Sweet Retribution (Ruthless Games Book 2)

I’m quiet on the way back from the wake.

There was a reception scheduled afterward so the gathered guests could give their condolences to Marcus’s parents and mingle among themselves. According to Theo, deals and negotiations are probably being done even at a time like this, everyone jockeying for position as the dust settles in the aftermath of the game.

I couldn’t stomach the thought of that, though, so we left pretty much as soon as the wake finished.

Ryland’s eyes are red, and he hasn’t spoken since we left the church. Theo doesn’t look much better, but I can feel his concern for the two of us as he glances into the rearview mirror.

“You okay?” he asks, catching my eye.

“No.” I swallow, shaking my head. My fingers dig into my thigh. “I want to fucking end this. You said the game only ends when you either kill all your opponents or win their allegiance? Then I want to help you do that.”

Ryland glances at me sharply. “No.”

“Yes.” I turn toward him on the seat, my nostrils flaring. “You said it was too late to keep me out of this. I’m a part of it already. So let me help you end it. There has to be something I can do. Some way I can help.”

“No.” His voice is just as forceful as mine, his hazel eyes hard. “It’s one thing to let you see into this world. It’s another fucking thing entirely to make you a player in this game, Ayla. Carson already tried to use you against us once, and look how that fucking turned out. Is that what you want? Huh?”

“No! I want to keep that from happening ever again. I’m not letting either of you get fucking hurt!”

“It’s not your choice,” Ryland shoots back. “It’s not your goddamn call.”

“Yes, it is. You don’t get to tell me what to do!”

We’re both nearly shouting, our voices drowning out the music that plays softly from the speakers. I catch Theo darting a glance at us in the rearview mirror, and I press my lips together, turning away from Ryland and staring out the window as I blink back angry tears.

Part of me knows this is just all the anger and sadness that built up in me during the wake pouring out, needing some outlet before it chokes me—but I can’t accept what Ryland is saying.

I don’t give a shit what he says. I’m finding a way to end this, with or without their help.

We pull into Theo’s garage several minutes later, and as he cuts off the engine, his phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket and answers, speaking softly as Ryland and I unbuckle our seatbelts. Then he hangs up and turns around to face us.

“Dammit. I’ve gotta head back out. My uncle’s being a fucking cock, and I need to deal with him before he gets my mom to sign over her share of the company.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Can I leave you two alone without you killing each other?”

Ryland makes a noise in his throat that’s not exactly a confirmation or a denial, and I huff out a breath—but Theo must decide those answers are good enough. He leans between the two front seats, palming the back of my head before pressing a soft kiss to the corner of my lips. His eyes bounce between mine as he pulls back, studying me carefully. “Be good, okay?”

I nod, my skin tingling from the soft kiss. My entire body feels uncomfortably alive right now, like there’s too much inside of me. Too many emotions to be contained in one person.

I don’t say any of that though. I just slide out of the back seat before Ryland climbs out after me. Theo pulls out of the garage as Ryland unlocks the door to the house, and as soon as he steps inside, I brush past him, heading for the stairs to the second floor.

But before I can even make it across the kitchen, a hand closes tightly around my wrist.

I jerk to a stop, then whirl around to glare at Ryland, tugging against his hold on me. “What?”

“You think I don’t know what you’re fucking thinking?” He narrows his hazel eyes, his full lips pressing into a line. “I know how goddamn stubborn you are. I know you don’t give up. You probably think you can take on every single person in this competition, but you can’t.”

“I never said I wanted to do that.” I pull harder against his vise-like grip, wishing I had my other fucking hand so I could slap him. He’s twisting my words, twisting my intentions, making it sound like I have some kind of death wish. “I said I want to help! Why won’t you let me do that?”

“I’m trying to protect you,” he grits out, pulling me a little closer.

We’re less than two feet apart now, and I can see how bloodshot his eyes are, how sallow his face looks. It breaks my fucking heart. What would he look like if Theo died too? Would he even survive that kind of loss?

“I’m trying to protect you too, you asshole!” I yell, shoving at him with the stump of my ruined arm. He falls back a step, and instead of pulling away, I follow him, narrowing the space between us to less than a foot.

“You’ve already done enough.” Ryland’s body tenses, his shoulders squaring as if he’s facing off against an enemy in battle.

“What are you talking about?”

He yanks on my wrist, pulling me toward him so sharply that my chest crashes against his. I can feel the wild rhythm of his heart as he stares down at me like I’m fucking crazy.

“How do you not get it?” he rasps. “How the fuck do you not get it by now, Ayla? You didn’t just save Marcus’s life the night you took those bullets for him. You saved mine. You saved Theo’s.”

I blink up at him, completely thrown off balance. “What do you mean? The gun was aimed at Marcus. The bullets—”

“I’m not talking about the gun.” He shakes his head, his gaze never leaving mine. “I’m not talking about the bullets.”

“Then what—”

My words break off as I realize exactly what he means. He’s talking about this.

About the grief that’s eating through his soul like acid.

About having to go to a wake for one of his best friends.

About losing himself under a tidal wave of pain.

My stomach tightens. A small noise escapes my mouth, and I shake my head. “But I didn’t save you this time. I didn’t save him.”

Tears sting my eyes like shards of glass. It’s the first time I’ve spoken those words out loud, but as I say them, regret rises up inside me. I twist my arm out of Ryland’s hold and step back, my skin going cold.

“It should’ve been me. If Marcus just would’ve let me—”

Ryland doesn’t even let me finish. He moves into my space again, towering over me as he growls, “Don’t fucking say that.”

He looks furious. Unhinged, almost. The same way he looked at Doctor Adelman’s office when his bottled-up emotions exploded out of him.

“You don’t wish it had been me?” I challenge, lifting my chin. It’s a cruel question to ask, I know that. It’s going to hurt him or me or both of us, but I can’t stop myself. “I did it once. Why not a second time? Don’t you wish it’d been me who got shot instead of Marcus? Because I sure as fuck do.”

Ryland’s face freezes, his expression turning to stone. “Don’t ask me that. You can’t fucking ask me that.”

“Why not?” I blurt.

I’m on the verge of crying again. I’ve never felt so emotionally unhinged in my life as I have during the past week, not even after the first time my foster father raped me. Not even after I woke up in the hospital to learn that I’d lost my arm.

Ryland drags in a shuddering breath, his nostrils flickering. “Because you can’t ask me to choose between two things I love.”

The kitchen around us seems to fade away as I blink at him in shock.

There’s not a hint of a lie on his face as he glares down at me. Just anger and pain and… truth.

It’s too much. I should laugh in his face and tell him he has to be mistaken. That he can’t possibly love me when he’s only known me for a little over a month. That the years he and his friends spent hiding in the shadows of my life don’t count, and that this is his grief talking, or his obsession, or his lust.

But I don’t say any of that. I can’t. My traitorous fucking heart won’t let me.

Because it doesn’t care what logic says. It doesn’t care that this is insane.

It cares about Ryland.

It cares about Marcus.

It cares about Theo.

Maybe a tiny part of me, the part that’s been hurt over and over again and expects nothing else anymore, hoped that forcing Ryland’s hand would make him admit he doesn’t care about me. That he sees me as a useful tool, a human shield who kept his friend safe once, and nothing more.

I wanted him to push me away so I could run without feeling like a coward.

But he didn’t.

And I don’t think he ever will.

“I’m sorry.” The words are a choked whisper, and tears stick to my eyelashes as I try to blink them away.

Ryland’s face cracks. Every bit of careful control falls away as he grabs my face in both hands and kisses me.

It’s an immolating kiss.

The kind that ruins you.

The kind you don’t walk away from unchanged.

His lips are hard and demanding, his tongue forceful as it invades my mouth. There was a hint of this in our kiss at the safe house the morning after they rescued me from Carson and Dominic. But I could feel Ryland holding himself back, pulling himself away from me, resisting with all his might.

Now? He’s not resisting.

He’s not holding back.

He’s… unleashed.

His kiss doesn’t stop, as if now that he’s started, he’ll die if he breaks the contact of our lips. His arms wrap around me, pinning my body to his as we gasp and groan into each other’s mouths.

My skin still feels overly sensitive, my heightened emotional state making my nerves buzz and hum like live wires.

But even though I feel everything tenfold right now, it doesn’t hurt to be touched by Ryland. It feels good.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me over to the kitchen island and perching me on the edge of it, still kissing me fiercely. His hands tug at the zipper of my dress, dragging it down partway before giving up on the zipper and yanking the top of my dress down. He spreads my legs wider with his thigh, shoving the hem of my dress up as he steps between my thighs.

As my legs part, I realize how wet I am. My panties are soaked from just his hungry, devouring kiss.

He manages to work my dress off my arms, leaving the fabric bunched around my waist as his palms glide over my bare skin, skating over my shoulders before moving down to cup my breasts. He pinches one nipple sharply through my bra, and I yelp into his mouth, a sharp zing of pleasure and pain shooting through me. He does it again, and the noise I make this time is more like a moan. My nipple is hard as glass, the lace of my bra scratching against my skin as he rolls the little bud between his thumb and forefinger.

“Fuck, Ayla,” he mutters against my mouth. “I tried. Goddammit, I tried so hard not to want you. Not to fucking love you.”

I bite his bottom lip, dragging it between my teeth, and he grunts, wrapping his free arm around my lower back and hauling me closer to the edge of the kitchen island. His clothed cock grinds against my core, and we both shudder as he thrusts shallowly against me.

Releasing my breast, he reaches up to grab my chin, tilting my head up as he pulls his mouth away from mine. His spicy sandalwood scent permeates my senses, making me hungry for more of him.

“Don’t you see?” His hazel eyes burn into mine. “You’d be better off if I didn’t love you. If I didn’t need you. If we could let you go.”

Even as he speaks, even as he tries to talk both of us out of this, his hands don’t stop roaming over my body, and his hips don’t stop thrusting against mine.

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe I would be better off. Maybe I would be safer.

But that’s not the fucking point anymore.

Because he doesn’t just need me. I need him too.

We’re in way too fucking deep by now. Might as well drown together.

I hook my legs around his waist and dig my heels into his ass, urging him closer, squeezing him tighter. My hand moves between us, awkwardly tugging at his tie to loosen it. I get it halfway untied before I get too impatient, moving on to his buttons instead, flicking them open until I can reach inside and run my palm over the hard, warm planes of his chest.

His muscles flex under my touch, and I pinch his nipple just like he pinched mine, drawing a growl from his lips. His mouth swoops down on mine again, capturing it in another eviscerating kiss as he slips a hand between my legs, shoving the wet fabric of my panties aside as he slides two fingers through my folds.

I shiver and tighten my hold around his waist, squeezing him with my legs.

“Ryland! Please!”

He growls again. It’s a warning, a promise that we’re going to do this his way.

His fingers dip inside me, just teasing me with the feeling of fullness I need so badly before he drags them up again, circling my clit with hard, fast motions.

I gasp into our kiss, sliding my hand down his stomach and tugging his shirt from the waistband of his pants before going for his belt buckle. It’s hard as fuck to get it undone one-handed, and I curse against his lips, whining in frustration.

The sound seems to penetrate his single-minded focus, and he reaches down to help me, the fingers of his other hand slowing a little on my clit. The change of tempo makes me moan. His fingers slide over my sensitive bundle of nerves, slippery with my own arousal, and it’s suddenly too much for me to take.

Pleasure blooms outward in a scorching wave, making my whole body shudder and jerk beneath his touch. He pulls away a little, his pants hanging half open as he watches the orgasm tear through my body, and the look on his face is one of almost tortured awe.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so fucking long,” he mutters, his pupils expanding as desire darkens his eyes. “That night, at the safe house. God, I wanted you.”

He had me.

Even then, he had me.

“All you had to do was take me,” I whisper, my words shaking slightly as the orgasm ripples through my system.

“I was too fucking scared I’d break you.”

A low laugh falls from my lips. I pull back a little, glancing down at myself—at the three bullet holes that mar my chest, the scabs on my knuckles, the faint scar that runs down the line of my left forearm. My eyes find Ryland’s again as I look up.

“Do I look like I break easily?”

His nostrils flare, a new kind of heat burning in his eyes. “No.”

Then his hands move to his pants again, shoving them down around his hips before retrieving his cock. He fists it at the base, gripping it tightly as his other hand hooks my panties.

I shift my weight, allowing him to pull them off and toss them aside. My shoes clatter to the floor, and Ryland slides his hand up my thigh again, teasing my entrance and smearing my arousal over my skin.

“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he rasps.

My heart slams against my ribs as I hold his gaze. “I don’t care.”

With a noise that doesn’t even sound human, he guides the thick head of his cock to my entrance and slams his hips forward.

My mouth falls open as my head drops back, my back arching as every nerve-ending in my body screams. Ryland slides one arm around me, his broad palm coming to rest between my shoulder blades, holding me up as he pulls out and drives in again.

He didn’t lie.

Nothing about this is gentle.

But I didn’t lie either.

I don’t fucking care.

For most of the past week, I’ve felt anxious and on edge, disassociated from my body and untethered. But the hard thrusts of Ryland’s cock send me hurtling back to earth, grounding me firmly in the present moment.

There’s nothing else to think about. There’s nothing else to feel.

Just the connection between our bodies, the way he hits my clit every time he pounds into me, the way his lips slam down on mine with the same ferocity of his thrusts.

I loop my arm around his neck, holding on for dear life as he fucks me hard and fast.

My ass keeps sliding backward on the countertop, farther away from him, and he lets out a frustrated growl as he grabs my hips with both hands, hauling me back toward him. Now that he’s got me pinned, he drives into me even harder, and the punishing stretch of his cock filling me borders on pain.

But that doesn’t stop pleasure from spiraling through me too, building slow and steady inside me as a counterpoint to our frantic, desperate movements.

“Ryland…” I gasp his name, the word leaving my mouth in three syllables as my body shakes from the force of his thrusts. “I’m gonna come. I’m gonna… fuck… please…”

“Let me see you.”

He drives into me twice more and then stops, grinding hard against my clit and pressing into me so deeply that he hits the back of my channel. I gasp as pleasure turns to pain and back again, and he rears back, grabbing my chin and staring hungrily at my face as the orgasm crests inside me. He watches as my eyelids droop, my mouth drops open, a low cry falls from my lips.

And whatever he sees on my face pushes him over the edge too.

I feel his body shudder between my legs, and he draws back and slams into me again in three long, deep strokes as he comes hard. Sticky liquid spills out from where we’re connected as he strokes in and out a few more times, breathing harshly.

Then he wraps his arms around me and lifts me off the countertop, his cock still buried inside me as he carries me out of the kitchen.

We must look like a fucking mess. His pants are hanging low on his hips, the fabric of my dress is bunched around my waist, leaving me bottomless and topless, and his shirt is half unbuttoned, his tie half undone.

But I really don’t care about that either.