Page 8 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 4

At first, I don’t recognize my surroundings, white ceilings and gray walls, until the scent invades my senses—that musk and manly scent that sends a wave of comfort through my body.

Am I dreaming? Maybe my body is still trapped inside that dirty house, lying on that filthy mattress, being violated and abused by all those men Randy promised would hurt me.

I don’t want to wake up. Please, God. Let me stay here.

Lifting my arm from the bed confuses me for a moment, and I stare at my unbound hands, twisting them in front of me, before raising my head, noticing my feet aren’t bound either. I’m lying in an oversized T-shirt, with no bra and panties. An ache blossoms in my chest and arms where Randy had his play with the pliers—the last thing I remember before everything turned to fog and the occasional flash of lucidity. The bones in my face ache, and I touch a hand to my eye, wincing at the swollen flesh around it.

I trail my gaze across the dimness of the room and find the dark, hulking shadow of a man sitting in the chair across from me. Watching me.

They won’t ever touch you again. I’m going to take care of everything. You’re safe.

Words float aimlessly in my head, and the threat of tears hitches in my throat.

It’s odd, the sensations beating through me—relief and something else—a feeling I can’t describe, but one that has me wishing he’d come to the bed and lie beside me. I want to curl into him and feel his arms wrap around me, cocooning me inside the protective little box he’s created for me.

I’ve no idea how long I’ve been sleeping, and as I glance back to where a clock would be on the nightstand, he answers, “Three in the morning. You’ve been asleep for two hours.”

A haze still clings to my vision, but for the most part, it feels as if the drugs have left my body. Only exhaustion and the painful bite of hunger remains.

Angry eyes tear me apart as he sits with his chin propped on his thumb, his index finger against his cheek, reminding me of an irate father preparing to chide his insolent daughter.

My stubborn nature gets the best of me, and instead of acting on my desires to crawl into his lap, I frown. “I didn’t take those drugs willingly, if that’s what you’re pissed about.”

He doesn’t say anything back and his silence only frustrates me.

“I didn’t ask you to come save me either.” I want to cringe at that one—my words fail to reflect the level of gratitude spilling over inside of me, but I don’t know how to thank him. Twice he’s come to my rescue when I failed to protect myself.

“I should’ve believed you. I fucked up.” His voice is a song of comfort and tranquility.

“I shouldn’t have run away. We both fucked up.” My lips are cracked and swollen as I run my tongue across them and swallow hard.

He sniffs and sits forward, entwining his fingers together. “He’s the one who hurt you before. Rook.”

“Yes. You work for him?”

“Not anymore,” he says on a sneer. “How’d he hurt you?”

I have to look away from him, because in spite of what I know of the man in the few weeks I’ve spent with him, he seems to be affected by my pain. In my mind, and with everything I’ve come to learn about psychopaths, he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t give a damn about me, because psychopaths have no sense of empathy, just as Rook had said. They feel nothing. I see it in his eyes, though, a flicker of agony, and as much as I’ve yearned for someone to feel that way about what I’ve experienced in my life, I don’t want it to be him.

If Rook is whom I’ve come to understand as the brother of Rip’s boss, though, then I owe it to him. He risked his ass to come after me and deserves to know everything that happened—even the parts that destroy me.

“They come in flashes and feel so real, it’s hard to know the difference sometimes. I’m high. So high on pills and something Rook had given me. There’s ink and blood and pain. He tries to hold me down. Rape me. I fight him, though. Bloody his nose and he knocks the lights out. I wake up in a cold shower, watching blood go down the drain.” I rub the tattoo on my wrist and frown. “It must be real, ya know? I have the tattoo they gave me.”

Rip shifts in his seat and rubs a hand down his face, hiding the disgusted curl of his lips from seconds ago. “Did he rape you?”

I lift a trembling hand to my face, wiping away tears, and shake my head. “I don’t even know. I was drugged. I just remember flashes of pain. Cold snow on my cheek. Screams. And sickness.” Frigid tendrils snake through my veins at the memories. “And blood. I had cuts all over.” I drag my nose across my arm and look away.

His nostrils flare at the same time his eyes turn a cold, shark black. “Who put those cuts on you?”

“Rook, mostly.” I bite my lip, while my hands fidget in my lap. “Randy did too, though.”

He shoots up from his chair, and the crack of his glass against the wall as it shatters startles me upright.

“If I could kill him again, I would.”

A fist of shock squeezes my lungs. “You … killed Rook?”

Ignoring my question, he paces at the end of the bed, hands on his hips. “Why were they after you? They wanted to kill you. Why?”