Another sigh falls past his lips. “I can’t help you alone, so I got some help. That’s all.”
“You got in their heads.” Pointing out the obvious, my eyes follow his movement. “That’s not very nice, you know?”
“I’mnot nice.” Turning toward me, his head tilts. “I did what was needed to help you.”
I don’t like the concept of people being used for someone’s benefit. I tell him that, too.
Ripper grunts, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, we have the help we need to get your brother back. You should be pleased.”
He’s right, I know he is. There’s still this pressure against my chest that’s bothering me.
“Who are they?” Tucking my knees to my chin, my eyes follow his movement. He’s always moving, like he can’t stay still for long.
“Warden’s always skeptical; he likes to play things safe. Good with a gun, and he’s devoted to his cause, and his best friend, lucky for us. For Hammer, he’d take a bullet. I need that kind of devotion. He’s not the type to let fear stop him.” He shrugs off his leather jacket and hangs it up. “Hammer reminds me of myself, really. He’s the type to follow through no matter what, especially when it’s something he cares about. Or, in this case, strikes a chord. Stubborn to the core, maybe a little unstable at times.”
My brow lifts. “A chord?”
Nodding, his smile softens. “We share a love for our family—sisters in particular. He was just a prospect when he lost his. It was like looking in a mirror, I tell you. I’ve never seen a manlose everything in a matter of seconds. The guy has a soft spot for people’s siblings.”
A lump forms in my throat as he goes on. Does that mean Ripper lost a sister, too? Could that have something to do with why he’s helping me? “What happened?”
Shuffling through his duffel bag, he grabs some clothes and drops them next to me. “Not sure you want the answer to that. It’s nightmare fuel.”
He’s being serious, but curiosity killed the cat.
“We call him Hammer for a reason. I actually pity the bastard who did it. Hammer didn’t want a gun, too quick of a punishment. A knife wouldn’t work, either. The guy would bleed out too quickly. So, he grabbed a hammer.”
Covering my mouth to hide my gasp, the hairs on my arms stand up as my imagination betrays me, revealing a picture that makes my stomach clench up.
Ripper notices, and his mouth pinches together. “Let’s just say he got patched in after that. Judge said he had what it takes for his role, and that’s that.”
“Judge?” Another new name.
“Our version of Blaze.” He dumbs it down for me, but I get it. He’s the leader, the one who calls the shots. I hope he’s less cruel than the other man.
Like he can read my thoughts, he grabs the hem of his shirt and tugs it off in one easy motion. “He’s a good man. Sure, he’s done some questionable things, but he’s always put the club first. Even if that bit is currently biting me in the ass.”
While he’s grumbling, I’m staring at his chest. It’s not the sharp cut of his toned body that makes my heart flutter. It’s the history written there in raised, pale flesh.
He has scars, many, like he’s rushed into danger repeatedly. A puckered wound on his hip is from a bullet; others near his collarbone are jagged. They form a map of violence and survival.I study their paths, curious how many were just lines and how many threatened his life.
Who is this man?
“Keep looking at me like that, and you’ll give me the wrong impression here.” His mouth curves into a smirk, a practiced, lazy thing as he catches my stare.
“They look like they hurt,” I say without thinking, my own body aching. I watch as his smirk transforms into a frown, his eyes shuttering closed.
“They don’t.” Two words that are meant to be a final, solid door slammed between us. But they only sound like a lie, brittle and thin.
“Ripper…” Speaking his name ever so softly, it’s my pity that pisses him off. I can see it in the sudden tension of his jaw, the way his shoulders stiffen. He doesn’t like people caring about him.
The vulnerability in his eyes is there for only a heartbeat—a hidden peek of the man beneath—and I see him desperately trying to patch it. A feeling he clearly despises. Then, it disappears, hidden behind a wall of perfected charm. The mask fits so seamlessly that it’s unsettling.
He moves suddenly, grabbing my wrist. His grip isn’t cruel but solid. He presses my palm on his warm, hard chest over his frantic heartbeat. I feel scars beneath my fingertips.
“Women usually love this part,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, honeyed purr that doesn’t reach his eyes. His smile only seems to grow when I snatch my hand back. “They can’t get enough. But here you are, staring at the flaws. Can’t you enjoy the view?”
I frown at his smile, at the empty, beautiful shell he’s presenting.
