Page 102 of Wade’s Wrath

“You came through the back,” she said. He remembered every goddamn thing about that day, even when he wanted to forget. Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the gunfire and shouting that followed. He remembered Butcher giving orders through the radio and the smell of oil and blood and fear. Ripper had taken the rear entrance with two brothers. One guard had gone for his gun, and that had been the last mistake the bastard ever made. Then they found the locked rooms and the women inside them—all eleven of them. And then, there was Sarah.

“I did,” he whispered.

“You killed someone,” she said. Ripper didn't answer, and Sarah looked at him. “I saw you.”

He kept his voice level. “You don't need to think about that right now.”

“I think about everything. There’s not much else to do in here,” she said, looking around the hospital room.

Fuck. “Sarah⁠—”

“I remember all of it,” she breathed. Her fingers tightened around the coffee cup. “Sometimes I wish I didn't.”

Ripper leaned forward and then stopped himself before getting too close. “What do you remember?”

Her gaze moved toward the open doorway. “You kicking in the door.” He remembered that too. The damn thing had been reinforced and took three hits to kick it in. “When it opened, I thought you were one of them.”

“You picked up that piece of wood to defend yourself,” he said. He remembered the fear in her eyes and hated seeing it.

“I thought I'd have one chance to take down whoever came through that door,” she said.

“You would've hit me?” he asked.

“I would've tried to,” she admitted.

Ripper smiled. “You would've hit me.”

Sarah looked at him. “You think so?”

“Definitely,” he said.

Her almost-smile returned and then disappeared. “You put your gun down.” Ripper's smile vanished because she was right. The second he'd realized Sarah was terrified of him, he'd handed his weapon to the brother beside him, and then he'd crouched in front of her. He kept his hands where she could see them and told her his name. He told her that they were there to get her out, and he could tell that she didn’t believe him. Why the fuck would she? Every man she'd trusted for eight months had probably hurt her.

“I remember you telling me you wouldn't touch me,” she whispered.

“I didn't,” he reminded.

“No.” Her eyes met his. “You didn't.” Something passed between them—something that Ripper didn't like. Actually, that was a lie because he liked it too fucking much. Sarah looked down at her cinnamon roll. “You waited until I came to you.”

“Wasn't my choice to make,” he said.

Her fingers stopped moving. “What?”

Ripper shrugged. “You didn't want me touching you. So I didn't.”

“You were trying to rescue me,” she said.

“Didn't mean I got to grab you and force you to do something that you didn’t want to do,” he said. Sarah stared at him like he'd said something profound, but he hadn't. It was basic fucking decency—at least it should've been.

“You really think that?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he breathed.

She looked away. “Most men don't.” Rage hit so fast Ripper had to lock his jaw to keep from cursing. He knew what she meant. He didn't need details. Hell, he didn't fucking want details—not because he couldn't handle hearing them, because if he knew names, he'd go looking. Some of those men were probably already dead, but not enough of them.

“Those weren't men,” he growled.

Sarah looked at him. “What?”