The Irish pirate hadn’t been there long. Just long enough to get a bourbon on the rocks, make a round about the place, and find a spot at a table. He’s in a decent mood and feeling rather fancy. It’s been too long since the last time he’s broken out his best attire, and well, the mask is just an added attribute even though he’d prefer to go without it. Still, he gets it’s all apart of the fun and he’s willing to play along.
The bond he shares with the one he turned gives him the strong intuition that she’s there. His eyes instantly go in the direction of where she is, but all he does in reaction is take a drink from glass. He hasn’t spoken to Ophelia since that night outside of Purgatory, and apparently they’re both still mutually uptight as he hasn’t caught sight or sound of her anymore than she has of him. Before he can even begin to debate with himself on whether he’ll go over and talk to her or not though, someone else has beat him to it. At first, he doesn’t pay much attention to who it is. Whatever. She’s having a drink with them. But as he takes another drink, his eyes drift back over to them and on the one she’s talking to and certainly all smiles about... And Ronan isn’t whatsoever.
He knows exactly who that damn mongrel is, even with the mask... and she’s right there with him. Entirely too close to him. Jaw muscles tighten as he watches them, watches the way she is with the dog who damn near killed him. He knows that look in her eyes. It’s the same way she used to look at him, more so before she knew what he was, before he killed her family. Oh it hits him right to his core, that this is the one she stood up to him over. He stands from his seat, about to stroll over to put an end to it, but whatever she tells the wolf.... It leads to them kissing and it’s not just any kiss. It’s a deep kiss, full of feelings and affection, and it has Ronan frozen in his spot.
Oh he’s mad. Angry. Livid. Of all people... Of all dogs... He wants to rage, to storm up and rip them from each other, to drag her out of there, even if it’s by her perfectly done hair. Only one thing, or rather, one person keeps him from doing so, and that’s his own Sire. Margaret. He doesn’t doubt she would kill him herself if he made a scene. So manages to keep a hold on himself, and as he makes himself tear his burning blue eyes away from them, he realizes there’s a lot more than just anger and hatred running through his undead veins; He’s more hurt than he ever believed he could be.
One more glance and he turns away, needing to put more distance before his impulses outweigh his control.
