Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 55

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

ZAIN

My mom's revelation about the man with the burned hand should be the only thing on my mind right now. Yet I can't focus on that, because Ashley is sitting across the room, and every time she moves, the memory of how her skin felt under my hands last night fills my head.

I try to ignore the relief that courses through me when Mom finally stands and announces she’s leaving. She pauses on the walk to the door, and her soft warning to Ashley about being careful catches my attention. There’s something in her tone—concern, maybe even a hint of acceptance. It’s more than I expected, given everything that happened. For fourteen years she’s blamed Ashley as much as I have for destroying my life. Now she’s warning her to be careful. Warning us both.

The shift in her attitude should make me happy, but instead it just adds to the confusion of my own feelings about Ashley. Everything I thought I knew, everything I planned. It’s all unraveled. The revenge that drove me for so long discarded, not completely willingly, because of the woman seated on the couch.

After Mom leaves, I text Rook, letting him know about the new information. It’s automatic, mechanical. A task to keep my hands busy while my mind circles back to Ashley. To the way she looked this morning, all sleep-rumpled and soft. To how badly I wanted to stay in that bed with her.

To how right it felt waking up beside her.

And it scares the shit out of me.

That was why I left her alone, why I told her I didn’t want to talk about what happened. I need to sort it out in my head, before I can even consider talking to her about it.

Rook replies with an affirmative, saying he’ll forward the information to Knight, and I look up from my cell to tell Ashley. She’s still sitting on the couch, and the expression on her face sends a rush of … something … through me. Her expression seems sad, her eyes unfocused as she stares straight ahead of herself. And I can’t stop myself from speaking.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

She blinks, and refocuses on me. "Yeah." A slight smile tilts her lips up. It looks forced. “I’m going to make a drink. Do you want one?”

I follow her to the kitchen, and prop one shoulder against the wall, watching her as she moves around my kitchen. The domesticity of the scene hits me. She knows where everything is, making drinks like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I haven’t spent years hating her. Like I didn’t force her to marry me out of revenge.

It should bother me. It should remind me of all the reasons I brought her here in the first place, of the three-step plan I made when I got out of prison.

Instead, I find myself fascinated by the curve of her neck as she reaches for mugs; the way her shirt rides up slightly when she stretches; the easy grace of her movements.

The way she fits into spaces I thought I’d sealed away forever.

Focus. We have work to do. A killer to catch.

But when she turns, holding out a mug of coffee to me, something inside unlocks. The control I’ve been clinging to all morning crumbles. The walls I’ve built to keep her out crack and fall away.

I take the mug she’s offering me, and place it on the table.

“Put your drink down.”

She complies, slowly, a slightly confused look in her eyes, and I’m on her the second she lets it go. My mouth claims hers with a fierceness that borders on desperation. Her lips are soft, yielding. My hands slide up her back, and I pull her closer.

She tastes like tea and hope … and the sound she makes, that small, needy little gasp, drives me over the edge.

My fingers tangle in her hair, and I tug her head back slightly, and take a step forward, backing her against the counter. Her body presses into mine, and her hands fist the front of my shirt. My blood roars in my ears. I want her, all of her, and there’s no space left for hesitation or doubt.

There’s only this. Only us .

She kisses me back, arms sliding up my chest to wind around my neck. Heat burns between us, a fire that consumes everything in its path, leaving nothing but need and desire. My hand drops, finding the hem of her shirt, and I slide my fingers beneath it, and up until I can palm her breast. My thumb sweeps over her nipple, and my mouth leaves hers to press biting kisses along her jaw and down her throat.

A floorboard creaks behind me.

Years of survival instinct screams danger before my conscious mind catches up. I’m already moving, spinning, one hand reaching back to keep Ashley behind me, when a dark figure lunges from the doorway, and fire burns across my side.

The bastard has a knife. I recognize how it feels. It’s not the first time I’ve been stabbed.

He twists the blade, tearing through muscle. Pain explodes across my ribs, but adrenaline dulls it to background noise, and I ignore it and focus on the figure in front of me.

Stiffening my hand, I drive it forward, catching him in the throat, but the impact isn’t as hard as I’d like and he just stumbles backward. I follow through with a punch that should have knocked him out cold. But he rolls with it, moving with a fighter's grace. His counter-strike catches me in the kidney. Then the knife comes at me again, a silver arc aimed at my throat.

I barely get my arm up in time. The blade slices deep into my forearm. Blood sprays across the counter. Ashley screams.

The intruder moves like a fucking ninja, every movement calculated and precise. His mask reveals nothing but cold, dark eyes. We slam into the refrigerator, rattling dishes in the cabinets. His knee drives up into my groin. Pain rockets through my body, doubling me over.

The knife comes down again. This time I manage to catch his wrist and stop its descent into my head, but he's stronger than I expected, and the blade inches closer to my face. The wound on my arm is making my grip weaker.

I'm losing the fight and we both know it.

I slam my forehead into his nose. Something cracks. He grunts—the first sound he's made—but doesn't let up. The knife keeps coming. Each second brings it closer to my throat.

Behind him, Ashley swings something. Just before it hits, he moves, and the pan catches him across the shoulder instead of his head. It still makes him stagger, though, and I use the distraction to drive my knee up into his solar plexus.

The knife clatters to the floor.

Thank fucking god.

But that victory is short-lived. His fist connects with my temple like a sledgehammer, and before I can recover from that, he grabs my head and slams it into the counter.

Once.

Twice.

I fight to stay upright, but my head is spinning. I can’t focus through the pain, and my legs give out. I hit the floor hard, blood dripping into my eyes.

I try to stand.

Will myself to get back to my feet.

Pain stings my palms and knees as they press down on broken glass, and my body won't respond to my brain’s commands.

Everything spins and tilts.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my arm, and my vision steadies a little just in time to see him advancing on Ashley. She backs away, but there's nowhere to go. He has her trapped between him and the counter. The look in her eyes when they meet mine—the pure fucking terror—will haunt me forever if I survive this.

"No—" Blood fills my mouth, choking off the word. I try to push up, but my arms collapse under me.

Get up. Fight. Protect her.

But my body won’t move, won’t follow my instructions.

He reaches for her with one gloved hand, while my vision tunnels, darkness creeping in at the edges. I make one last desperate attempt to stand. Pain detonates in my skull, white-hot and final.

Ashley screams my name, and then just before I pass out, a voice—soft, commanding, and cold—speaks.

"Don't move."