Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 56

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

ASHLEY

Time seems to stop, freezing me in place while fear claws up my throat. I barely have time to take in the chaos around me—the broken shards of a chair scattered across the floor, the heavy thud of Zain's body as he hit the tiles, the masked attacker straightening and coming toward me.

And then, a new figure steps into the kitchen. A man in an immaculate dark suit. His expression is as cold as the gun he’s holding. For a split second, I think he’s going to shoot me—and my heart lurches into my throat—but his weapon swings toward the man.

“Step away from her.” His voice is soft, almost gentle, but there’s something so cold, so lethal in his tone that it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The man hesitates, his eyes narrowing behind the mask. The newcomer’s gaze hardens, and he steps closer, his gun never wavering.

“Take off the mask.” His voice is like steel.

The man doesn’t move, a defiant silence stretching between them.

“I won’t ask again.” His finger tightens on the trigger. “Take. It. Off.”

Still, the masked man doesn’t comply, his gaze locked on the other man. The air in the room seems to grow colder, the tension thick enough to choke on. I want to move, but I’m terrified to draw any attention to myself.

The suited man tilts his head slightly, his expression almost bored. “You think I’m bluffing?”

Another man appears in the doorway, identical suit, identical cold expression. He positions himself near the back door, cutting off any escape route. “If you want to keep breathing, I suggest you do as he says.”

With a sigh, the masked man lifts his hands, slowly reaching for the edge of the mask. He pulls it off, revealing features twisted with anger, a scar running across his cheek.

The second the mask comes off, something shifts in the room. The man in front of me smirks, his lips curling slightly as his gaze meets the suited man's eyes.

"Rook," he says, his voice dripping with derision.

This is Rook? The man Zain has been talking to?

The second suited man looks between Rook and the now unmasked man. "You know this guy?"

"Yeah. Marcus Barlowe. We've crossed paths before."

The intruder smirks. "Always the charmer, Rook. And this must be your brother, Bishop. Didn't expect to see you playing hero. That’s new for you."

When he lifts his left hand to wipe at the blood trickling from his nose, I see it—a burn mark across his knuckles. A jagged line, red and puckered.

“ You !” I blurt before I can stop myself.

All eyes swing to me.

“You know him?” Rook asks.

I shake my head. “N-no, but I think he spoke to Zain’s mom just after the murders.”

“Ahhhh, now it makes sense.” Rook says, his voice amused. “You’re the hired help.”

Barlowe doesn’t reply.

Rook steps closer, his shoes making no sound against the kitchen tiles. “How did it play out, Marcus? First you were hired to kill Jason and Louisa,” he says. “Then you had to make sure the investigation went the right way. Now, since Zain is free and the case reopened, you had to cover your employer’s tracks by killing Ramsey. Wonder what your employer will say about you getting caught.”

A hint of a smirk tugs at the other man’s lips, though his eyes remain cold. “You think catching me changes anything?” His voice is flat, emotionless. “You think this really ends with me? You know how it works, Rook. Take me out, and my employer will just hire someone new.”

“Not in this instance.” Rook’s gun doesn’t waver. “You’re going to tell us who you work for.”

A cold smile spreads across Barlowe’s face, and it twists my stomach into knots. “We both know that’s not going to happen.”

“We’ll see. Everyone talks eventually.” He looks at the man still standing by the door. “Secure him.”

The other man, Bishop , reaches into his pocket, pulling out two sets of handcuffs—like he’d anticipated this. But the moment he steps closer, Barlowe lashes out, swinging his arm in an attempt to knock Bishop back. I flinch at the sudden movement, and stumble backward, barely keeping my balance.

Barlowe shoves Bishop hard, sending him staggering into the counter. He spins, his eyes wild, and tries to make a grab for me, his hand shooting out toward my arm.

“Enough!” Rook’s voice rings out, cold and commanding, as he steps forward, pressing the barrel of his gun into Barlowe’s temple. “You want to test me? Do it again, and see what happens.”

Barlowe freezes, his breathing harsh, his gaze flicking from Rook to Bishop. For a tense moment, no one moves. Then Bishop straightens, casually fixes the cuffs on his sleeves, and moves in again, this time with more force.

He grabs Barlowe’s arm, twisting it behind his back with a brutal efficiency that makes the other man grunt in pain.

“Stop fighting, or I will end this here,” Rook warns, his voice deadly calm, his gun still pressed to his head. “You know my reputation. You know I’m not bluffing.”

He struggles for a second longer, then relents, his body going still as Bishop forces the first cuff around his wrist. Once the other cuff is secured, Bishop shoves him down into the nearest chair. The loose cuffs are then attached to the arms of the chair.

“You really think this is going to work?” Barlowe asks, his voice dripping with disdain. He glances up, his eyes meeting mine for a brief, chilling moment. “You’re all wasting your time.”

“Shut up,” Rook snaps, his gun still aimed at Barlowe’s head. He turns his attention to me, his voice softening just a fraction. “You need to help Zain, Ashley.”

“He needs a doctor.” My voice shakes. “He’s going to die if we don’t do something.”

“There’s no time to get him to a hospital,” Bishop says, his voice calm but firm. “We’ll talk you through it. You can do it.”

I nod, not really believing him, but I try to push the fear aside and focus.

Bishop moves to stand in front of me, and the steadiness in his gaze calms me a little. “We need to stop the bleeding first. Do you have a first-aid kit?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

“Check under the sink.”

I crouch and open the cabinet door. There’s a small first aid kit inside. Bishop gives an approving nod.

“Good girl. Open it up. We need gauze and something to clean the wounds.”

I fumble with the kit, my hands trembling as I pull out the supplies. Bishop directs me, his voice steady and reassuring. “Press the gauze against the wound. Put as much pressure as you can.”

Kneeling beside Zain, I try to ignore the blood pooling on the floor, and do as Bishop says. I press my hands down on Zain’s wound, the blood soaking through the gauze almost immediately. My breath hitches as I feel the warmth of it.

“That’s it,” Bishop says. “Now keep the pressure steady. We need to clean around the wound to prevent infection. You’re doing fine.”

Barlowe laughs. “You’re wasting your time. He’ll be dead soon.”

Rook’s patience snaps. He steps forward, and the impact as the butt of his gun meets the other man's face is loud, the crack of bone echoing through the kitchen. The man’s head snaps to the side, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, but the smirk doesn’t leave his face.

“Talk,” Rook orders, his voice a dangerous growl.

Barlowe spits blood onto the floor, his eyes glinting with defiance. “Go to hell.”

Bishop ignores the exchange, his focus on me and Zain. “Focus, Ashley. You need to wrap the bandage tightly around his chest.”

Tears blur my vision as I work, and I wrap the bandage as tightly as I can around Zain’s torso. He groans, his eyes fluttering for a moment, then falling closed again.

“Zain.” My voice cracks. “Stay with me. Please, stay with me.”

Barlowe laughs again, the sound grating and hollow. “He’s already dead.”

Bishop touches my cheek. “Don’t look at him. Keep your eyes right here. Finish the job.”

I finish wrapping the bandage, my hands trembling, my heart pounding. The world feels like it’s closing in around me, the walls pressing in, the air too thick to breathe.

“That’s it. Good girl. Now you just need to keep him stable until we can get him out of here,” Bishop says, his voice steady. “You did good. Stay with him. Talk to him. Keep him conscious.”

“I’ll try.” My hands are still pressed against Zain’s wound, my eyes locked on his face. His breathing is shallow, his skin pale, but his chest rises and falls as he breathes.

He’s alive. He’s still here.

“Stay with me,” I whisper again. “Please, just stay with me.”