Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 47

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

ZAIN

Ashley keeps shooting glances my way the entire drive back to the house, but I keep my eyes on the road. I can’t focus on her, driving, and the thoughts spinning in my head right now.

Ramsey is dead.

The man who manipulated Ashley, and made sure I rotted in prison for fourteen years—he's gone. And with him, any chance of getting answers straight from the source.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white.

This changes everything. And nothing .

We're back to square one, chasing ghosts and shadows.

The familiar streets of Whitstone blur past, but I don’t pay them any attention, driving on autopilot. My mind is trapped in a loop, replaying Rook's words over and over.

Ramsey's dead, Zain. Found in his apartment late last night. Initial reports are saying suicide, but my gut says different.

Suicide. The word tastes bitter in my mouth. Did the guilt finally get to him? Or was it something else? Someone else?

When we pull up to the house, I cut the engine but don't move to get out. Ashley shifts in her seat, turning to face me.

"Zain?" Her voice is soft, hesitant. "Are you okay?"

I almost laugh. Am I okay? I haven't been okay in fourteen years.

"I need some time," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.

She nods, and the understanding in her eyes throws me off balance. So much has changed between us in such a short time.

We head inside, and I make a beeline for the stairs.

“Help yourself to food and drink.” I don’t look back, and take the stairs two at a time.

Once the bedroom door shuts behind me, I let out a long, shuddering breath. The silence wraps around me, but it's not comforting. It's oppressive, filled with the weight of unanswered questions and lost opportunities.

I burst into movement, pacing the length of the room. I can’t stop the relentless thoughts filling my head.

Ramsey's dead. The key to unraveling this whole mess is gone. What the hell are we supposed to do now?

My feet carry me back and forth, a familiar pattern.

Seven steps, turn.

Seven steps, turn.

It's the same number of steps I used to take in my cell. And as soon as the thought forms, I’m not in my bedroom anymore.

I'm back in Cedar Pines Maximum Security, the walls closing in around me. The constant noise—shouting, metal doors slamming, the ever-present hum of tension—it all comes rushing back.

"Hey, pretty boy," a gruff voice calls out. "Fresh meat's looking a little lost. I’ll help you. All you’ll need to do in return is open that pretty mouth for me."

I keep my head down, trying to ignore the taunts. I've been here for three days, and already I've learned that engaging only makes things worse.

A hard shove from behind sends me stumbling. I catch myself against the wall, turning to face my attacker. It's one of the older inmates, another lifer like me. Except this one has nothing to lose, while I’m still hoping someone will come and tell me everything was a mistake and I can go home.

"I'm talking to you, murderer," he snarls, getting in my face.

I try to back away, but I'm surrounded. Three more guys, all bigger than me, all with that same predatory look in their eyes.

The first punch catches me off guard. Pain explodes across my jaw. I try to defend myself, but I'm outnumbered, and I’ve never had to defend myself like this before. Fists rain down on me from all sides. I curl into a ball, trying to protect my head.

Guards are shouting, running toward us. But it's too late. The damage is done.

I spend the next week in the infirmary, my body a canvas of bruises and cuts. When I'm released, I’m sent straight to solitary.

"For your own protection," they tell me.

The silence of solitary is deafening after the constant noise of gen pop. I should be grateful for the safety, but instead, I feel like I'm losing my mind, so I start talking to myself, just to hear a human voice.

"When I get out of here, I'm going to find her. I'm going to make her pay for what she did to me."

The words echo off the concrete walls, coming back to me distorted and strange. But I cling to them. They're all I have. The promise of revenge, of justice—it's the only thing keeping me sane.

The memory fades, and I’m back in the middle of the bedroom, bent over, my hands on my knees, breathing hard.

That was my first month in prison. That was how I learned that to survive, I had to become someone else. Someone harder, colder. Someone who could weather years of hell and come out the other side.

But now? Now I'm free. And I have no fucking idea how to live in this world anymore.

Hours pass, and darkness falls outside my window. I barely move from my position in the center of the room, lost in my thoughts, trapped in an endless loop of what-ifs and maybes. And it’s only when a soft knock on the door breaks through my haze that I realize the sun has set.

"Zain?" Ashley's voice filters through. "Are you hungry? I made something to eat."

I don't answer. I can't . Not right now. I’m still semi-trapped in the memories of prison, in the thoughts of what I did, how I survived, and what I need to do next.

Her sigh reaches me through the door, then her footsteps retreat down the hall, leaving me alone in a room that feels too open, too exposed.

Why did I come back to this house? I should have found somewhere else to stay. I need smaller spaces, controlled environments.

Before I know it, I'm in the adjoining bathroom, setting up a makeshift bed in the tub.

It's ridiculous, I fucking know that. But the enclosed space, the hard surfaces—it's familiar. It's what I know. What I lived with for fourteen years.

I settle into the tub, a pillow behind my back, a blanket over my legs. The bathroom light flickers, casting shadows on the tiled walls. It's not comfortable, but it's not supposed to be.

Comfort is a luxury I’m no longer used to. One I'm not sure I deserve.

Lying in this bathtub, I go over what we’ve learned today. The buried reports. Holson’s concerns. The worry in Ashley’s eyes when I came out of the bathroom.

I'm free, but I don't know how to be free.

I'm innocent, but I feel guilty.

I wanted revenge, but now I just want fucking peace.

It doesn't fit. None of this fucking fits into the man I’m supposed to be.

My eyes drift closed, and that’s when I hear it—the soft click of the bathroom door opening. I tense, ready to snap at whoever's intruding, but the words die in my throat when I see her.

Ashley stands in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the bedroom light behind her. Her eyes widen as she takes in the scene—me, stretched out in the bathtub like some fucking idiot.

"Zain," she whispers, and there's something in her voice I can't quite place. Concern? Pity? Confusion? "What are you doing?"