Chapter 8 - The Winter Garden
The snow was falling heavily outside the glass walls of the Victorian winter garden.
Surrounded by blooming white camellias, fragrant jasmine, and the soft patter of snowflakes against the glass roof, Ivy leaned against the stone balustrade, looking out over the dark, sprawling grounds of Blackwood Manor.
Ronan stood beside her, having discarded his tuxedo jacket once again. He held two cups of warm spiced cider, handing one to her.
"You were magnificent tonight," Ronan said softly.
Ivy looked down into the amber liquid, a bittersweet smile touching her lips. "I was terrified, Ronan. For a moment, I thought Vance would pull a gun."
"I would have caught the bullet before it reached you," he replied, and the terrifying thing was that Ivy knew he meant every word.
"Why did you do all this for me?" Ivy asked, finally turning to face him, searching his scarred, handsome face. "I am just a girl who was hired to scrub your floors. You tore up a political alliance that was worth tens of millions of dollars. You brought down two powerful families... over a maid."
Ronan stepped closer, closing the distance between them until Ivy could feel the radiant heat of his body in the cool glass conservatory. He raised his hand, his calloused fingertips gently tracing the soft curve of her jaw, lingering on the warmth of her neck.
"Because you were never just a maid to me, Ivy," he whispered, his voice thick with a raw, unvarnished emotion she had never heard in him before. "For ten years, I have lived in a world where everyone smiles with a knife behind their back. My father taught me to trust no one. To see people as numbers, assets, or targets. Vivien was an asset. Vance was a target."
He stepped closer still, his chest brushing against the soft swell of hers, his presence enveloping her completely.
"Then I came home," Ronan murmured, his slate-gray eyes locking onto hers with burning intensity, "and I saw you. Struck with a whip, bleeding, surrounded by cowards who looked away—and yet you stood with your head held high, refusing to break. You have more courage, more grace, and more beauty in your little finger than that entire ballroom combined."
Ivy felt tears prick the corners of her eyes, her breath catching as his thumb brushed across her lower lip.
"Ronan..." she whispered.
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"I don't want a fragile porcelain doll to sit beside me on a throne of knives," Ronan said, his voice dropping into a tender, possessive growl. "I want a woman who knows what it means to survive. I want a woman who breathes life into this mausoleum. I want you, Ivy. If you will have me."
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