Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 58

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

ASHLEY

I know the conversation going on behind me is important. But I can't focus on what they're saying, can't process anything beyond the blood on my hands.

Zain's blood, warm and sticky, clinging to my skin. The metallic smell of it fills my nose, making my stomach roll. His breathing is growing more labored by each passing second, and I’m terrified that he’s going to breathe out and then never breathe in again.

"We need to move him," Rook’s voice cuts through my growing panic. "We need to get him somewhere more comfortable."

Bishop crouches beside me, his hand gentle on my shoulder. "The bleeding has slowed enough for us to risk it. You did a great job. Can you show us to a bedroom?"

I nod, unable to form words around the terror closing my throat, and stand up while they lift Zain. They’re careful, but he still groans, the sound piercing straight through my heart. His face is gray, dark bruises already forming where his head hit the counter. Blood matts his hair, stains his shirt, and leaves a trail of droplets across the floor as they carry him.

"When we get upstairs, I want you to stay with him," Rook orders. "Don't leave his side. There’s something we need to handle, and the best thing for you is to stay out of the way."

My legs are wobbling as I follow them up to my room, and I’m surprised they don’t collapse beneath me. But I make it to the room, and hover to one side while they lay him on the bed. My hands are shaking as I reach out, and touch his neck. I need to keep contact, feel the proof that he's still breathing, still fighting. The sheets beneath him are already turning red where they lay him down, and I have to swallow back bile.

Bishop checks his pulse, his expression neutral. "Keep him warm. Talk to him. We'll be right back. Find some towels. Keep pressure on that stab wound."

I dash into the bathroom and grab towels, then sink onto the bed beside Zain. Once I have the towels in place, and one hand pressed against them, I take his hand in mine. His skin is cold and clammy, but his fingers twitch slightly against mine. Hope flares briefly at that tiny movement.

Just days ago, I would have given anything to be far away from him. Now, I can't bear the thought of losing him.

"I'm here." I stretch out beside him. "I'm not going anywhere. You hear me? You're not allowed to leave me. Not now. Not like this."

A gunshot rings out through the silence downstairs.

I jerk violently, a scream tearing from my throat before I can stop it. The sound echoes off the walls, followed by another shot that makes my whole body shake. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts.

Zain stirs at my cry, his head turning slightly toward my voice. A small groan escapes his lips, his face contorting in pain, and I curl over him protectively, pressing my forehead gently to his.

"It's okay," I whisper, though I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince. "We're okay. Just stay with me. Please stay with me."

Every muscle in my body screams at me to run, to hide, to get far away from whatever is going on, but I can't leave Zain. I won't leave him.

I press my fingers to his throat, counting the weak flutter of his pulse like it's the only thing anchoring me to sanity. Each beat feels weaker than the last.

"Stay with me," I beg. "Please, just stay with me. I can't lose you."

The words surprise me, but they're true.

The sound of something heavy being moved downstairs makes me flinch, and I try to block it out, focusing entirely on Zain. The moments drag on, filled with the sound of muffled voices, the scrape of furniture, and then silence.

An eerie, unsettling quiet.

I don't know how much time passes—it feels like hours. The world has narrowed to just this room, to the faint rise and fall of Zain's chest, the flutter of his pulse beneath my fingertips. I keep talking to him, whispering anything that comes to mind.

Promises. Pleas . Anything to keep him tethered to me.

The door swings open, and I look up, startled. Rook and Bishop are back.

"It's done," Bishop says. There's blood on his sleeve that wasn't there before, and something dark in his eyes that makes me shiver.

Rook steps forward, phone in hand. "We’re going to call this in now. It’s time to get emergency services involved."

"Listen carefully." Bishop sits on the edge of the bed. "When the authorities arrive, let us do the talking. Follow our lead. You were upstairs the whole time. You didn't see or hear anything. Understand?"

My stomach lurches. "But?—"

“ Do you understand ?”

I nod. Bishop’s expression softens slightly.

"The less you know right now, the safer you are. Just focus on Zain, okay?"

Rook makes the call, his voice steady and professional as he reports a home invasion and assault. While he talks, Bishop checks Zain's bandages. Blood has already seeped through the towels, spreading like a crimson flower.

"His breathing's steadier," he tells me quietly. "That's a good sign."

“But his pulse is weaker.”

He presses two fingers to the side of Zain’s neck. “No, it’s okay. You’re just scared. He’s going to be fine, I promise.”

I want to believe him, but Zain looks so fragile lying there. So unlike the strong, determined man I've come to know. My fingers find his hair again, stroking gently, careful to avoid the spots matted with blood.

"Ambulance is on its way," Rook says. His eyes meet Bishop’s. "Law enforcement too."

As if on cue, sirens wail in the distance, growing closer. Red and blue lights flash through the windows, casting eerie shadows across Zain's face. Each second feels like an eternity as we wait, my eyes fixed on the rise and fall of his chest, terrified each breath might be his last.

"Remember." Bishop’s voice is low and urgent. "Follow our lead."

Heavy footsteps sound downstairs, voices calling out. Rook disappears, then returns moments later with news that help has arrived.

EMTs flood into the room, one guiding me gently away from the bed. I watch helplessly as they check Zain's vitals, attach monitors, and prepare him for transport. Each time they touch him, he flinches slightly, and each flinch is like a knife in my heart.

And that's when it happens—when the memory finally breaks free.

Running out of that house fourteen years ago, tears blinding me as I fled from the horror inside. A figure standing at the end of the driveway, half-hidden in shadow. The glint of a streetlight on a badge.

I cover my mouth to stop myself from reacting out loud.

Because the man who just walked into the room, radiating concern and authority, is the same man who stood in the shadows all those years ago. The one who haunts my dreams.

Watching.

Waiting.

Just like he's doing now.