Ronan had looked down at me then, something flickering in his gaze. Was it relief? Satisfaction? I couldn't tell. "You mean that?" he had asked, his voice void of warmth, calculating.
"Yes," I had murmured, closing my eyes as tears streamed down my face, feeling the last remnants of my dignity shatter.
The bitter truth was that when Ronan was young, he had lost his parents in a rogue attack, leaving him a lone wanderer. I could still recall the day I found him—a frail, half-starved boy lying unconscious on the forest floor. I had been just a child myself, playing among the trees, when I stumbled upon him. He was nothing but skin and bones, his body covered in grime, his lips cracked from thirst.
My heart had clenched painfully at the sight. "You poor thing," I had whispered, brushing aside the tangled strands of hair from his dirt-streaked face. "You must be starving."
His hollow eyes had flickered open, filled with a fear that spoke of countless nights spent alone. Something in me had fractured at that moment. I couldn’t leave him there. I couldn’t let him die.