“Hmm.” His mouth twisted like the idea amused him. “There you go, being all empathetic again.”
As if remembering it was still there, he lifted the cigarette back to his lips and lit it. But he didn’t inhale, just held it, watching the orange tip burn like it could distract him.
“I used to steal,” he said at last. “Anything I could get my hands on. Thought if I brought home enough, I could get her out, give her a chance. But she’d just spend it on more drugs. And when it wasn’t enough, whenIwasn’t enough, she’d get angry. Said she’d have to make up the difference on her back.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Why? You didn’t make her an addict.”
He studied me for a long moment, and I couldn’t bring myself to look away. I couldn’t decide if any of this was real, or just another one of Ryder’s tactics.
But a part of me, the part that always wanted to believe there was good in people, hoped it was the truth. Hopedthat, just this once, the mask had slipped and I was seeing the real man underneath.
“I got caught a few times. Petty shit. Put into foster care where I met Hendrix. I hated that, so I lived on the streets, slept rough for a while but I always found myself going back to her. Until...” He cleared his throat, finally taking a drag of his cigarette. “It doesn’t matter,” he said with the exhale, blowing the smoke away from me. “I wanted to save my mum from that place, and now my dream is to never be in the same position.”
“I dream of being an artist, and you dream of security.”
“Well, I don’t dream about world peace, do I?” Ryder said, voice edged with sarcasm. “The world has never cared about me, so why the fuck should I care about it?”
“Is that what the compass is for?” My eyes flicked down, catching on the ink carved into the side of his abs.
“You checking me out, blondie?” Ryder chuckled low, even as I rolled my eyes. “The compass is so I never lose myself. So I can always find my way home…” His expression shifted, softer for just a flicker. “…wherever the fuck that turns out to be.”
Ryder took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs so long I thought he’d choke on it, then exhaled right in my face.
So much for his earlier restraint.
“What I’m saying,” he continued, “is you can’t pick your parents. They can do the cruellest things, and you still go back. But maybe you shouldn’t.”
“She’s my mum.” I let out a frustrated sound, raking my fingers through my hair before gathering it up. I started braiding it just to keep my hands busy, and to get it out of my face. “She took care of me. When I was scared, she didn’t laugh it off or tell me I was imagining things. Shestayed and listened when I cried. She was there for me even when she had nothing left for herself. She?—”
“You’re listing the bare minimum.” Ryder watched me with a stillness that felt almost critical. “And yet she still lied to you.”
His tone was flat, merciless as he turned back toward the city, the glow of the skyline painting his profile in hard lines.
“Seriously, Violet, there’s only one person you can rely on. And that’s yourself.”
Chapter 29
Ryder
It was past midnight by the time I made it to the Fluffy Duckling, the back room guarded by no fewer than three men. I approached slowly, just enough for them to recognise me before they decided to pull the trigger.
The Bratva really had a flair for being unnecessarily trigger-happy, especially considering Sasha, Roman’s father, liked to change up the men regularly.
When I finally stepped inside, thankfully bullet hole free, Roman was exactly as I expected. White shirt, black slacks with his sleeves rolled up. The perfect show of effortless sophistication, or more like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Shame about the whole gruesome scene behind him.
“Started without me, I see,” I tutted. “Why is he wet?”
Roman’s eyes were bright when he turned; his monster, as he liked to call it, sated by the violence he’d just inflicted. Cedric dangled from chains, his arms twisted unnaturally, shoulders likely dislocated with half his stomach carved. Unconscious, but alive, which wasn’t a surprise because Roman was very good at drawing this out. Making each cut last. Every breath agonising, all while not a single spec of blood spotted his white shirt.
Honestly, it was masterful. If torturing was an Olympic sport, Roman would get gold.
“Makes him more conductive,” Roman muttered, placing down one of his sharp toys. “You took your time. Where’s your girl?”
Maxim stood off to the side, arms crossed like a bouncer. So judgmental without actually giving an expression.
