Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
Charlotte
“What time is it?” My voice cracks.
“Almost four,” he rasps.
Closing whatever folder he has in his hands, he shifts. Stacking it on top of a bunch of documents. “You slept almost three hours. You hungry?”
The gentle tone of his voice irks me. But I stop myself from snapping. “Where’s Ryder?” I ask instead, and I see the exact moment his whole face shuts down.
The lines of his face carry the same bitterness from when he told me how he knew I’d kissed Ryder.
“With Wolf,” he tells me without looking at me.
It’s jealousy. I can see it. But even more than that, it’s restraint. It’s visible in the way his muscles stiffen up. The way it takes him locking his whole body up to stop from saying whatever he desperately wants to.
How the veins in his forearm slowly cord against the vines of his ink, as he grips the desk hard.
Unlike last time I saw this jealous edge, I don’t let his reaction pass the moment.
I don’t know what possesses me to say what comes out of my mouth next, but it does have the same effect as when I hurl insulting nicknames at him. “What—I can’t even say his name in front of you now because we kissed? Upgrading from hairless to a territorial Chihuahua, are we?”
His eyes snap back to mine. It’s no longer bitter, but heated in the way I’ve noticed so many times. His lips twitch at my newest attempt at creativity.
He huffs, closing his eyes as he shakes his head with a soft grin pasted on his face. Then he shifts in his chair again—almost imperceptibly. But I catch it.
I can’t see anything below his waist. But I’m absolutely certain that the muscles of his thighs are twitching behind that desk.
God. I’m playing with fucking fire. Why the hell did I change the mood? Why did his desolation irk me enough that I chose to lighten the mood by turning him on?
I could’ve made a joke. Even a grim, dark one. But, nooo. Charlotte Hayes wanted to validate her hypothesis—that the creativity of her nicknames is directly proportional to the duration of the twitch in stupid pants.
“I know what you’re doing, Charlotte,” he says, voice low and patient, a faint smile still playing on his lips.
I almost scoff. I doubt you do.
“And trying to make me jealous with that kiss won’t rile me up,” he adds softly, one brow quirking.
Oh, you’re so off the mark.
“Yeah?” I chirp, the petulance slipping out before I can stop it. “Then what will?”
He exhales, voice infuriatingly gentle. “Nothing. That’s not my focus.” His gaze steadies on me. “You are.”
My eyes roll on instinct, even though I know—annoyingly enough— he means it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to your parents’ house?” I snap, the shift in topic sharp. “I would’ve wanted to see Mama and Torch too.”
The words come out harsher than intended. I know I’m being off. Weirdly so.
It was probably last minute. A quick visit. Or maybe—more likely—he just needed space after whatever the hell last night was.
Space from me.
His expression softens immediately. “I’m sorry. It’s still not safe yet.” He pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I’ll take you soon, okay? We just need to wait a while.”
That tone, soft, careful, almost placating—irritates me more than it should.
A low, restless heat stirs in my chest, crawling outward in slow, unhelpful waves.
Maybe I’m just cranky. I did just wake up.
But this tight, buzzing unease under my skin isn’t new. It’s been growing. Stretching. Widening and filling up space inside me with every passing day. With every moment spent wondering if this is it. If I’m running out of time without even knowing it. If the day I’ve lived is my last.
I push off the couch before I can stop myself. The sudden movement makes my head spin for a second, but it’s nothing compared to the sharp, hollow drop in my chest when I step away from it—away from him.
His scent that lingered on the duvet I’d been leaning against. Clean. Warm. Infuriatingly comforting.
The second it’s gone, I feel it. The absence.
God, what is wrong with me?
“I don’t like this,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair as I start pacing his office. “I don’t like any of this. The waiting. The not knowing. The whole—living in fear and imprisoning myself in these club walls.”
“Charlotte—”
“No,” I cut him off, shaking my head. “No! I want this done. We just keep waiting and waiting. And God knows what they’re doing while we’re frickin’ waiting.”
Ruin watches me quietly from behind his desk. Too quiet. Too composed. It makes something in me itch. But there’s a flicker behind his eyes. It’s telling me he’s keeping something from me.
“What?” I whisper shakily. “Did something happen?”
Silence.
“We did learn something today,” he says finally, voice steady.
I freeze.
Something about the way he says it—careful, measured—makes my stomach twist.
“What?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
He exhales, slow. “One of the Nomads’ Ol’ Ladies and a club princess. They’re missing.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My breath stutters, chest tightening so fast it almost hurts. “Oh shit,” I breathe out, softer this time. “Missing as in—”
“Taken,” he says.
My vision blurs for a second, the room tilting slightly as something cold and suffocating creeps up my spine. “Oh God…” I shake my head, backing up a step. “They’re coming, aren’t they? We’re next? They—”
“Hey. Hey, hey, listen to me,” he says urgently, already moving. “That’s why we’re locking things down tighter, okay?”
He rounds the desk slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile. Something unpredictable. “We’ve increased our patrols. Both in numbers and frequency. We have it under control, Charlotte. I just need you to stay inside the clubhouse unless—”
“Unless what?” I snap, the words cracking out of me sharper than I intend.
His jaw tightens, but his tone doesn’t change—still annoyingly calm. “Unless you’re with me. Or Ryder. Or Wolf.”
Of course. A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Perfect,” I mutter, flailing my arms. “I should just stay here. Stay hidden. All while they keep taking more women. And we sit here on our asses and wait for them to attack us.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I see it.
His eyes darken for half a second before he reins it in, composure snapping back into place like armor. “Defense, Charlotte,” he says quietly, taking another step closer. “We’re playing defense.”
“But why not go on offense instead? Get this done and over with?” I demand, my voice rising. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you don’t care how many other women get hurt unless it’s me.”
His brows pull together, something pained flashing across his face. “We care. Christ! We do. But we also want to keep you alive.”
“There it is,” I breathe out, almost laughing. “That concern you’ve all suddenly developed that I matter all of a sudden.”
“That’s not fair,” he croaks.
“Isn’t it?” I snap. I know I’m probably just goading him unreasonably.
Because processing what’s been happening to the Nomads—how it might happen to us—is burning a hole in my chest.
We’re too close now. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him. The scent. Close enough that every breath feels almost shared.
His hands lift slightly—hesitant, like he wants to touch me. Like he’s holding himself back.
“It’s not sudden,” he says, softer now. “And you fucking matter. I’m not risking you just to end this sooner, you understand? I’m trying to protect you.”
“By what?” I fire back. “Locking me up? Deciding if I can see Mama, where I can go—who I can kiss?” I startle at my own words. Unable to keep the venom from creeping out.
And finally—finally—something snaps behind his eyes at that. “Don’t,” he says, low.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. “Don’t what?” I challenge, even though something in me warns I should stop. “Don’t bring up Ryder? Why? Does it bother you that much?”
His hands settle on my shoulders before I can process it. Firm. Warm. Careful.
I go still. My gaze drops automatically to his hands. To the ink. Those intricate, coiling thorns wrapping around his skin—sharp, deliberate, permanent.
A reminder. A promise.
And the strangest thing is—there’s no fear anymore. Unlike the last time his hands were near my throat. No flinch. No instinct to recoil. Just something else. Something tighter.
Frustration coils in my chest, tangled with something I don’t want to name.
“Charlotte,” he murmurs, voice softer now, almost pleading. “Look at me.”
I don’t. If I do, I know I’ll see it. That steady, infuriating calm. That patience. That softness he keeps throwing at me even when I’m making this conversation harder for him—by bringing up that damning kiss that meant nothing.
“I need you to trust me,” he continues, ignoring my attempts to rile him up.
His thumbs barely shift against my shoulders before going still again, like he caught himself.
“Just for now. Just for this. We’ll handle this and we’ll try our best so that no one else gets hurt, okay?
I promise you I will get you through this. Together.”
Everything feels too loud. Too close. Too much. God. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
The danger. The waiting. The way the walls keep closing in. The way he stands here like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s about to collapse.
In that moment, I recognize another feeling that the real Ruin gives me.
Solace. Not the peace he’s building for me. But the peace that he’s become for me.
I freeze, unable to draw a single breath. “Stop,” I whisper.
He stills immediately. “What?”
“Stop,” I repeat, my voice trembling now. “Stop talking like that.”
“I’m just—”
“Stop,” I cut in, finally looking up at him. My breath hitches.
His gaze softens, something breaking through the control he’s been holding onto. Then he nods slowly.
Still staring at me. Still carrying the weight of my peace in those gleaming eyes. Eyes that bleed out an emotion I dare not name.
That’s it. That’s the thing that does it.
His silence that still manages to relay his feelings.
A single look envelops me in the warmth of peace. Warmth of him.
He swallows audibly, eyes darting between mine with a quiet concern. His scent dizzying.
I can’t take it anymore. Something inside me just snaps.
Before I can think—before I can stop—I surge forward, grabbing the front of his cut and pulling him down to me.
My lips crash into his. The collision sends a jolt through me. Heat and frustration and something dangerously close to relief pouring out of me all at once.
For a brief second, he freezes.
When I part my lips, welcoming him, I feel it.
Because the arm circling my waist this time—the hand possessively cupping the back of my neck—
Carries the thorns I find hauntingly beautiful.