A Question Of Hearts

A Question Of Hearts
Chapter 15

A Question of Hearts

The night descended quietly across the estate. The storm that had battered the previous while had expended itself, leaving the estate with the gentle scent of wet earth and pine. In the grand sitting room, the soft rumble of the fireplace completed the quietness — soft crackles that grooved across the faces of the two elders on the long velvet sofa.

Ronan stood before them, straight-backed, hands clasped behind his own back, trying to hide the discomfort tightening his chest. His grandparents only summoned him this late when there was something of importance. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, as if the walls collectively held their breath.

His grandfather sat in his usual place — posture dignified, silver hair smoothed elegantly back, hawk-sharp eyes. Beside him sat his grandmother, wrapped in a deep red shawl that added depth to her unspoken authority. Less forceful in her manner always, tonight there was something in the glint of her eye that did not feel easy to Ronan.

He bowed respectfully. "You wished to see me."

“Yes,” his grandfather said slowly, his deep voice echoing against the wooden panels. “Sit, Ronan.”

Ronan obeyed, taking a seat across from them. The flicker of the firelight played across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw.

His grandmother was the first to speak, her voice calm but piercing. “Ronan, we’ve been hearing things.”

He didn’t move. “Things?”

“Yes,” his grandfather said, leaning forward slightly. “Whispers. About you… and a certain girl.”

Ronan's heart pounded harder, but his face remained tranquil. "If this concerns Ly—" He bit back ending her name, clenching his jaw. "If this concerns my servant, be assured there's nothing to concern yourself with."

His grandmother exchanged a perceptive look with her husband. "Your servant?" she repeated softly, trying the word as though it had a different connotation. "Is she that to you?

Ronan's throat dry. "That's what she's always been."

"Hmm," his grandfather made a sound of humming, his expression empty. "It's interesting, then, that people speak as if she's otherwise."

Ronan's hackles rose. "People talk of everything, Grandfather. You yourself informed me gossip is worthless without fact."

"Aye," the old man said, his gaze narrowing. "But gossip, my lad, always has a start.".

A silence between them — a long, awkward one. There was the barest crackling of the fire and the tick of the old mantel clock.

His grandmother came forward, regarding him with a soft, inquiring look. "Ronan," she said quietly, "you know we would not ask you unless it was important. But you have not been yourself lately. Distracted… withdrawn. Something is troubling you."

Ronan exhaled, forcing a tight smile. “Preparing for the Alpha Dinner is enough to distract anyone.”

His grandfather shook his head. “Don’t twist my words, boy. You’ve always been good at carrying burdens, but your eyes don’t lie.”

Ronan’s composure faltered for a second, and his grandmother caught it immediately. “So, it is about her,” she said softly.

He looked up sharply. “I didn’t say that.”

"You didn't have to." Her voice was soft but unyielding. "You say so much by not speaking."

Ronan looked away, jaw clenching. He despised the way vulnerable he was likely to have appeared under their watchful gaze. He had worked years at mastering control — over his temper, his feelings, his desires. But one name, one recollection, seemed to negate all of them.

His grandmother folded her hands on her lap. "We're not judging you, Ronan. But we need to know what this is. What she is to you."

Ronan stared at the carpet, watching the shadows move beneath the firelight. "She is nothing more than her duty. She serves. I command. That's all."

But the doubt in his voice did not escape them.

His grandfather's brows furrowed. "Ronan, our society does not accept weakness. You know what happens when an Alpha lets his emotions get the better of him."

"I'm aware," Ronan said quietly.

"Then say it to us," his grandfather pressed. "Is she distracting you? Coaxing you?"

"No." The response came too quickly — defensive, charged with tension. "I know my place. And she knows hers."

The old man leaned back, dubious. "And yet… I can see it in your eyes. There's something there. You can call me a fool, but your heart is already betraying you."

His grandmother sighed softly. "We only worry, Ronan. Love — or even the illusion of it — can kill more than war ever would. Especially if it's with someone the world will not accept."

Her words had struck home. He could hear his own heartbeat thudding brutally against his ribcage.

He got to his feet sharply, unable to stand the scrutiny any longer. "Grandfather, Grandmother, with all due respect — there's nothing between us. Whatever people are saying is a lie. I have no time for this rubbish."

He turned around as though he was going to leave but was stopped by his grandfather's voice.

"Then why did you defend her?"

Ronan remained frozen.

The old man's eyes were steady, burning into him clear through. "We heard what happened, Ronan. You stood between her and your men — between her and punishment that she owed alone. You gambled your authority. You don't do that for servants."

Ronan's fists were balled at his sides. "I did what I thought was right."

His grandmother's voice again grew gentle. "And was it right… or was it personal?

His breath caught, and for the first time that evening, he didn't have anything to say.

The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

His grandfather elbowed on, speaking low and gravely. "You are a training Alpha. Every choice you make isn't just building your future, but the future of the entire pack. If you're letting emotions make your choices right now, you'll pay later — in blood and tears."

Ronan said nothing. He couldn't.

He stood there, dark eyes uncomprehending, as the gleam of the fire burned like gold in his irises. His heart pounded within, rage and shame and something nameless roiling in a whirlpool.

His grandmother stood last, her face against his husband's but softer and no less firm. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "We don't want you to remember who you are, Ronan. You're supposed to be a leader. And sometimes… leaders have to go alone."

Her hand remained on him for a moment before she withdrew.

He nodded, his voice little more than a whisper. "Understood."

But when he turned around to look out the window, his eyes into the darkness there, his mind fooled him. She stood in front of his mind's eye — the stillness of her strength, the way her eyes burned pain and defiance together, the sound of her voice when she said his name.

He bit his teeth together, forcing the vision away. She's a servant, he told himself. Nothing more.

Behind him, his grandfather spoke one last time. "Remember, boy… a storm is coming. And it won't spare anyone who stands in the wrong place when it breaks."

Ronan said nothing. He stayed there, staring out into the night-lashed rain as the flash of lightning illuminated the estate grounds. His image in the glass seemed a stranger — someone burdened, doubtful, and gently shattering.

A lonely silence filled the room.

And deep within him, he felt the first crack in his resolve — the dangerous allure of something he couldn't help but do, something his heritage would never accept. 

The storm outside was thunder, and in that sound was a prophecy — that secrets don't stay that way for long.