Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
Charlotte
“What happened to your hands?”
Ruin’s head snaps up from his laptop. Bandages snake from his knuckles all the way up to his forearms. He quickly shoves both hands under the desk so he can hide them.
Ryder had to run out with Wolf to coordinate with Mihai, so he asked me to find Ruin and stick with him in the meantime.
And I’m quickly realizing I probably shouldn’t be anywhere near him. Because the yearning looks he used to throw my way have shifted. Morphed into something I don’t want to name.
“Oh, err… nothing.”
My eyes narrow, but instead of pressing him, I glance around his office.
I’ve never been in here before. It’s clean. Surprisingly modern for a biker clubhouse office—dark wood desk, sleek shelves, everything neatly organized.
Then my gaze lands on the couch. A duvet is draped over one armrest. Behind it, a box overflowing with clothes is shoved into the corner like an afterthought.
My eyes widen. “Are you… are you sleeping here?”
Ruin follows my gaze. When he spots the couch, he winces slightly. “Yeah, well…” He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I was gonna take your old room upstairs but it’s too loud there.”
“Loud,” I repeat blankly.
He shrugs. “I have a house on the club grounds, but it’s not furnished yet. So… office it is. For now.”
I frown. I knew he gave up his room for me. But why didn’t he just get his house furnished? Or gotten a cot? A futon? Something.
“It’s fine, Charlotte,” he says smoothly, clearly noticing my expression. His tone turns careful, like he’s trying to calm me down before I even say anything. “I’m here all the time anyway. With everything going on, it’s better I stay in the clubhouse. Besides…”
I raise an eyebrow when he trails off. “Besides?”
His lips roll inward like he’s physically trying to stop the rest of the sentence from escaping.
I step farther into the room and drop into the chair opposite his desk. Then I cross my arms over my chest, fixing him with a pointed look. “Besides?” I press again.
He exhales slowly. “You’re not gonna like the answer.”
I stare at him flatly. “Try me.”
“Fine,” he mutters, lifting both his bandaged hands in surrender. “Besides… you’re here.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking faintly uncomfortable. “I don’t want to be too far away in case—well, in case you need me.”
My whole body braces for the scoff. Or the disbelieving laugh. But it never comes. Or maybe I swallow it down before it can escape. I’m not even sure anymore.
Instead, I nod toward his hands. “Lost a fight with a tiger?”
His head tilts slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Wouldn’t I have won if I’m sitting here in one piece?”
Now I do scoff. But the sound carries far less bite than before. It almost borders on teasing. “What happened, though?” I ask again. “You didn’t have those bandages two days ago at Wolf’s house.”
His throat bobs. For a moment, his gaze flicks away from me, like he’s suddenly fascinated with a random spot on his desk. “Well,” he mutters, shifting in his chair. “I have to take these off anyway. For it to heal. So might as well…”
My eyes narrow. Suspicion coils low in my gut as he slowly pulls his hands from under the desk.
He hesitates for a second. His fingers hover over the tape wrapped around his wrist, like he’s debating whether this is a terrible idea.
Then he exhales quietly and starts peeling it away. The tape comes off slowly. Careful. Methodical. He unwraps the first bandage from his right hand, his jaw tightening slightly as the dressing pulls at skin. Layer after layer falls away.
My brows knit together. What the hell—
Then the final wrap loosens and I freeze. The breath leaves my lungs in a silent rush.
Deep, black ink spreads across his arm, sharp and intricate against his skin.
Thorns. Beautiful, devastating thorns. They coil from his knuckles, winding up his hand and climbing his forearm in long, intertwined strands. The design is impossibly detailed—each thorn sharp, deliberate, etched with crisp precision.
The vines circle his wrist twice like restraints before snaking back toward his knuckles.
The same design spills across his other arm as he unwraps the second bandage.
Twin patterns. Coiling. Interlocking.
The edges of the tattoo are still angry and slightly raised. The skin around them faintly pink.
Fresh. Painfully fresh. He must’ve gotten them finished last night.
My chest tightens.
It looks… beautiful and brutal all at once. I’m staring so hard I barely notice when he finishes pulling the bandages off.
My gaze traces the lines again and again.
I jump slightly when his voice rumbles through the quiet. Soft and cautious. “You kept… looking at my hands that day.”
My eyes snap up. But he’s staring down at his forearms.
“You kept looking at them when I showed you your apartment,” he continues quietly. “Like they would…” His jaw tightens. “…like I would hurt you with them—again.”
God.
He lifts his gaze then, forcing me to meet it. The torment in his eyes makes my chest ache. Then he offers me both his hands, palms up. “These aren’t the same hands anymore, Charlotte.” His voice drops rougher. “I won’t let them be.”
What the hell is he doing? Why has he carved that reminder into his skin? Why would he brand himself with the memory of that day?
No. It’s not a reminder.
It’s restraint. Forever inked into the skin of a man who realized I couldn’t even look at his hands without flinching.
And yet, I stare at the black thorns winding around his wrists. At the quiet pain sitting in his eyes.
Why am I not flinching now? Why am I awed?
I sober quickly, forcing down the strange warmth creeping up my chest.
“There’s an all-out war going on and you’re… getting tattoos?” I say flatly, not actually expecting a response.
His brows lift, a spark of challenge flickering in his eyes. “Work-life balance, Charlotte.” He smirks. “I know how much you excel at it. Why can’t I?”
I shake my head automatically. Then freeze.
Wait, what?
My gaze sharpens. “How do you know I excel at it?”
His face drops instantly. The smirk vanishes like someone flipped a switch. For a second he stares at me, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Then he gulps. Once. Twice. But nothing comes out.
“How, Ruin?”
“I-I just—” He clamps his mouth shut so abruptly his jaw clicks.
My chest tightens. “I haven’t worked, continued my studies, or had much of a life since moving back here,” I say slowly. “So how exactly do you know about my work-life balance?”
My voice isn’t sharp. But there’s enough edge to it that his gaze drops. He stares helplessly at the tattoos winding across his hands as if they might save him.
My eyes widen. The pieces fall into place so fast it makes my head spin. “It was you,” I breathe.
His shoulders tense.
“It was you?” I shoot up from the chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “God! That day on terrace—when I felt someone watching me—when I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest…” My voice rises. “It was you?!”
“Charlotte, I was—”
“Stalking me,” I finish for him with a shriek. The air rushes out of my lungs as I collapse back into the chair.
He winces. Then his brows pull together. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I just wanted to protect you.”
I scoff. The sound is sharp enough to slice through the room. “How long?”
“What?” He looks up, his gaze almost pleading.
“How long were you stalking me?” I drawl.
He exhales hard through his mouth, cheeks flushing, the tips of his ears turning red. “Since… uh… four months after you left.”
My jaw drops. What the hell was he thinking?
I had thrown him out on his ass every single time he—or Wolf—tried to talk to me. So his brilliant solution had been… stalking?
I’m just opening my mouth to verbally eviscerate him when his phone buzzes on the desk, the vibration slicing through the tension.
He stiffens.
I glance down at the screen.
Sarah.
Great. I hate the way my shoulders sag at the sight of her name. The way my stomach twists with something ugly I refuse to name.
Instead of answering, Ruin simply rejects the call.
“You should’ve answered,” I say flatly. “Your girlfriend might’ve needed you.”
“I’m not—” He drags a frustrated hand down his face.
“She’s not my girlfriend, Charlotte. Never was.
Apparently, Glory’s been sniffing around her, so I told her to call me if she ever saw the bitch again.
” His tone turns defensive. Like he’s trying to clarify something.
Like he thinks I need the clarification.
I’m immediately disgusted with myself for even letting that thought exist.
His phone lights up again. Voicemail.
“Listen to it, Ruin,” I say, more resigned than anything. “If what you’re saying is true, it might be important.”
He sighs, visibly restraining himself from arguing, then taps the screen.
Sarah’s voice fills the room. “R-Ruin,” she whispers shakily.
“I… that woman from the picture—Leila, or whatever her name is—she… she was at my salon tonight at 8:20 p.m. I thought she wouldn’t show up for her session but…
well she came late. You told me to inform you so… err… yeah. She was here. That’s it.”
I frown.
Her voice trembles through the speaker. The words rush out like she’s moving fast—like she’s speed walking. Maybe running. But the gasps between her sentences don’t sound like exhaustion. They sound like fear.
Ruin barely seems to notice. He taps the share button immediately, probably forwarding it to Ryder.
“You should check on her,” I blurt.
He frowns at me.
“You should check on her, Ruin,” I repeat. “She sounded scared. Call her back.”
He starts to shake his head, but freezes when I slap my palm on the desk. “Call her back!”
“Fine! Fine—okay.”
He hits call. A second later, he yanks the phone back from his ear, staring at it. “It won’t go through,” he mutters.
He tries again. Once. Twice.
Nothing.
His next call goes to Ryder. “Brother,” he says quickly. “Sarah called to say Glory paid her a visit tonight. At her salon. Around eight-twenty.”
A pause.
“Yeah… I figured. Hey, can you check on her? She sounded weird. And I can’t get through.”
I nod faintly, hoping—really hoping—that woman isn’t caught in a mess she has nothing to do with.
Ruin lowers the phone slowly when the call ends. We stare at each other like another tactical move was made in this war. And it wasn’t ours.
??????
“And your appetite? Is it back yet?” Isabelle asks.
It’s one of the rare days she’s actually at the clubhouse. I have no idea how she manages four night shifts at the club and still keeps up with her sixty-hour weeks at the clinic. Honestly, I’m a little in awe of her. She’s a brilliant nurse.
“It’s back, yes. Sort of,” I say with a small smile, glancing toward my kitchen.
My secluded little sanctuary.
I gave Isabelle a quick tour of my club apartment earlier. She’d been momentarily stunned when I told her Ruin had done all of it.
Now we’re sitting on the couch with glasses of port wine, casually wondering why the hell my Devil’s flow hasn’t shown up yet. It’s been fifty-three days.
The first thing she asked me was whether I was sexually active. My entire face had burned with embarrassment. I just shook my head and stared down at my lap.
Because how exactly do you tell someone—someone who witnessed the most humiliating moment of your life—that yes, I was in Ruin’s room naked… but I’m actually a virgin?
“Well then,” Isabelle says reassuringly, squeezing my arm gently. “According to my assessment, it’s just stress. It’ll come, Charlotte. Stress can mess with your cycle. Just keep track of your symptoms. And you already have that appointment with Noah—err… Dr. Almonte tomorrow.”
I smirk at her slip.
“Oh, about the appointment, do I need to—”
A knock at the door cuts me off.
It reminds me that Ryder is on my protection detail today. Ruin and Wolf have been coordinating with someone named Tudor, quietly letting a few of Mihai’s men into the compound at a time.
Jesus.
Two days have passed, and I still involuntarily shiver when I think about Ruin’s arms. The thorned vines of the tattoo twisting around the veins that rise beneath his skin—
‘These aren’t the same hands anymore, Charlotte.’
I shake the memory away and open the door.
Ryder stands there, hands tucked casually into his jeans. His smile is soft. Almost flirtatious. But the moment he sees Isabelle behind me, it vanishes.
He clears his throat. “I’m heading to Wolf’s office. They’re back. Wanna join? You might want to hear this.”
My stomach sinks, but I nod anyway. Because every time these three have updates lately, they’re grim. And I’m not sure I can handle anything too gory tonight. Well, any night, really.
Twenty minutes later, I find myself fully briefed on Mihai’s plan to reinforce the club.
Apparently, we already have around five of his men inside the compound. I’ve never seen them. But I suppose that’s the point.
The men who attacked Healer’s sister were ghosts. And ever since that night, hunting down the traitors has become priority number one—for both Nomads and us. Especially after it became painfully clear that the Reapers were probably destroyed from the inside.
The conversation eventually shifts to Ryder and the work he’s been doing. He’s been coordinating with someone named Bug, digging through every scrap of information about the attack on the Reapers.
“I have the list of the missing brothers,” Ryder says to Wolf, his voice losing some of its usual steadiness.
“I…” He hesitates. Then his eyes flick toward me. “The dead weren’t easy to identify,” he continues carefully. “So it took some time. But there’s something I noticed once I started analyzing the names.”
Wolf frowns, his gaze drifting to me for a moment. His shoulders stiffen slightly, like he suddenly wishes I wasn’t here to hear this.
“The dead were all single brothers,” Ryder says grimly. “No wives. No sisters. No kids.”
A heavy silence falls across the room. The dots far too scattered for me to connect.
“The ones that were taken… are likely alive.” Ryder exhales slowly. “They all have Ol’ Ladies. Or—well—a female family member. Or kids.”
My lips part before I can stop them. My heart starts hammering violently against my ribcage. Does that mean—
Wolf is watching me carefully now. His eyes are sharp yet wary. He knows exactly what conclusion I’ve reached. The same one settling like poisoned air in the room.
They don’t just want the women. Or the children. But they want the men, too. Alive.
My God! They’re not just taking them hostage. They’re turning them into something far worse.
Caged witnesses. Broken men. Helpless to save their own stolen families.