It was deadly quiet after Giselle's pronouncement, though no objection was raised. Ronan met the iron gaze of the senator for what felt like minutes, but was more like the span of a breath, and then he and the Secret Service agents were silently filing out of the room. Silent wasn't the typical response, not with his experiences so far, and it felt even more dangerous than carefully constructed words would've been. The door clicked quietly after the second bodyguard and Giselle took up her father's position on the edge of the desk, though she gripped it for stability, looking more vulnerable, whereas he had merely used it as a perch, an object that would serve him and his purpose until it was no longer needed.

Ronan found that he could not answer her immediately. He wasn't used to the human interactions of everyday normal life. He had rarely ever been left alone with anyone that he wasn't planning on murdering, was always with his father or his brothers when he wasn't on assignment. He didn't know how to act like anything other than what he had been trained to be.

Slowly, he put his hands back into his pockets and found himself taking a moment to simply center himself, take stock of the immediate situation. He felt the texture of his pants against his fingers, his palms. He felt the press of his feet against his shoes as he stood on the floor. He felt his heart thumping in his chest, the contraction and release of his lungs, the way the air moved through his nose, the brief flutter of eyelashes against his skin as he blinked. He felt the ever present ache of the badly healed scar that carved across his back.

The ache grounded him.

Pain was familiar. Predictable. Easier to navigate than a young woman staring at him and demanding answers he wasn’t supposed to give. His gaze lifted from where it had drifted to the  floor to Giselle. For a moment he simply studied her. Most people looked at her and saw a senator’s daughter. A political asset. A liability. A bargaining chip.

[I]'A target.'[/I]

The thought settled heavily in his chest.

“You ask a lot of questions,” Ronan said at last, his voice low and even. There was no accusation in it. If anything, it sounded almost thoughtful. “The short answer is that I can do things those agents can’t.”

His shoulders rose in a small shrug. “They’re trained to react to threats. They’re good at creating barriers, evacuating people, controlling a scene. But their job begins when everyone knows there’s danger.” He tilted his head slightly. “Mine begins long before that.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Too honest. Too revealing. His father’s voice immediately echoed in the back of his mind, a sharp reminder that information was a weapon and sentiment was weakness. And although he inwardly winced, Ronan managed to ignore it.

“The people who concern your father aren’t the kind that announce themselves. They don’t make additional threats. They don’t send further warnings.” His eyes remained fixed on hers. “If they’re competent, you’ll never see them until they’ve already decided where you’ll be standing and how you’re going to die.”

Silence followed his words. Most people would have softened the statement. Ronan wasn’t most people. He wasn't going to backpedal and recant what he had said. After a second, he realized how that had sounded and blinked, his fingers briefly twitching inside his pockets.

“What I’m saying is...” He paused, visibly searching for the words. “A Secret Service agent looks for someone rushing a stage. Someone planting a bomb. Someone with a rifle on a rooftop.” His jaw tightened slightly. “I look for the person who spent six months becoming invisible first.”

For the first time, a faint flicker of discomfort crossed his expression. “They protect against threats they can identify. I specialize in finding the ones they can’t.”

His gaze shifted briefly toward the office door before returning to her.  “The kind of people your father is worried about don’t leave obvious signs. They study routines. Habits. Weaknesses. They learn who talks to whom, which entrances get used, which doors don’t lock properly. By the time a traditional security detail notices them, they’ve already been planning for weeks or months.” A small shrug followed. “That’s the difference. The agents are there to stop an attack. I’m there to recognize one before it starts.”

Ronan paused again briefly before going on. “If it helps, I don’t particularly care who your father is.” His grey greengaze remained steady on her hazel one. “I care whether the threat is real.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite becoming a smile. “And based on the fact that you’re interrogating me instead of hiding under that desk, I’d say you’re trying to figure that out too.”

He hadn't talked so much at once in a long time. It made him slightly uncomfortable, but Ronan fought the urge to shuffle his feet or adjust his hands again.