Chapter Eleven - Quiet Progress
1598 Words
The sun had dipped low by the time the SUV rolled through the gates of the Vultures’ compound.
Dust kicked up behind the tires as Silas parked near the clubhouse, killing the engine with a nod toward the porch. Remy helped Evelyn carry her bags—though the younger woman insisted on taking a few herself—and made sure she got safely back to her room before peeling away to find Maddox.
She found him out near the garage, sleeves rolled up, grease on his hands, half-buried in the guts of a rebuilt engine. His hair was a little messy, dark at the edges with sweat, and the second he looked up and saw her, his expression shifted.
That quiet ease.
The one he saved only for her.
“You’re back,” he said, dropping the wrench onto the workbench.
Remy grinned. “You missed me already?”
“Always.”
She walked up, sliding an arm around his waist as he pulled her in with one strong, oil-stained hand. Their lips met in a brief, familiar kiss—steady, reassuring, the kind of kiss that said home more than any house ever could.
“How’d it go?” Maddox asked, his hand still resting on her hip.
Remy leaned into him. “Better than I expected.”
“Yeah?”
“I got her out the door. Out of her head. Bought real clothes, not just things to hide in. She even picked out a pair of boots with some bite to them.”
Maddox raised a brow. “That’s something.”
“She’s still quiet,” Remy admitted, “but she listened. She let herself try. That’s huge.”
He nodded. “She trustin’ you?”
“She’s starting to.”
Remy leaned her head against his shoulder and lowered her voice.
“If things keep going like this,” she said, “she might even dare to show her face in front of him.”
Maddox glanced down at her, one brow lifting. “Ronan?”
Remy just gave a little smirk and pulled away enough to meet his eyes.
“She’s not ready yet. Not even close. But he’s in her head—whether she realizes it or not.”
“And him?”
“He’s trying like hell to stay patient,” she said with a soft laugh. “But he’s not exactly subtle. I saw the way he watched her when she got back. Like something fragile he already wants to protect—and maybe something more.”
Maddox snorted, wiping his hands on a rag. “Man’s already halfway gone.”
Remy smirked. “Then let’s just make sure the girl he’s falling for figures out how to see herself the way he does.”
She reached up, kissed Maddox one more time, and turned to head back inside.
Progress wasn’t always loud. Sometimes it was a soft smile. A new outfit. A girl sitting in a car and not shaking the whole ride home.
But to Remy?
That was more than enough.
Evelyn walked the hall slowly, her shopping bags already tucked away in her room, her damp hair falling around her shoulders. She hadn’t meant to leave again—not yet—but the air in her room had started to feel too still.
Just a walk to stretch her legs. Nothing more.
She turned the corner toward the kitchen—and stopped.
Ronan was there.
Not brooding at the head of a table.
Not giving orders.
Not silent and severe.
He was barefoot, sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a large pot on the stove. His hair was slightly damp from a shower, pushed back off his forehead. One hand held a wooden spoon, the other braced casually on the counter beside him.
Next to him, Jules leaned against the counter with a half-empty wine glass, laughing about something only she found funny.
“You are not making chili,” Jules was saying. “You’re stirring it. I made it. You’re here for moral support and occasional taste testing.”
“You just don’t want me to outshine you,” Ronan replied without looking up.
Evelyn stood frozen, breath caught in her throat.
She hadn’t expected this.
Not him like this.
Warm light from the kitchen spilled out across the floor. A slow blues track played from a speaker in the corner, quiet and smooth—an old love song humming beneath the sound of simmering food and low laughter.
She took a step back, suddenly unsure if she belonged in this moment.
But his voice cut through the haze before she could turn.
“Evelyn.”
Her name from his lips made her still.
He turned, wooden spoon still in hand, eyes locking on hers with no judgment—just presence. Calm. Real.
“Come in.”
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
Obedience wasn’t new. But this didn’t feel like an order.
It felt like… an invitation.
She walked into the room slowly, gaze flicking to the pot on the stove.
“We’re making chili,” Ronan said.
Jules scoffed. “He is stirring chili. I’m the chef.”
He looked at Jules without a hint of amusement. “She’ll judge us both either way.”
Jules poured herself another glass of red wine, then looked to Evelyn. “You drink?”
Evelyn blinked. “Sometimes.”
“Good,” Jules said, already pouring a second glass. “Because you’re not getting out of this night without at least one.”
She passed the glass across the counter, and Evelyn took it with a quiet “thank you,” her fingers brushing the stem carefully, like it might break.
She stood near the corner, unsure if she should sit. Speak. Stay.
But the music filled the silence where her fear would’ve lived.
And the smell of spices and tomatoes made something in her stomach tug.
Warmth.
Normalcy.
For a moment, she didn’t feel like the president’s daughter, the broken girl hiding in a strange room.
She just felt like a woman standing in a kitchen… watching a man cook dinner while blues music played and a glass of wine warmed her hand.
She looked up—met Ronan’s eyes again.
And this time… she didn’t look away.
Evelyn stood near the counter, the stem of her wine glass resting loosely in her fingers. She wasn’t drinking much—just letting the warmth of it settle in her hands. In her chest.
Ronan stirred the pot a few more times, then lowered the heat. He didn’t glance over, didn’t crowd her. Just moved at his own pace—quiet, calm, steady. Like he was giving her time without saying it aloud.
Jules sipped her wine and watched the two of them for a moment longer than necessary.
Then, without a word, she set her glass down, shot Ronan a look that said don’t screw it up, and walked out the side door.
Evelyn noticed.
Of course she did.
She looked toward the door Jules had left through, then back at Ronan, unsure.
“You scared her off,” he said dryly, still facing the stove.
“She didn’t seem scared.”
“That’s her way of being subtle.”
He finally turned to face her fully. The light hit his face differently this time—less shadow, more truth.
She swallowed. “You cook?”
“Only one thing.”
“Chili?”
He nodded.
She let the corner of her mouth lift, just slightly. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I stick to what I’m good at.”
There was silence for a beat.
Then Evelyn spoke, quieter now. “You’re not what I expected.”
His gaze lingered on her, steady.
“Neither are you.”
She looked away, flustered, then caught herself.
“It’s strange,” she admitted, swirling her wine without drinking. “This place… the people… I thought it’d be like his.”
“Your father’s club.”
She nodded.
“It’s not.”
“I know,” she whispered.
More silence. But this one wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was weighty. Real.
“You seem better today,” Ronan said, voice soft but direct.
“I don’t know what I am today,” she replied honestly.
He nodded. “That’s still progress.”
Her eyes flicked up to him again. “Why do you care?”
He didn’t blink.
“Because someone should’ve,” he said. “And no one did.”
The words hit harder than she expected. She felt them in her chest, like a bell rung too close to the heart.
“I don’t know how to be this version of me,” she admitted, voice barely above a breath.
“You don’t have to yet,” Ronan said. “You just have to stay. Try. Breathe.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then finally asked the question she hadn’t dared before.
“Do you hate my family?”
A long pause.
“I hate what they did to you.”
That was enough.
More than enough.
The pot simmered softly in the background, the music winding into a slower melody, something almost romantic but not quite.
Evelyn didn’t move away.
Ronan didn’t fill the silence.
They just stood there—two people who knew pain too intimately, standing still in a kitchen full of warmth, with no weapons between them but words.
And for the first time, Evelyn didn’t feel like a ghost in her own body.
She felt like someone becoming.
- Writer
