“If he survives?—”
“He will,” I say, unwilling to consider any other possibility. “He has to.”
Something that might be respect flickers in Zane’s eyes. “Alright. When he recovers, he’ll need to give a statement. So will you. If the situation is as I’ve described—and all evidence supports that—then it’s a simple case of justifiable homicide in the line of duty.”
The wail of approaching sirens cuts through the air, and I fall silent, aware of how surreal this all is. My quiet life has exploded into chaos, and I’m standing in the middle of it all, discussing murder with a man who exudes danger from every pore.
“I know about your relationship with Ryder,” Zane says, his tone matter-of-fact. “I strongly advise you not to mention it during the investigation.”
“You want me to lie?”
“I’m not asking you to lie,” Zane clarifies, his green eyes boring into mine. “I’m telling you not to volunteer information. The chances of them asking if you’re sleeping with your bodyguard are slim. Unless you give them areason to ask.”
“Why shouldn’t I mention it?”
“Because it complicates things. It gives Ryder a potential motive.”
My blood runs cold. “A motive? You think they might believe Ryder killed Josh for no reason?”
“Murdered,” Zane corrects. “And yes, it’s possible. Right now, the case is clear-cut. Ryder is your bodyguard; you were under lethal threat, andhe acted to protect you. If they learn you’re lovers?—”
“We’re in love,” I interject, a fierceness in my voice that surprises even me.
Zane’s expression hardens. “That’s even worse. If the police know about your relationship, they might concoct all sorts of theories. Maybe Josh was your lover too, and Ryder killed him in a jealous rage.”
“But that’s not what happened!” I burst out, anger and frustration boiling over. “Josh was going to kill me. Ryder saved my life. That’s the truth!”
“Then that’s what you tell them,” Zane says. “Nothing more, nothing less. Understood?”
One of Zane’s men approaches, holding out my battered phone. Zane examines it before handing it to me. “Screen’s cracked, but it seems to work.”
I take it with trembling hands, pressing the power button.The cracked screen flickers to life, showing missed calls from Ryder. My heart clenches at the sight.
As the police cars pull up, lights flashing, I take a deep breath. Whatever happens next, the only thing that matters now is making sure Ryder survives.
Thirty-Three
CORA
Istumble to the bathroom, my legs shaky and uncooperative. I avoid the mirror, knowing the horror that awaits me there. Instead, I fumble to turn on the shower, cranking the heat as high as it will go.
I step under the scalding spray and squeeze my eyes shut tight. The water beats down on me, washing away layers of grime, sweat, and...other things I don’t want to name. I scrub at my skin, willing the memories to slough off with the dirt. But no matter how hard I scour, I can’t erase the imprint of rough hands, the echo of the gunshot.
The officers’ faces flash through my mind—their barely concealed revulsion, one man’s complexion turning a sickly green as he struggled not to vomit. I must have looked like something out of a nightmare. No wonder they rushed through my statement, eager to escape.
I rinse the soap from my body, but I still feel dirty, tainted.The water runs cold before I step out, the heat gone, leaving me shivering.
The towel scrapes across my bruised skin, each touch igniting a chorus of stinging sensations. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to continue. As I pat my arms dry, my fingers brush against raised welts. I trace one angry line, its heat radiating outward.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the foggy mirror. A stranger stares back, her bottom lip swollen and tinged an ugly purple. My tongue finds it, tracing the damage, and blood blooms across my taste buds, bright and metallic. Fuck. At least nothing's broken.
With trembling hands, I reach for my clothes. The soft fabric of the yoga pants slides over my legs. I pull Ryder's sweater over my head, enveloping myself in its familiar scent. For a moment, I close my eyes and breathe it in, seeking comfort in the lingering traces of him.
The scent is a bittersweet comfort, bringing a fresh wave of worry crashing over me.
My phone buzzes. The cracked screen shows Dad’s name, one of dozens of missed calls. Guilt and anger war inside me. He must know what happened, but I can’t face him. Not now.
Taking a deep breath, I descend the stairs. Each step feels like a monumental effort, my body protesting every movement. I find Zane waiting in the living room, his imposing presence filling the space.
