“YOU ARE done in my house.”
Ronan’s voice cut through the cold air like a blade.
The porch light burned overhead, casting hard shadows across the worn wood and the three figures frozen beneath it. Jeremiah stood near the steps, his posture alert but still, his jaw tight like he had already decided how this would end. Lily was half a step in front of him, breath shallow, eyes wide but blazing. And Ronan stood between the door and the world, boots planted, hands loose at his sides in a way that meant they were anything but relaxed.
Jeremiah did not move.
Lily did.
She stepped forward instinctively, the movement sharp and sudden enough that Ronan felt it like a strike to the chest.
“No,” she said. “You are not doing this.”
Ronan’s gaze snapped to her. “Get back inside.”
She did not.
