Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 52

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

ASHLEY

I wake to sunlight filtering through the curtains and the weight of an arm draped over my waist. For a moment, I'm frozen, memories of last night rushing back in vivid detail. Zain's hands on my skin, his mouth hot against mine. The way he looked at me, like he was seeing me for the first time. The way I clung to him, afraid he'd disappear if I let go.

I turn my head slowly. He admitted that he doesn’t sleep much, and I don’t want to be the one to disturb him now. His face is turned toward me, relaxed in a way I've never seen before. It’s jarring to see him like this. Gone are the hard lines of anger and bitterness, replaced by a vulnerability that makes my heart clench.

My eyes trail down his body, taking in the muscular planes of his chest, the defined abs, pausing at his exposed hip where the sheet has slipped down. That's when I see them—two scars, stark against his skin. One is a thin, precise line about three inches long. The other is jagged, angry-looking even after what must be years.

Did he get these in prison? Because of me?

Guilt slams into me with the force of a freight train.

Fourteen years.

I stole fourteen years of his life.

How many more scars does he carry that I can’t see? How deep do the wounds I inflicted really go?

Without thinking, I reach out, my fingers hovering just above the marks.

How can he even stand to be in the same room as me, let alone in my bed? How can we ever move past what I did to him?

"See something interesting?"

Zain's voice, rough with sleep, startles me. I snatch my hand back, heat flooding my cheeks as I meet his eyes. They're dark, unreadable. For a moment, I see a flash of the old Zain—hard, angry, wounded. But then it's gone, replaced by something I can't quite decipher.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, though whether I'm apologizing for staring or for everything else, I'm not sure. The words feel inadequate, a paltry offering in the face of the damage I've caused. “I didn’t mean to?—”

Zain follows my gaze to his hip. “Didn’t mean to what? Stare?”

I swallow, unsure how to navigate this moment.

"It's fine," he says after a charged silence, his voice carefully neutral. He sits up, the sheet pooling around his waist.

The air between us is thick with tension, and I’m not sure how to navigate this new terrain. Last night changed things for me, but I don't know how he feels about it, and I'm terrified to ask. Terrified that if I mention it, everything will shatter and we’ll go back to how things were. But I also can’t ignore it.

I take a deep breath, and force myself to speak. "Zain, about last night ..."

"Don't.”

"Do you regret it?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

Zain's eyes snap to mine. There’s a long silence, where my heart stops beating, and I get ready to crawl under the nearest rock and die.

"No," he says finally.

I don’t know what to say to that, and Zain makes it easy to stay quiet by standing and searching for his clothes. He doesn’t look at me, and I can't shake the feeling that he's running away. From me, from this conversation, from the shift in our dynamic.

He pulls on his pants, every movement measured and controlled, but his shoulders are stiff … like he’s bracing himself. He scoops up his shirt and turns his back to me. I take the opportunity to study him, my eyes tracing the lines of his body, the intricate tattoo that covers his back.

When he’s finished dressing, he turns back to me. His eyes meet mine, and something flares in their depths before it’s gone, replaced by that careful blankness I know so well.

"Where are you going?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.

"To make coffee. Take your time getting dressed.”

"Right."

He pauses at the door, and looks back at me. For half a second, I think he might say something else. But then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that feels oddly final.

I'm left alone, the ghost of his touch still on my skin, the image of those scars burned into my mind.

How can we move forward from here? How can I make amends for the pain I've caused?

Dragging myself out of bed, I wince at the soreness in my body. Evidence of last night's activities, of the desperation and need that drove us together. I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I pass, and I barely recognize the woman staring back at me.

My hair is a tangled mess, and there's a bruise forming on my collarbone where he bit me.

I step into the shower, letting the hot water wash over me, and my thoughts go to those scars. To the stories they might tell of Zain's time in prison. Stories I'm not sure I have the right to ask about, but that I desperately want to know.

Questions mix with memories of last night. The way he looked at me, the gentleness in his touch, at odds with the anger I’ve borne witness to. The moment when everything shifted, and it wasn't about revenge or guilt anymore, but about connection. About two broken people finding solace in each other, if only for a night.

I try to sort through my jumbled thoughts while I wash.

If there’s one thing that last night has made clear to me— it’s that I can't keep drowning in guilt. It's not helping anyone, least of all Zain.

By the time I step out of the shower, and wrap a towel around myself, I can smell the coffee from downstairs. I dress, my mind circling back to those scars on Zain's hip. Two stark reminders of the things he’s lived through because of me.

I can't change the past, can't undo the damage I've done. But I can fight for the truth. I can work to set things right.

Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders. Whatever happens next, whatever sleeping with him last night has caused, I’m going to face it head-on.

As I reach for the doorknob, I give myself one last look in the mirror. The woman looking back at me is determined, ready to face whatever comes next. The fear and uncertainty are still there, simmering beneath the surface, but I’m not going to let them control me.

It's time to go and face Zain, and with that thought firmly in mind, I open the door and go downstairs, prepared to face whatever the day brings. The smell of coffee grows stronger as I descend, and I can hear Zain moving around in the kitchen.

My heart rate increases as I approach the kitchen, remembering the way he fled from our conversation earlier.

Will he shut me out again? Will I let him?

There’s only one way to find out.