Page 2 of Ravaged Devotion

There was nothing left.

Nothing left in him to keep him playing the part of the good son.

The healthy son.

The perfect little prince of the Hart-cold-blooded-to-the-core-family.

Ryker attacked, slicing her throat in one swift strike, the scalpel cutting through her like butter.

Unsatisfactory.

Too easy.

She gasped and stumbled back, hit the wall and crumpled, hands going to her throat in a desperate attempt to staunch the blood flow.

Ryker didn’t let her do it for long, already dropping down in front of her, reaching out to tear her hand away so he could drive the blade straight through her jugular. He thought of that Yuletide morning, when he was seven, how his mother had smiled kindly at him, completely unaware she’d be dead by dinner.

Thought of his brother telling him not to be such a fucking loser the other day when he’d warned him against doing something that would displease their father.

He thought of the way it felt to carve through a good roast—sort of like how it felt now, hacking through the doctor’s muscle and tendon, the scalpel sawing at sinew and bone.

The noises had stopped by the time he was finished.

By the time he sighed and stood and retreated far enough to take in his handy work. The scalpel was held loosely between his fingers for a moment while he took in the sight of the doctor, covered in crimson, that snide expression gone.

“Say one more fucking thing about my brother,” his voice was…off. Wrong. Didn’t matter. “I dare you.”

The slap caught him off guard. The sting swift, the fury growing. He growled and turned his head, catching sight of his father.

The scalpel dropped to the ground with a clatter.

Rhys shook his head and stared at him wordlessly that way he always did.

The way that screamed he thought Ryker was a disappointment.

The way that said in no uncertain terms that he should have been the one who died that Yuletide evening, and not his mother.

Wesley, his father’s secretary, was at the door then. Or maybe he’d been there for a while. A witness to the carnage. A witness to Ryker’s true nature.

Ryker laughed at that, the sound broken and cracking against the air, echoing against the walls. He laughed and laughed and laughed until his eyes were dripping with tears and his lungs burned and the world began to spin.

He twisted on his heels and stumbled to the pod, slamming bloodstained palms against the surface, leaning over it to stare down at the face of the occupant.

His brother.

His twin.

“Sir,” Wesley cleared his throat, “we’re having trouble locating Master Rue.”

“What?” Ryker twisted on his heels, the laughter and the anger both snuffed out in an instant. He took a step toward the secretary, who flinched but knew better than to move away. “Repeat that.”

“Calm down, son,” Rhys ordered, but Ryker was too far gone to listen to fools who didn’t know how to defend their own children against heckling doctors who knew both too much and too little for their own good.

“What’s wrong with Rue?”

Wesley looked to Rhys.

Ryker found his hand wrapped around the guy’s collar, hauling him up onto his toes as he backed him against the door. “Where is Rue?” He shook him violently, wishing he hadn’t dropped the scalpel just because his father had slapped him. “Where is he?!”