Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ZAIN

After showing Ashley to her room, I go back downstairs and into the kitchen. I’m more than aware that if she could have found a way to do what we need to do without setting eyes on me again, she would have. In reality, there probably was a way. She could have stayed with her mom, and arranged to see someone to tap into her blocked memories. She doesn’t really need me there. She just needs to share the information she discovers, but I don’t dwell too long on why I insisted we needed to be together for it all.

Opening the refrigerator, I take out a bottle of water, and twist off the cap, but I don’t drink it. Instead, I set the bottle onto the counter, and look around the dark kitchen. The glass in the back door has been replaced with one that’s stronger, more reinforced. I should make sure it’s still locked, though. I don’t want anyone trying to get in.

Checking the lock on the back door triggers something inside me, and I spend the next hour making rounds like I’m back in prison, patrolling a space that’s mine but doesn’t feel like it. I keep an ear on the house as I walk around, listening to the way the floorboards creak, the subtle shifts in the walls. Learning and memorizing the noises it makes. It’s instinct, a survival mechanism from prison. Listen, learn, and understand the different noises. That way you’re always prepared.

Every corner of the place feels too open, too exposed. I’m used to tighter spaces, a controlled environment. Here, everything feels like it’s waiting to unravel.

How will I ever feel free when I’m more comfortable in a ten by eight cell?

Another hour crawls by. There’s a clock ticking somewhere, and my pacing takes me into the living room on my hunt for it. It’s on the wall, above the fireplace.

I sit on the edge of the couch, tension thrumming through me. I can’t relax, can’t switch off. There’s an itch at the back of my mind. Something isn’t sitting right.

I shift on the seat, muscles tensing for no reason, instincts flaring like a match being struck.

And then it happens …

A scream, sharp, piercing, and filled with raw terror, cuts through the house.

The sound hits me, bringing every nerve to life inside me. I’m on my feet before I even register moving. I take the stairs two at a time, my body reacting faster than my mind. I reach her door in seconds, and shove it open without knocking.

She’s sitting up in bed, her chest heaving like she’s gasping for air. Her eyes, wide and wild, are unfocused. Sweat beads her forehead, hair sticking to her cheeks and throat.

I stop just inside the doorway, eyes darting around, looking for the source of her terror. The room is empty.

“Ashley?” I pitch my voice low.

She doesn’t respond, but the fear on her face is raw, and her eyes dart back and forth as though she’s watching something playing out in front of her.

I take a step forward, slow and deliberate, and stop by the side of the bed. Her breathing is too fast, shallow. It’s clear to me now that she’s dreaming. Having a nightmare. I know what it’s like to wake up with terror still gripping you, of being unable to shake it off.

When she reaches out to snap on the light, I speak.

“Bad dream?”

Her breath catches, body going stiff as she registers my presence. For a second, there’s confusion and panic on her face.

Is she trying to figure out if I’m real, or part of whatever hell she’s just been dragged through?

She doesn’t answer, her gaze flicking from me to the door, and then back again. She frowns, licks her lips, then focuses on me.

Her breathing slows a little, her fingers loosen their grip on the sheets.

When she finally speaks, her voice is raw, sharp. “Why are you here?”

Her eyes are on me, and there’s a brief flicker of … something … beneath the fear. Something that looks a lot like relief. She’s still too shaken to hide how rattled she is. Still too on edge to cover up the vulnerability.

“I heard you scream.” I keep my voice soft. “I came to check you were okay.”

She doesn’t react at first. Just stares at me like she’s trying to figure out what to do with the information. Her breaths are shallow, her hand trembling as she lifts it to push her hair away from her face.

“I’m fine.” The tremor in her voice says otherwise.

I don’t push. I don’t argue. I’ve been here. Trying to pull myself out of a nightmare. Trying to convince my mind I’m not where it thought I was. Unfortunately, in my case, waking up in prison was no better than the nightmares. At least she’s waking up in a house, and not wherever she was in the dream.

I stay where I am, watching her, waiting for the nightmare to release its grip on her. And for the first time since I forced myself into her life, I wonder how fragile she really is. How much of the defiance and anger she’s shown me is just a mask to hide the scared woman behind it.

The silence between us feels heavy. But I don’t break it. One wrong word, one wrong move, and she’ll retreat, shut down, so I stay quiet and let her come back to herself at her own pace.

When her breathing steadies, she draws her knees up, and loops her arms around them. Her head turns, eyes seeking out mine, her gaze sharp, like she’s waiting for me to say something, do something. But I don’t. I just stand there, while the tension hums between us like a live wire until it reaches unbearable levels. Without a word, I turn and head for the door. Before I reach it, her voice breaks the silence.

“Wait.” Her voice is tight, controlled.

I stop, my hand resting on the doorknob but I don’t turn around.

“What?”

She doesn’t answer straight away. She shifts on the bed, sheets rustling.

“Don’t … I don’t want to be alone.” Her voice is small, but the vulnerability in it hits me like a punch to the stomach.

I turn slowly. The raw fear etched onto her face is mixed with something else, something more fragile. She looks away, lashes dropping to hide her eyes, hiding how much her dream shook her.

For a moment, I just stand there, watching her. Seeing her like this—vulnerable, afraid—something shifts inside me. I take a step deeper into the room, then another, until I’m standing by the bed again. Her eyes lift to meet mine, full of questions, full of uncertainty.

“How can you stand it?” she whispers.

“Stand what?”

“Living with what you saw. How do you sleep without seeing it over and over?”

I can’t hold in a flinch. I know what she’s talking about, and I wasn’t ready for that question, I wasn't expecting her to ask.

“How can you stand it?” she repeats.

I don’t know how to answer her. I can’t answer her. So I opt for something simple. A non-answer.

“I don’t sleep much.”