Ronan did not speak the entire walk back to the packhouse. Not one word. Not even a grunt. That meant one thing.
He was furious.
When we reached the front steps, he opened the door, pushed me inside, then slammed it shut so hard the wooden frame rattled.
I spun around. “What is your problem?”
“You,” he snapped.
My mouth fell open. “Excuse me.”
Ronan took one step toward me, eyes burning, voice rough with anger. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
“Oh, let me guess,” I said. “I breathed wrong. I walked wrong. Existing must also be a crime now.”
He barely held himself back from yelling. “You ran toward danger.”
“I did not run.”
“You walked quickly toward danger.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is exactly the same thing,” he growled.
“Oh, so now you are an expert on my w
