you’re ready, Evelyn. That’s it. Just… when you’re ready.”
He didn’t wait for her response.
Didn’t need one.
He left the kitchen in that quiet, steady way he always did—like the world would bend around him no matter how fast or slow he moved.
And Evelyn?
She stayed at the counter, heart pounding, mug forgotten, her mind spiraling with a thought she’d never dared let settle until now.
He sees me.
Not as a broken thing.
But as something worth watching… waiting for.
After Ronan left the kitchen, Evelyn stayed in her seat long after the coffee cooled in her hands.
Her heart was still beating too fast.
Not from fear.
But from something else.
That feeling she didn’t have a name for. The one Jules had stirred up the night before. The one that Ronan’s voice—that low, steady voice—had ignited like a spark along her skin.
She had no idea how to handle it.
She had never been wanted before.
Never seen.
And suddenly, she wasn’t invisible anymore. She was the kind of woman who made a man like Ronan look twice.
It did something to her.
It stirred curiosity and confusion and heat she didn’t know where to put.
So she did the only thing she could think of:
She sought out Jules.
The woman was in the lounge room alone, flipping through an old fashion magazine with her legs thrown over the arm of the couch like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did.
Evelyn hesitated in the doorway.
Jules looked up. “Well, well. She returns.”
Evelyn stepped in, hands fidgeting in the sleeves of her hoodie. “You said I could come to you…”
“Always,” Jules said, immediately sitting up. “Come here. Sit.”
Evelyn dropped onto the couch beside her, heart racing.
“I talked to Ronan this morning,” she said quietly.
Jules’s brows lifted, but she didn’t interrupt.
“It wasn’t anything crazy,” Evelyn added quickly. “He gave me coffee. We talked. And… I don’t know. He just—he looks at me like I matter.”
Jules smirked. “That’s because you do.”
“I don’t know what to do with that,” Evelyn confessed, cheeks flushed. “I’ve never flirted before. I don’t even know how. I’ve never had someone want me.”
Jules’s expression softened instantly. She turned fully to face her, all sarcasm set aside.
“Honey,” she said, “you don’t need to know how to flirt. That man is already yours. He’s just waiting for you to catch up.”
Evelyn blinked. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Jules said. “Ronan doesn’t do casual. He doesn’t hover like that unless he’s in deep. And the way he’s watching you? He’s holding back—hard—because he respects where you’re at.”
Evelyn looked down at her lap. “I’m scared I’ll disappoint him.”
“Listen to me.” Jules reached over, placing a hand gently over hers. “You’re not here to perform. You’re not here to meet anyone’s expectations. But… if you’re starting to feel things? That’s yours to explore.”
Evelyn nodded slowly.
“Start with you,” Jules said gently. “Before anyone else. Learn what makes you feel good. Touch your own skin. Get familiar with your own body. If you know what you like, you’ll feel way more in control when things start happening.”
Evelyn’s blush deepened.
Jules grinned. “I’m not saying go full steam ahead. Just… be curious. When you’re alone. When it feels right. Touch doesn’t have to be scary—it can be empowering. So when Ronan eventually makes his move—and trust me, he will—you’ll already know your own map.”
It was bold. A little shocking.
But it didn’t feel dirty. Or wrong.
It felt freeing.
Evelyn gave her a shy smile. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not simple,” Jules said with a wink. “It’s just worth it.”
The compound had gone quiet.
The kind of stillness that only came deep into the night—when the world was dark and no one expected anything from her.
Evelyn lay beneath her blankets, her room dimly lit by the glow of the small lamp beside her bed. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the duvet, heart thudding steady in her chest.
She thought about Jules’ words, echoing all evening in the back of her mind.
"Start with you. Learn what makes you feel good. You’ll feel more in control when things start happening."
It had terrified her.
But it had also made something inside her spark.
The conversations from cocktail night drifted back too—Remy’s teasing laughter, Jules’ blunt honesty, Dani’s wild stories. They’d talked about kissing that made knees buckle. About touch that felt like worship.
She’d never had any of it.
But for the first time, she wanted to understand.
Not because of Ronan.
Not for anyone else.
But for her.
Because for the first time in her life, she was beginning to feel like her body was her own.
She shifted under the sheets, breath catching just a little. Her hand moved slowly, uncertainly, fingertips grazing over the softness of her own skin. Not rushed. Not nervous. Just… exploring.
Like she was learning a language no one had ever taught her.
Her breath hitched as she moved, her thoughts drifting—to the way Ronan had looked at her in the kitchen that morning, how calm and steady he’d been. The low rasp of his voice. The way he’d said:
"You don’t owe anyone a version of yourself that doesn’t exist yet."
Her pulse kicked.
She let her hand linger where it felt good. Let her eyes close. She didn’t need anyone’s permission.
She was allowed to want.
To feel.
To discover.
There was no one watching. No shame. No fear.
Only warmth.
Only breath.
Only the slow realization that maybe—just maybe—pleasure didn’t belong to other people anymore.
Maybe it could belong to her.
- Writer
