On His Six Page 7

  Ryker frowns. “No. My priority was getting you out of there. What do you need?”

  “Meds. I’ll be…okay. Just need a minute.”

  My teeth start to chatter, and with a curse, Ryker crosses the room in two steps, pulls back the blankets and orders me under them. “You’re in shock. Sort of. I’ll get you another blanket and what—coffee? Tea?”

  “T-t-tea.”

  I can’t get warm, even under the blankets, fully clothed. The little electric tea kettle on the desk starts to whistle, and Ryker pours the water over a bag of chamomile, adds honey, then presses the mug into my hands. And proceeds to position himself with his back against the headboard. “Come here.”

  “I just m-met you!”

  “I’m not asking you to sleep with me, sweetheart. You need to get warm. You see anything else in this room as big as me?” His sharp tone helps me focus, and I meet his frosty gaze. “Until you can manage to get through a sentence without those teeth clicking like a pair of castanets, you’ll…snuggle.”

  He says it like it’s the worst possible activity in the entire world, and I wriggle closer and let him drape his arm around me. I do it to spite him, but he’s right. He’s warm. And massive.

  “Drink your tea and then we’ll talk.”

  “Are you always this…prickly?” I chance a peek up at him as I take a sip. “And how’d you know I wanted the tea sweetened?”

  “You put honey in your coffee this morning. And yes. This is my warm and fuzzy side. Don’t get used to it.”

  Ryker doesn’t speak again as I let the tea soothe me. His slow, rhythmic breathing against my back helps tamp down my anxiety, and when I set the mug down, I lean my head against his shoulder. “Thank you. I never leave home without my meds. But walking Pixel…I just didn’t think…”

  “Why would you? It’s a safe neighborhood.”

  “It is, but how’d you know that?”

  “Used to live here. A long time ago.” His tone warns me he doesn’t like talking about himself, and I close my eyes.

  “Pixel wasn’t happy. She kept whining. I guess I should have listened to her.” With a shrug, I nestle a little deeper into the crook of his arm. I’m so tired. And he feels warm. And…safe. “She wouldn’t pick a spot, and I was about ready to just take her back inside. But then she growled, and it shocked me. Before I could turn around, someone grabbed me from behind.”

  I can still feel the hand over my mouth, and I scrub at my lips with my sleeve. “I…I tried to—”

  “You’re safe, Wren.” Ryker tightens his arm around me, and with his free hand, takes my wrist and checks my pulse. “No one’s going to find you here.”

  Nodding, I try to ignore what feels like clog dancers inside my skull. “I screamed, but he had his hand over my mouth. Pretty sure I kicked the other one in the shins. But the guy holding me dragged me between the buildings, and I bit him.”

  “Good.” Ryker’s thumb traces lazy patterns over the inside of my wrist, and the slow back and forth helps calm me.

  “That’s when the other one punched me. After that, I don’t remember anything else.”

  “What did they say to you?” He switches to circles, then triangles, then squares, and the constant variation helps keep me focused.

  Except when I close my eyes, I hear the gravelly voice of my attacker, and I can’t get the words out. I reach for my bracelet, dislodging Ryker’s hand. The smooth beads click as I run my fingers over them, tugging at the elastic.

  Breathe in. Two. Three. Four. Out. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

  “Wren. Tell me.”

  After another round of breathing, I manage, “You’re going to join your brother, bitch. But the boss wants to talk to you first.”

  Ryker

  Stretching out as close to the edge of the bed as I can, I stare at the clock, willing Dax to get his ass over here. But talking to the cops always takes a lot longer than it should—all that fucking paperwork.

  At least he confirmed he has Wren’s laptop and messenger bag. She needs her meds, and though she’s finally asleep, little whimpers escape her lips every few minutes.

  I can’t get comfortable. Turning to face the slight woman in my bed, I study her delicate features. Freckles dot her cheeks, and her auburn lashes flutter as she dreams. She clutches my pillow to her chest, and as she shifts, her sweatshirt slides up, revealing a deep bruise on her left wrist. Dammit. She should have told me about the injury.

  Carefully, I ease my phone from the pocket of my jeans and send Dax another text.

  Pick up an ACE bandage and an extra ice pack. And where the hell are you anyway?

  “No.” Wren moans and tenses, and her legs twitch under the blankets. A tear shines in the corner of her eye.

  “Shhh, sweetheart. You’re fine.” For some reason, I can’t stop with the “sweetheart” bit. Reaching out, I brush a silky lock of hair away from her face.

  My phone vibrates, and I jerk my hand away, rolling off the bed.

  I’m blind, you piece of shit. Cut me some fucking slack.

  Shame has me cracking my knuckles as I move back to the window. This is why I left Boston six years ago. What the hell am I supposed to say? Sorry? Sorry I abandoned you? Sorry those fuckers poured acid in your eyes? Sorry I couldn’t deal with my own shit and yours too?

  I roll an apology around in my head. Or hell. A hundred of them. All the things I wish I’d said rather than walking out of the rehab facility without a backwards glance. Leaning against the wall, I scan the street, the lights of Boston Public Garden blurring as I sink into my memories.

  “Ry. You still alive, man?”

  “Debatable.”

  “Where this time?”

  “Left side of my face.”

  I run my hand over the jagged scar that trails from my brow all the way to the corner of my mouth.

  “Ryker?” Cool fingers curl over my arm, and I whirl around and grab Wren’s wrist.

  “Don’t ever sneak up on me,” I growl before I register the fear in her eyes. Neither of us breathe, and I blink hard. Her bruises peek out from under my fingers.

  Step away, you fucking ape. You’re not back there, and she’s not the enemy.

  “Shit. Wren…”

  “Let go.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but she doesn’t back down. “You were talking to yourself.” I stare at her, trying to remember what the hell I might have been saying, and her brows furrow. “You sounded…angry.”

  Her sweet scent pulls me closer, and I fight to relax my fingers, cupping her forearm so I can bring her wrist to my lips and ghost a kiss over the bruises. “How bad?”

  “F-fine,” she whispers as she meets my gaze, confusion darkening her jade green eyes.

  I search her face for the truth, finding it in the way she ducks her head. “Wren.”

  “Hurts less than my cheek.”

  Her hair covers most of the swelling around her eye, and I brush the auburn curls away. “I should have been faster.”

  “This isn’t your fault,” she says. “If it’s anyone’s fault…it’s mine.”

  “No, sweetheart. No.” Leaning down, I trace her jaw with the backs of my knuckles. Wren tips her head up, her eyes fluttering closed, and I feather a kiss to her lips. She tastes like honey, and fear tightens in my gut. I want more, and that’s a dangerous game I can’t play. Because she’s the one who’ll lose.

  Two knocks, followed by three more force us apart. “Dax,” I say when she darts behind me. “Maybe now we’ll get some answers.”

  Shoving a bag in my general direction as he crosses the threshold, Dax tests the area in front of him with his cane. “Next time you need supplies after midnight, do what I usually do. Call someone who can see.”

  “James Joyce on a pogo-stick. Both of you to your separate corners. Now,” Wren says as we both swivel our heads in her general direction.

  “James Joyce on a pogo-stick? Where do you come up with this shit?” I ask.

  She takes Dax�
��s arm and leads him across the room. “Desk. Right in front of you.” Guiding his hand to the back of the office chair, she glares at me. “I told you. My mom was a teacher for years. At a Catholic school. Some things stick.”

  I dig into the plastic pharmacy bag and come away with the ACE bandage. “Let me see your wrist, sweetheart.”

  “In a minute.” Wren slings the messenger bag over her shoulder and disappears into the bathroom, leaving a trail of honeysuckle behind.

  “Sweetheart?” Dax asks, arching a brow. “Last I checked, Ryker McCabe didn’t do relationships. Any relationships.”

  “The girl’s been through some shit. It slipped out.”

  Half a dozen times.

  “I’m not a girl,” she snaps from behind the bathroom door. “And I can hear every word.”

  For a few seconds, I don’t recognize the sound filling the room, until I look over at Dax to see him laughing. Fuck. I haven’t seen him laugh since…before Hell.

  We used to be the two practical jokers in our unit. Pine tar on the toilet seat. Lube on the plastic tub of powdered coffee creamer. A footlocker full of dildos whenever we got a newbie in our ranks. And then…we both stopped laughing.

  “Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no venom in my tone. “About earlier…I’m—”

  The apology dies in my throat as Wren emerges from the bathroom with a pill case clutched in her hand and her well-worn pink sweatshirt in the other. A black tank clings to her slight curves. “What?” She looks between the two of us, but Dax just shrugs.

  “Nothing.” My jeans feel a little snug, and I turn back to the bed—the bed she was just sleeping in, dammit—and rip open the ACE bandage. “Wrist.”

  “We’re back to the single-word answers?” She sighs as she lowers herself carefully onto the edge of the mattress. “It’s not broken. I don’t need—”

  My glare cuts her off, and she holds out her arm. “So…what did the cops say?” I ask as I gently probe the swelling, checking for any hot spots or areas of acute pain. Wren grimaces, but otherwise remains silent.

  “Being blind has its advantages once in a while,” Dax says and runs a hand through his dark hair. “No one pays attention to the guy with the cane. The men who attacked you haven’t said a word, but when the detective was done with me, I had to wait for someone to help me get back out of the building, and I eavesdropped a little. Those two are repeat offenders. Mostly intimidation, but they’ve also been written up on drug charges half a dozen times. Minor possession with intent to sell.”

  “Any ties to—”

  “I’m getting to that. You have coffee in this hotel room?”

  “Yeah. Just a minute.” I press Wren’s thumb against her palm, holding the end of the bandage in place.

  As I wrap her wrist, she stares down at my fingers curled around hers. This girl—woman—does something to me I don’t like. I can’t get enough of her. She’s innocent, but not. Sweet, but not. All contradictions and mysteries I’d love to solve. Except, if I tried, I’d drag her down into the dark pit I exist in, and no one deserves that.

  “There you go.” Squeezing the cold pack to activate it, I press it gently to her cheek. “Better?”

  She nods, then curls her legs under her as she settles back against the pillows.

  “You still take your coffee black?” I ask Dax as I fill the little pod machine with water.

  Dax snorts. “Is there any other way?”

  “Men. Lattes are delicious,” Wren says, her words a little slurred.

  “What’s wrong?” I freeze with my hand on the brew button, but she just smiles.

  “Meds kicking in.” Her eyelids flutter closed. “Plus…exhausted. Prolly gonna sleep a while. Sorry.”

  Once I start the coffee, I return to her side, pull back the blankets, and tuck her in. “Sleep as long as you want. I’ll be here.” I punctuate my whisper with a kiss to her forehead, and she settles.

  Why didn’t I spring for a suite?

  Dax sits quietly, flopped back in the chair with annoyance etched all over his face. When I press the mug of coffee into his hand, he tips his head up. “Nice of you to remember I was here, dickwad.”

  “I’m not…good with people.”

  “No shit.” He takes a sip, then grimaces. “And your hotel has crappy coffee.”

  “Every hotel has crappy coffee. You want a good brew, come out to Seattle. Sampson can tell you the origin of every fucking bean he grinds.”

  “The SEAL?” With a low whistle, Dax sets his mug aside. “I heard he quit after some overzealous colonel sent in the drones early and decimated his team.”

  “He did. And now he works for me. K&R.” Needing something to do with all this energy thrumming through my body, I head for the window again. I can’t stand staring at four walls. Can’t stand being cooped up with no way out. If the window in this room opened more than an inch, I’d have my head half out of it by now.

  “Always knew that’s where you were headed.” After a sigh, he turns in my general direction. “Listen, Ry. I meant what I said back at Wren’s. I don’t know how to forgive you. But…it doesn’t matter now. Because Wren’s in trouble, and I can’t protect her. Not like this.” He gestures to his tinted glasses. “Those two assholes have been linked to the Solensky drug ring operating out of Roxbury.”

  “And the Solensky drug ring…”

  “Has ties to the Nevsky Bratva.” He nods, winces, and removes his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Fucking migraines. I need to crash. I called in a few favors, and if I’m lucky, I’ll know more when the sun comes up.”

  “Go home.” I glance back at Wren. “She’s safe here. At least for tonight.”

  Pushing to his feet with a groan, Dax unfolds his cane. “Good. She matters, Ry. And if I’m right, I owe her one hell of an apology. Because her brother mattered too, and my prejudices may have killed him.” He reaches back to his hip and withdraws a belt holster and a 9mm. “You didn’t get this from me. But unless you flew across the country armed…”

  “I didn’t.” As I take the gun, I clasp his hand for an extra beat. “Thanks.”

  Dax slips through the hotel room door, and I wish I could have my friend back for one day. Just long enough to tell him he matters too.

  9

  Wren

  Rolling over, I catch my wrist in the sheets and wince. The pain forces me fully awake, and I barely stop myself from rubbing my eyes. My headache’s mostly gone, and the hard knot of anxiety lodged in my chest lessened overnight. My eye still feels hot and swollen though, and I really don’t want to look in the mirror.

  Squinting as the beside clock comes into focus, I’m shocked. It’s after nine. And…where the hell is Ryker? As I push up to sitting, I see him—stretched out in front of the door. On his side. One hand resting on a pistol. He looks…almost peaceful, and I have a feeling Ryker McCabe doesn’t do peaceful very often.

  “Where did you get a gun?”

  He’s instantly awake, the gun held firmly, but his finger off the trigger. “Dax.”

  “Is there some reason you felt the need to sleep on the floor?” I ask as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body aches, but no new injuries make themselves known—I’m just sore from being grabbed and dropped by guys who didn’t care if I was comfortable.

  “Safer.” Lumbering to his feet, he checks the gun’s safety and then tucks it into a holster.

  “In case housekeeping decides to raid the place?”

  The look he gives me is one part “isn’t she cute?” and two parts “how did I get stuck babysitting this idiot?”

  “In case anyone followed Dax from the police station last night. Not like he could have seen them.” Touching both the deadbolt and the safety lock, almost automatically, he nods towards the bathroom. “Go on. I’ll order us some breakfast and then I’ll take you to your office. What do you want?”

  Rolling my eyes, I trudge towards the small, marbled bathroom with fancier toiletries than I’ve
ever seen. “I don’t need anything.”

  “Well, you’re getting something.”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “Fine. Eggs. Scrambled.” Shutting the bathroom door with a little more force than necessary, I sink down onto the edge of the tub, rubbing my sore shoulder absently. There’s dirt in my hair from the alley, and…ugh. Blood under my fingernails. Dax kept my name out of the police report, but do I need to worry about DNA?

  Peeking back into the room to ask Ryker, I gawk. He’s doing one-armed pushups, alternating arms every five rounds. He’s shirtless, his back a mountain of sculpted muscle and scars, with a massive tattoo running between his shoulder blades. A skull with an evil grin and glowing red eyes looks out from a shield, bolts of lightning forming an X behind the image. A green beret sits atop the skull, with a black and orange patch on one side.

  “De oppresso liber?” I ask, unable to look away—or get control of my mouth, apparently.

  Faster than a man his size should be able to move, he scrambles up and clutches his black t-shirt to his chest. “You need something?”

  The strain in his voice warns me he’s not going to answer my question—or lower that shirt anytime soon. “Um, there’s blood under my nails. I scratched one of the guys who tried to take me. Do I need to…the police…?”

  He takes my hand, staring down at my dirty nails as his warmth seeps into my fingers. “No. The police have enough evidence to put them away without you getting involved.”

  My gaze roves over his arms, over the burns winding down his entire left shoulder, over more ink, bright colors, bold lines. Releasing my fingers, Ryker nudges me towards the bathroom. “Use any of my stuff you need.”

  Dismissed, I trudge off to the shower, hoping I can find some way to wash away the feeling my life is never going to be the same again.

  When I emerge from the bathroom smelling of Ryker’s deodorant and shampoo, my hair still damp, he’s pouring a second cup of coffee from a porcelain teapot. A massive spread graces a rolling cart: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice, and fresh fruit.