“Come on in, brother. Cara down with Hope and Wren?” Ryker asks.
“Yeah.” The voice isn’t familiar, but there are only two men in the world Ryker would call “brother.” Dax Holloway and Jackson “Ripper” Richards.
Ripper’s shoulders hunch as he darts a gaze in my direction. At his side, a German Shephard with a mangled ear is on full alert.
Murph drops the toy and stares at me until I nod, signaling it’s okay for him to relax.
Ry steps between us, tension gathering between his brows. “Rip…”
“It’s nothing.” The man leans down and rubs the German Shephard’s good ear, then whispers something to him. Whatever it is, the dog relaxes, but doesn’t leave Ripper’s side.
“Wyatt Blake.” I offer my hand, and after a beat, Rip stands.
“I don’t…” His fingers flex around the strap of his laptop bag.
Fuck. I’m an idiot.
I shove my hand back into my pocket. “Stupid custom anyway.”
Some of the strain on Rip’s face eases, and he heads for the long counter where he sets up his laptop, then gets himself a mug of coffee and parks himself on a stool next to me. “Heard about you,” he says quietly. “I owe you. Everything.”
It takes me a full minute to get over my shock enough to stammer out a reply. “We’re…uh…square.”
As soon as Inara joins us, her dusky cheeks redder than when she left, Ryker clears his throat.
“Wren and Hope are going over the intel on the memory card she stole from Arrens. They’ll be up in a couple of hours. He’s into some fucked-up shit, and Hope doesn’t need to hear all of it.”
“Hold up.” Frustration crawls up my spine and bands around the back of my head. “We’re not leaving Hope out of this. About anything. She had her choices taken away for three years. There’s no fucking way I’m keeping things from her now.”
Across the counter from me, Ripper straightens. “You’re sure she can handle it?”
“No. But I’m damn sure she can’t handle being kept in the dark. She lived with the asshole for three years. He beat the shit out of her if she said one wrong word. Controlled every part of her life—if you can even call what she had with him a life.” The haunted look in Ripper’s eyes warns me I’m about to cross a line.
“Enhanced interrogation. Indoctrination. Brainwashing. Torture. The bastard was so good at it, Rip forgot his own goddamn name.”
West was careful not to go into detail about what Ripper went through, but the little he did say was enough for me to know I need to back off. Redirect if possible.
Scanning the room, I find exactly what I need. “Wait. Where are Graham and…you have another woman on the team, right?”
“Raelynn,” West says. “She’s on her way. Got a flat tire. Graham’s taking Q to a physical therapy appointment. We’ll fill him in later.”
Some of the darkness shrouding Ripper’s gaze eases, and I sink back down onto the stool. My hip aches, and I caught my shoulder—and the fresh stitches—on the bathroom door jamb this morning. “So, everyone agrees? I won’t keep anything from Hope.”
Ry cracks his knuckles one at a time. “Your call, Wyatt. You trust her?”
If Ryker didn’t have almost six inches on me, I’d lay him out flat for that comment. West sets down his tablet, his wiry muscles tensing. The two of us might have gone through BUD/S together, but he and Ryker are family. The kind forged through fire and blood.
“I trust her,” I grit out. “And if you question her again—”
Another knock at the door, and the intercom crackles. “Y’all gonna let me in? I’ve had a day, and it ain’t even noon yet.”
If the woman on the other side of the door isn’t from Texas, I’ll eat Murphy’s collar.
Raelynn is the textbook definition of fierce. Blond hair pulled up into a tight ponytail, full lips pressed into a thin line, flushed cheeks, and bright blue eyes. “What kind of bassackwards idiot spills a whole box of nails in the bike lane and just leaves the damn things there?”
She dumps a bike helmet and backpack on the floor, walks right up to me, and gives me the once over. “Where’s your girl?”
“Downstairs. You…biked here? From where?”
