Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 48

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

ASHLEY

After Zain disappears upstairs, I wander around the house, in and out of rooms. Listening to Holson today has put my nerves on edge.

A witness saw Louisa arguing with someone outside the house the day before the murders.

Who was she arguing with? And why did Ramsey bury that information?

I end up in the kitchen, methodically going through cabinets and the refrigerator. My hands move on autopilot, finding things I can put together for a meal. It's a poor distraction from the thoughts swirling in my mind, but it's something.

When I’m done, I go upstairs. The room at the end of the hallway has light spilling from beneath it. I assume that’s the one Zain is in, so I tap on the door, and ask if he wants to come out for dinner.

Silence is my only answer, so I go to my room, change into a pair of pajamas, then go back downstairs and eat alone, still thinking about everything we learned today.

Ramsey is dead. Possibly murdered. The implications send a chill down my spine. Someone out there is desperate to keep the truth buried.

My mind flashes back to the day when I was attacked, in this very house, and my eyes jerk up to the back door.

The masked figure, the glint of the knife.

Was that Ramsey? Or the person he was protecting? Are they still out there, watching us even now?

I stand up and walk across to the door so I can peer out of the window, searching the darkness for any sign of movement. Every shadow seems to hide a threat. My skin crawls with the sensation of being watched.

Stop it. I’m just being paranoid.

But am I? Someone killed Ramsey. What if they decide we're next?

I check the door. It’s locked. I can’t set the house alarm, but I can make sure all the other doors are locked. Once I’m certain no one can walk in, I go into the living room, and turn on the television. I channel hop looking for something to watch, to distract me, but nothing holds my attention. Hours crawl by. I couldn’t tell you what was playing out on the screen, because my thoughts keep going to Zain.

What is he doing? Why hasn’t he come out of his room? Is he okay?

As night deepens, the house creaks and settles around me, each sound making me jump. I’m tired, I should go to bed. I’m sure that’s what Zain has done. But the thought of being alone in my room, facing the nightmares I know are waiting, makes my stomach churn.

Would Zain stay with me again?

No, don’t be ridiculous.

I pace the living room, debating with myself.

Should I go up there? Ask him to stay with me?

It’s a stupid idea, especially given our complicated history. But the alternative—lying alone in the dark, jumping at every sound—seems unbearable.

He'll probably say no. Last night was a one-off.

Then I remember the look in his eyes when we first got back to the house.

I take a step toward the stairs, then stop.

What if I'm reading this all wrong? What if he laughs at me, or worse, reverts to how he was treating me at the start of the week?

I turn away, determined to tough it out on my own. But when I reach for the light switch, a particularly loud creak sounds from upstairs. I freeze, heart pounding.

This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman. I shouldn't need someone to hold my hand through the night.

But the truth is, I do need someone. And maybe … just maybe … Zain might, too.

Before I can talk myself out of it again, I'm climbing the stairs. I think about turning back with every step I take … but I don't.

When I finally reach his door, my heart is racing.

You can do this. The worst he can do is say no.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself, and knock softly. "Zain?"

Silence.

I wait, counting my heartbeats.

One ...

Two ...

Three ...

Still nothing.

I should leave, go back to my bedroom … so why am I turning the handle? The bedroom beyond is empty, which throws me for a second, but then my eyes lock on the light spilling from beneath the bathroom door. I walk over to it, every nerve on edge.

"Zain?"

When there's no response, I push the door open, holding my breath.

The sight that greets me stops me in my tracks.

Zain is stretched out in the bathtub, fully clothed, a blanket tangled around his legs. It's such a strange scene that for a moment, I think I must be dreaming. But then the memory of him in a similar position at his parents' house fills my mind, and my heart clenches.

His eyes, when they meet mine, are wild, unfocused. For a moment, I see the caged animal he must have been in prison, dangerous and unpredictable.

"What are you doing here?" His voice is a low growl that sends a shiver of alarm down my spine.

I swallow hard, second guessing my decision to walk in, but the thought of going back to my room alone, of facing the darkness and my fears, stops me from turning and fleeing.

"I ... I can't be alone tonight." I hate how vulnerable I sound. "I can’t stop thinking about the things we found out today. I know I’m going to dream."

His eyes narrow, searching my face. The silence stretches between us, and then he moves, stepping out of the tub with a grace that belies his size.

"Ashley ..." he starts, his voice rough.

"Please, Zain." I don’t want to hear his rejection. "I'm not asking for anything. I just ... I don't want to be alone."

He stares at me for a long moment, and I can almost see the internal struggle playing out behind his eyes. Without a word, he walks past me, out of the bathroom. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he's leaving me there. But then I hear his footsteps pause in the hallway.

"Are you coming?" he calls back, his voice carefully neutral.

Relief floods through me, and I follow him to my room. When we reach the bed, I stand there. I don’t know what to do, what to say.

Maybe I should tell him it doesn’t matter, and just not sleep tonight.

Zain solves my dilemma by lying down on top of the covers.

I climb onto the bed, and draw the sheets up over my legs, and we lie there in the dark, not touching, barely breathing. I’m hyper-aware of Zain's presence beside me.

I want to speak, to say something, anything to break this unbearable tension. But what can I possibly say to the man whose life I destroyed? To the man who, just days ago, I feared more than anything?

Minutes tick by, feeling like hours. Every creak of the house, every rustle of the sheets sounds impossibly loud, and I find myself straining to hear any noise from outside, any sign that we might not be as alone as we think.

"Zain?" I whisper finally, unable to bear the silence any longer.

"Hmm?" His response is noncommittal, guarded.

I take a deep breath, lick my lips and gather my courage. "Can I ask you something?"

There's a long pause before he answers. "Depends."

I turn on my side to face him. I can barely make out his profile in the darkness. "What ... What was it really like? In prison, I mean."

The question hangs in the air between us.

I’ve gone too far. I’ve crossed a line. I shouldn’t have asked.

But then Zain lets out a long, slow breath.

"It was hell." His voice is low and rough. "Every day was a fight to survive, to keep some part of myself intact." He falls silent.

I hold my breath, afraid that if I move or speak, he'll stop. But after a moment, he continues.

"The noise never stops. Even at night, there's always something. Someone crying, or fighting, or just ... existing. And the smell ..." He breaks off, and the mattress bounces as he moves. I think he might be shaking his head. "You never get used to it. The stink of too many bodies crammed into too small a space."

His words paint a vivid picture, one that makes my stomach churn with guilt.

"How did you cope?" I ask softly.

He lets out a bitter laugh. "I didn't, not really. I got angry. So fucking angry. It was the only thing that kept me going some days. The thought that one day I'd get out and make you pay."

The words twist like a knife. I force myself to stay still, to keep listening.

"But the worst part," he continues, his voice dropping to barely more than a whisper, "was the loneliness. Even surrounded by people, you're completely alone. No one to trust, no one to turn to. Just you and your thoughts, day after day, year after year."

Tears prick at my eyes, and I reach out and take his hand. He stiffens for a moment, then relaxes, his fingers curling around mine.

"I'm so sorry, Zain," The words are woefully inadequate for the pain I've caused him.

He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is thick.

"I don't know how to live in this world, Ashley. Everything feels too big, too open. Too ... free."