Page 87 of Override

Not because of the sound. Because of the footsteps after it. Fast. Heavy. Angry. Every muscle in my body locks instinctively.

The kitchen doors swing open hard enough to hit the wall.

Ronan storms inside still wearing his suit jacket, rainwater darkening the shoulders while fury radiates off him so sharply it almost steals the air from the room.

Not controlled tonight. Not polished. Angry. Actually angry. My stomach drops immediately.

“Where were you?” The question cracks through the kitchen so sharply one of the younger house staff near the stove visibly startles before disappearing out the side entrance without being told.

Smart.

I set the spoon down slowly before answering. “I went out.”

Ronan laughs once. Cold. Disbelieving.

“I’m aware you went out, Maeve.” He steps farther into the kitchen. “Who told you that you could leave the house?”

The words hit so hard my brain almost stumbles over them. Could. For a second I genuinely wonder if I misheard him.

Then anger flashes unexpectedly hot through my chest. “I wanted coffee and soup,” I say carefully. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

Ronan’s jaw tightens visibly. “There’s coffee here.”

I blink at him once. “What?”

“There’s coffee in this house,” he says sharply, gesturing toward the kitchen around us. “And if you wanted soup, the staff would’ve made it.”

Something cold twists slowly beneath my ribs — somehow this conversation no longer feels like concern at all. It feels like permission.

“You should have called me before leaving,” Ronan continues, voice lower now but infinitely more dangerous. “I had security searching half the city for you.”

My pulse jumps hard. Searching.

I grip the edge of the island harder beneath my fingers. “I didn’t realize I needed authorization to leave my own home.”

The room goes still.

Ronan’s eyes darken immediately. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said.” The words leave before I can soften them.

For one suspended second, neither of us moves.

Rain beats harder against the windows behind him while tension stretches so tightly through the kitchen it feels suffocating.

Then Ronan steps closer. Not touching me. Still—my body instinctively straightens anyway.

“You are mistaken about something,” he says quietly. The softness in his voice feels infinitely more frightening than yelling would. “We are married now.” Another step closer. “I expect to know where my wife is.”

The words wrap tightly around my chest. Ownership. Expectation. Control.

I force myself to lift my chin anyway. “I am an adult, Ronan.”

His eyes lock onto mine instantly. “And it is your job to listen to me.”

The words land like a slap Not loud. Not dramatic. Worse. Certain. Like this conversation should already be understood between us. My throat tightens painfully. Ronan stares at me another second longer before finally stepping back again.

And somehow that feels worse too. Because he doesn’t wait for my response. Doesn’t care about it. He simply turns toward the doorway, loosening his cufflinks with sharp controlled movements while my heartbeat pounds violently against my ribs.