Sweet Obsession (Ruthless Games Book 1)
Sweet Obsession: Chapter 21

Consciousness filters back in slowly, and it’s so much different than the last time I woke up.

My arms don’t hurt. My head feels clearer instead of fuzzy and heavy. And the panic that sat deep in my bones when I woke up tied to a chair is absent.

I feel… safe.

A low sound comes from my throat, like I’m testing my vocal chords, and I roll over onto my side. When I blink my eyes open, hazy dawn light fills the room, and I find hazel irises staring back at me.

Ryland sits in a chair near the bed, his body solid and still, forearms braced on his knees and inked fingers laced together. He’s watching me steadily, and the way he doesn’t move or react when he sees me look back at him makes me think he’s been watching me for a while. That he saw my eyelashes flutter and has watched me slowly crawl back into consciousness, allowing me the time to find my way back.

I lift my head a little, pulling my gaze from his to glance around the room.

We’re the only two occupants. I’m fully dressed again, lying on a bed that has only a fitted sheet on it—no other blankets. Aside from the chair Ryland sits in, there’s nothing but a large box fan set against one wall. The place doesn’t have the same dusty, mildewy scent as the room Carson kept me in after he abducted me, but all the same, the air feels a little stale. Like no one’s been in here for a while.

Memories of our escape and my breakdown afterward filter through my mind in patchy images and sensations. I can’t quite believe I went from hating Marcus to fucking him in the space of a few minutes—but then again, maybe that’s pretty par for the course in our relationship.

But having Theo kiss me while Marcus fucked me? That… that was new.

Something warm stirs in my belly, but I push it away. There are more important things to worry about right now.

“Where are we?” I ask in a raspy voice, turning back to Ryland.

“A safe house.”

“Where are Marcus and Theo?”

He jerks his head. “Living room. I told them I’d keep watch over you.”

“Why?”

Something flickers in his gaze. “Why what?”

I sigh, feeling a hint of exhaustion creep in again. “Why any of it? Why me? Why Carson? What the fuck is going on?”

Ryland’s face goes still for a moment. Then he lets out a heavy breath, reaching up to scrub a hand over his jaw.

“I don’t think you know what you looked like that night, Ayla. The night you got shot. That fucking image will haunt me for the rest of my life.” His eyes go out of focus a little, like he’s seeing something I can’t, reliving a moment I’m not privy to. “It wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t even seeing someone die. That wasn’t new to me. It was the look on your face. You looked at us—you looked at Marcus—like he could save you.”

He looks down at the floor, and I watch the muscles in his throat move as he swallows.

“We did what we could to help you. We paid your medical bills and bribed that woman from CPS to say she’d gotten the money from other sources. We made sure you got what you needed to help you heal.”

I blink. “What?”

Ryland chuckles, but there’s not an ounce of humor in it. “The state wasn’t going to pay for shit. And your foster family? They couldn’t have afforded it even if they’d tried to pay your medical bills—which they didn’t. So we made sure you were taken care of.”

“You… paid my bills? All three of you?”

“Yes. It was the least we could fucking do. We all agreed on that.” His jaw clenches. “That’s all we agreed on, though. Marcus didn’t want to let you go. But I never wanted to see you again.”

A dull ache spreads across my chest at the truth in his words, as if a heavy weight has settled on me. I swear I can almost feel my ribs crack from the strain. From the hurt. But I keep my voice detached as I shrug, still lying on my side. “Sorry.”

“No. Ayla.” Ryland looks up sharply, shaking his head. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks like he’s at a loss for words—not just choosing to withhold them. He tugs his chair a little closer to the bed, dropping his chin to meet my gaze. “It wasn’t for me. It was for you.”

“For me?”

He nods. “It was always for you. That’s the only reason I tried to convince Marcus to back off. I… I thought about you all the fucking time. I still do. But I thought you would be safer, that you’d have a better life, if we weren’t in it.”

I blink at him, then slowly sit up on the bed, tucking my legs under myself. This is the most openly Ryland has talked to me in… well, maybe ever. I want to pepper him with questions, but I’m afraid if I do, the pendulum will swing back the other way again, and he’ll go silent.

And it turns out he doesn’t need the questions anyway. Unprompted, he continues.

“Marcus and I fought about it all the damn time, but I pushed him to believe me. To believe that I was right. For more than two years, we kept our distance, but we all watched you. We all kept tabs on you.” He lets out a soft laugh. “I don’t think any of us could help ourselves. But at least you never knew we were there. Until that night you almost got mugged, and… everything broke.”

I nod, remembering the way the three of them emerged from the shadows as if they’d once been a part of the darkness themselves. The way they melted back into the night afterward. If I hadn’t seen Marcus’s distinctive eye, if I hadn’t called out to stop him, I might never have known who stepped forward to help me.

That’s not true, a little voice whispers in my head. You knew anyway. Some part of you always knew.

Ryland shakes his head, running a hand through the short strands of his almost-black hair. “Even after that night, I told Marcus it wasn’t too late. We could still walk away from you—sever ties completely this time, pretend you didn’t exist, let you go for good—but I should’ve known how fucking wrong I was.”

“You didn’t sever ties,” I say quietly, speaking the obvious.

Ryland’s eyes flicker as they meet mine. “No. You’re like a fucking drug, Ayla. We spent two and a half years hovering on the periphery of your life, but the moment we stepped into it that night, the moment we got close… it was like a barrier came down that was impossible to put back up. It was the first fix. And we kept coming back for more.”

I make a soft noise, plucking at the sheet beneath me as his words sink in.

Like a drug.

I’ve thought the same thing about these three men and their effect on me. The way they seem to immolate reason and self-control. Self-preservation, even. When it comes to them, I can never seem to help myself.

Honestly, I’m not sure it’s better or worse to know that I seem to have the same effect on them. In a party of addicts, does anyone ever say stop?

“Is this why you didn’t want to be in my life?” I ask, gesturing around me to encompass not just this safe house, or whatever he called it, but the other house I was taken to. The one where I was held captive.

He clenches his jaw, anger burning in his eyes. “Yes.”

“Did you know that Carson would—”

“No.” He cuts me off before I can finish, the word heavy and emphatic. “Believe me, if we had known, we would’ve done more to try to protect you. Marcus having you stay at his place was supposed to be an unnecessary precaution. We didn’t know Carson would use you to try to get to us.”

He stands, his broad form looming over me on the bed as he gazes down at me. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve made Marcus and Theo see.”

“See what?”

“We should never have been in your life, Ayla. If we hadn’t been, none of this would’ve happened. You don’t belong in the middle of this, and I fucking hate that we dragged you into it. It’s not fucking fair. This isn’t your world, this isn’t your fight, and yet you almost died because of it.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “None of us expect to live long. But you should. You have to.”

Something in his voice strikes a chord deep inside me.

He means it. He’s not speaking metaphorically or exaggeratedly.

He truly doesn’t expect to be alive for long.

Memories of each of my brushes with death filter through my mind, and I rise up onto my knees, reaching out to him with my good arm and grasping his hand.

I bring his fingers up to brush against the scar on my upper chest, shivering a little at the feel of his touch on my damaged skin. Ryland has barely ever touched me before, and my body blazes with awareness of that fact.

I let his blunt fingertips linger on my scar, allowing him to absorb the feel of it. Then I release his hand and turn my arm over, letting him see the scar on my forearm. Letting him have that piece of me.

“I never expected to live past fifteen. I tried not to,” I say softly. “I’m on borrowed time already. And I don’t think anything you do or don’t do will change that.”

Ryland catches my wrist in his large hand, staring down at it. I can feel emotions radiating from him, but I can’t read his closed-off expression well enough to know if Marcus already mentioned this to him or not. But regardless of whether he knew about my suicide attempt before now, his gaze burns with conviction when he meets my gaze again.

“Yes, it will. I fucking promise.”

Somehow, I expected him to say that. Maybe it’s because these men are all so fucking determined, and I’ve never once seen them back down from an idea they believed in. Maybe it’s because even in this moment of softness, Ryland still has to be a stubborn, rigid ass. But whatever the reason, I’m not surprised by his words.

I am, however, knocked completely off balance by what he does next.

Still holding my gaze, he drops his head and clasps my face in both hands, tilting my chin up. Then he presses his lips to mine.

This man is all hardness.

All taut fury and straight lines.

He’s stubborn and callous and harsh.

But none of those things are in this kiss.

This is the gentlest kiss I’ve ever received, a soft, barely there brush of his lips against mine—as if he believes all those things he told me so much that even now, he’s trying to pull away from me. To protect me from himself.

I lift my head higher, lengthening my spine as much as I can to press my mouth harder against his. His body tenses, and for just a heartbeat, the kiss morphs into more. For just an instant, his lips turn possessive and demanding, full of pent-up need.

Then the beast is locked back in its cage, and he pulls away.

He blinks, looking almost as surprised as I am by what just happened. Then something settles over his face—the same expression he wore when he watched Marcus fuck me and Theo kiss me.

As if he’s looking at the most precious object in the world, but it’s enclosed behind a glass case.

As if he’s looking at something he will never, ever have.

His hands stay on my face for a moment longer, thumbs brushing softly over my cheekbones as if he can’t tear himself away. Then he drops them and steps back, offering me his arm to help me slide off the bed.

“Come on. Marcus and Theo have been waiting for you to wake up. We need to talk. You deserve some answers.”

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