Chapter 4 - The Master’s Wing
The East Wing library was a cathedral of forgotten knowledge.
Soaring two stories high, lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves of dark walnut, it smelled of ancient parchment, beeswax, and sweet pipe tobacco. Tall arched windows looked out over the mist-covered pine forests that rolled down toward the stormy Atlantic coast.
Ivy spent her first full week in absolute wonder.
For the first time in her life, she was given a wardrobe that did not mock her figure. Malcolm had brought a seamstress directly to the manor—an older woman who did not pinch Ivy’s waist with cruel tape measures, but draped her in rich, tailored wool skirts, soft cream cashmere sweaters that flattered the generous curves of her hips and bust, and supportive leather boots. Ivy felt elegant, comfortable, and respected.
Her days were spent at the massive oak restoration table in the center of the library, armed with bone folders, wheat starch paste, and Japanese mending tissue.
"You handle the 17th-century Italian text as if it were a newborn child," a deep voice sounded from the doorway.
Ivy looked up, startled, nearly dropping her fine camel-hair brush.
Ronan stood leaning against the doorframe, dressed in dark trousers and a simple black cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing the corded muscle and intricate black ink tattoos that crept up his wrists—symbols of the Blackwood family crest, intertwined with ravens and thorns.
"They *are* like children, Mr. Blackwood," Ivy said, her cheeks coloring slightly as she set the brush down. "If you press too hard, the paper cracks. If you use too much moisture, the ink bleeds. They require patience."
Ronan walked slowly into the room, his footsteps soundless on the oriental carpets. He came to stand behind her chair, looking over her shoulder at the open book. Ivy was acutely aware of his proximity—the faint scent of rain and tobacco that seemed to follow him everywhere, the towering heat of his body.
"My grandfather bought that ledger in Genoa," Ronan said, his voice quiet, rumbling near her ear. "He could barely read English when he landed here with two suitcases and a pocket full of silver. He built this entire empire with blood and cold calculation. Yet he spent hours in this room, reading poetry."
"He was an artist in his own way," Ivy ventured, glancing up at him. "Survival requires an imagination, doesn't it?"
Ronan looked down into her hazel eyes, caught off guard by the depth of her observation. Most people looked at his family history and saw only violence, bloodshed, and terror. Ivy saw the human being beneath the myth.
"You're remarkably perceptive, Miss Lancaster," he murmured.
"When you are a person who takes up space in a world that prefers you invisible, you learn to watch everything," Ivy replied simply, her voice carrying no bitterness, only a quiet truth.
Ronan frowned slightly, his gaze lingering on the curve of her soft jaw, the fullness of her lips, and the gentle slope of her neckline.
"The world is filled with fools who mistake fragility for beauty," Ronan said, his voice dropping into a register so dark and sincere it sent a shiver straight down her spine. "A marble pillar supports a palace, Ivy. Not a toothpick. There is nothing about you that should ever be invisible."
Ivy’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. No man had ever spoken to her like that. Certainly not a man who commanded an army of killers and moved millions with the wave of a hand.
Before she could speak, Ronan’s hand reached out, his thumb gently brushing against the collar of her cream sweater, right above the hidden bandage on her shoulder.
"Does it still hurt?" he asked.
"Only when the weather turns cold," she whispered.
His jaw clenched, a flash of lethal menace darkening his gray eyes for a split second before he brought his iron composure back under control. "It won't happen again. Not under my watch."
A sharp knock broke the intimacy of the moment. Malcolm appeared at the library archway, his silver brows drawn together in concern.
"Pardon the intrusion, sir. Julian Vance has arrived at the front gate. He claims to have urgent business regarding the harbor contracts."
Ronan stepped back from Ivy, the warmth vanishing, replaced instantly by the cold, calculating mask of the syndicate don.
May you like
"Send him to the billiard room," Ronan ordered coldly. "And post four guards outside this library door."
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