“Let’s just say, this case is about to get very interesting. When we conduct our formal interview with the suspect, we’ll be sure to share all the juicy details.”
He headed for the door, then paused. “Oh, and, Morrison?” The guy locked his eyes with me. “When this hits the news …” His whistle was low, theatrical. “Well, let’s just say, it’s going to be a hell of a show.”
The door clicked shut.
Silence pressed against my eardrums.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Ryker turned, and the transformation stole my breath. The lethal predator who’d just gone toe to toe with Rodriguez vanished. In his place stood the same man who’d stepped between me and that creep in Axel’s lobby, who’d been ready to break bones without hesitation. The same man who’d held me in that elevator when my world tilted sideways, his voice in my ear, promising everything would be okay.
His fingers found my wrist, like he needed physical proof I was still here, still whole. The hint of calluses on his thumb scraped against my skin, grounding me in this moment. This was Ryker: my defender, my protector, the man who looked at me like I was something precious in a world full of broken glass.
He moved closer. “You never thank me for protecting you. That’s nonnegotiable.”
My breath caught. The intensity in his eyes made promises that had nothing to do with legal defense and everything to do with the kind of protection that came with possession.
“You okay?” His voice stayed soft, but his hand hardened around mine.
How does he do that? Switch from destroyer of worlds to tender protector faster than I can blink?
“I don’t even know my legal rights,” I admitted. “If that detective had demanded I talk, I wouldn’t have known how to stop him from interrogating me.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” He sat on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping, gravity pulling me toward him, like the universe had opinions about where I belonged.
Truth was, I wasn’t just grateful he was a lawyer. I was grateful it washim.Ryker had this way of reading my body before my mind caught up. Of knowing when I needed strength and when I needed softness. Of making me feel like I mattered in a world that kept trying to convince me otherwise.
“I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’re in this together. You hear me?”
God, the way he was looking at me. Making me feel right now. In a tornado of terror, he was grounding my nerves, making me feel like I was all that mattered. And that I was worth going to war for.
“I need to …” My voice cracked. “I want to apologize to the deceased man’s family.”
“Out of the question.”
I tugged at the thin hospital gown, suddenly aware of how exposed I was. How small.
“I must’ve killed him, Ryker.” The words tasted like bitter acid and regret.
Through the small rectangular window in the door, I watched a nurse laugh at something her colleague said. Just two people having a normal day. Did they know what I was? What I’d done?
They were normal people, living normal lives, maybe completely unaware that a murderer sat thirty feet away, holding the hand of a man too good for her.
I thought I’d been building someone worth knowing. Years of clawing my way out of foster homes, out of the belief that I was fundamentally broken, fundamentally unwanted. And here I was. Proving every family who’d sent me back right.
“You’re the prime suspect in his death. Any communication between you and the guy’s family is off-limits.”
“But …”
“Faith.” He took my chin between his thumb and finger.
The heart monitor beside me beeped its steady rhythm. Each sound pulsed against my temples like a tiny hammer. I should tell him to go. Release him from whatever misguided sense of obligation kept him tethered to me.
I had feelings for him. Real ones. The kind that made my chest ache when he walked into a room. And that was precisely why I should cut him loose before I dragged him under with me.
“It’s kind of you to want to offer your condolences.”
“And express how incredibly sorry I am for any part I might have had in his death.” My shoulders curled inward. I could feel myself shrinking, becoming that little girl again. The one who’d broken Mrs. Patterson’s porcelain bird at nine years old and watched my foster mother’s face go cold. It was another time I’d learned early that mistakes weren’t forgiven. They were tallied. And eventually, they added up to goodbye.
