26. Ryker
Chapter 26
Ryker
T he morning air hit me like a slap as I stepped out of the house. Brendan stood on the sidewalk, eyes blazing. Before I could register the fury in his expression, his fist connected with my face.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" His voice was raw, almost feral. He tried to take another swing, but I caught his wrist.
"Brendan, what the hell?—"
He yanked free, nostrils flaring. "What the fuck are you doing, coming out of her house in clothes you wore yesterday?" His eyes scanned me, burning with accusation.
I said nothing. The truth clawed at my throat but stayed buried. His fist came at me again. This time, I didn't just block it—I hit back. Hard.
"You fucked her?" His voice broke on the question, rage and betrayal dripping from every word. "You fucked my girl?"
Something snapped inside me. The dam of self-control I'd built over years of striving for perfection crumbled. My hands moved before my mind caught up, shoving him hard enough to send him stumbling back.
Brendan lunged, fists flying in wild arcs. I met him head-on, grappling and trading blows on the sidewalk like animals. Each punch carried years of unresolved pain and anger—his accusations cutting deeper than any physical wound.
We crashed into a parked car, setting off its alarm. Brendan's knee came up into my ribs; I retaliated with an elbow to his jaw. Blood dripped from his split lip onto my shirt as we wrestled for dominance.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," I growled through clenched teeth, pinning him against the car.
His laugh was hollow, desperate. "Don't I? I've seen that look before—seen how you can't stand to let anyone else have what you think is yours."
I faltered for a split second, and he took advantage, landing a punch squarely on my nose. Pain exploded behind my eyes as stars danced in my vision.
But it wasn't just physical pain—it was the shattering of illusions I'd held onto for too long.
"She's always been mine," I snarled, blood trickling from my split lip. "She was mine first."
Brendan's eyes widened with fury. His face twisted into a mask of pure rage. He came at me again, this time with the force of a man who'd lost everything. His fists hammered against my ribs, and I felt a sharp pain shoot through my side.
But I wasn't backing down. Not now. Not ever.
I caught his arm mid-swing and twisted it behind his back, forcing him to the ground. He thrashed beneath me, spitting curses and struggling to break free.
"Get off me!" he roared, trying to buck me off like a wild animal.
I tightened my grip, pressing my knee into his spine. "Not until you listen," I growled, breath coming in ragged gasps.
He twisted violently, managing to throw me off balance for a moment. He scrambled to his feet, launching himself at me once more. We collided like two storms meeting head-on, fists flying and blood splattering onto the pavement.
He landed a punch to my jaw that sent me reeling, but I countered with an uppercut that left him staggering backward. The fight became a blur of pain and fury—a brutal dance where neither of us would yield.
Brendan lunged at me again, but this time I was ready. I sidestepped his attack and drove my fist into his gut with all the strength I had left. He doubled over, gasping for breath.
Seizing the opportunity, I delivered a swift kick to his knee, sending him crashing to the ground. He tried to rise, but I pinned him down once more, panting heavily as adrenaline coursed through my veins.
"You done?" I asked between breaths, staring down at him.
He glared up at me, defiant even in defeat. "Fuck you," he spat, blood mixing with saliva on his lips.
I wiped the blood from my own mouth and spit onto the pavement beside him. "Stay down," I warned, my voice low and dangerous.
For a moment, he looked like he might fight back again, but then the fight drained out of him. He slumped against the ground, breathing heavily as reality set in.
I stood over him for a few more seconds before stepping back. My body ached from the beating I'd taken—and given—but there was a grim satisfaction in knowing I'd come out on top.
Spitting out more blood onto the sidewalk, I took one last look at he before turning away.
The fight had drained the last of my strength, leaving me hunched over, hands on my knees, catching my breath. The taste of blood lingered in my mouth. But as I straightened up, I noticed the flash of cameras and the murmur of voices.
"Ryker Kane, what are you doing outside Paige Adams's house?"
"Didn't you wear that yesterday, Kane?"
"Why did you and your brother get into a physical altercation?"
Their questions bombarded me, each one hitting harder than Brendan's fists. I felt a surge of anger and helplessness, my teeth grinding together. Paige had been right—I didn’t have anywhere to go without her. My car was still at her place.
As the questions kept coming, I tried to push past them, but the photographers closed in like vultures. The flashes blinded me, their incessant shouting filling my ears.
"Ryker, answer us! What's going on between you and Paige Adams?"
My fists clenched at my sides. The urge to lash out at them surged within me, but I knew it would only make things worse. I needed an out—a way to escape this chaos.
Then my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
Come inside through the back.
Paige.
Without hesitation, I turned on my heel and made for the side of her house. The photographers tried to follow, but I ducked into the narrow alleyway between houses and sprinted for the back door. Paige stood there waiting, her eyes wide with concern.
"Get in," she urged, holding the door open just enough for me to slip through before closing it behind me.
Inside, the chaos outside seemed distant. She locked the door and turned to face me. For a moment, we just stared at each other—both of us breathing heavily from different kinds of battles.
"Are you okay?" she finally asked, her voice softening as she took in my appearance.
"I'll live," I replied, wiping more blood from my mouth with the back of my hand.
Her eyes softened with worry as she stepped closer, inspecting the cuts and bruises that marred my face. "You look like hell."
I managed a weak smile despite everything. "Feel like it too."
She sighed and grabbed a first aid kit from a nearby cabinet. "Sit down," she instructed gently but firmly. "Let's get you cleaned up."
I obeyed without argument, sinking into one of her kitchen chairs as she began tending to my wounds with surprising tenderness given our recent arguments.
Paige knelt beside me, her fingers deftly working as she opened the first aid kit. The room felt small, her presence filling it more than the furniture or walls. She pulled out antiseptic wipes, bandages, and gauze, laying them out methodically.
"This might sting," she warned, holding an antiseptic wipe close to a gash on my cheek.
"I've had worse," I muttered, bracing myself.
She dabbed at the wound gently but firmly. The sting bit into my skin, but I kept my eyes on her face. Her brows furrowed in concentration, her lips pressed into a thin line. She worked with a precision that spoke volumes about her character—determined, thorough, caring.
Her touch was soft, almost tender. It contrasted sharply with the brutality of the fight and the chaos that followed. Each swipe of the antiseptic felt like it was cleansing more than just my wounds; it was a balm for the turmoil roiling inside me.
"Why did you come out like that?" she asked quietly, not looking up from her task.
"Brendan ambushed me," I replied, wincing as she pressed a bandage over a particularly deep cut. "Didn't really have a choice."
She sighed and shook her head slightly but didn't say anything else. Her fingers moved to my split lip next, carefully cleaning the dried blood. Her touch sent shivers down my spine, though I tried to ignore it.
"You should've let me handle it," she said after a moment of silence. "Now we've got another PR mess on our hands."
I chuckled bitterly. "I seem to be good at creating those."
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine briefly before returning to her work. "Maybe stop fighting in public places," she suggested dryly.
I couldn't help but smirk at that. "I'll try."
Paige's hands moved to my bruised ribs next, lifting my shirt slightly to inspect the damage. Her fingers brushed against my skin lightly, sending an unexpected jolt through me.
"Does this hurt?" she asked softly.
"Not much," I lied, gritting my teeth against the pain.
She gave me a knowing look but didn't press further. Instead, she applied some ointment to the bruises and then wrapped gauze around my torso carefully.
"There," she said finally, stepping back to survey her work. "That should hold you together for now."
I looked down at myself—patched up but still raw from both the fight and everything it had unearthed within me. "Thanks," I said quietly, meeting her gaze once more.
She nodded slightly but didn't say anything in return. The silence between us felt heavy yet strangely comforting—a temporary truce in our ongoing battle of wills.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, her voice breaking the thick silence.
I turned to her, my glare sharp enough to cut through steel. What did she expect me to say? I was furious with Brendan, livid that he thought he had any claim over her. Paige had always been mine. Always.
"You shouldn't have fought him," she said, her eyes searching mine for something I wasn't ready to give.
I could see the gears turning in her head, calculating the fallout, planning damage control. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Part of me wanted her to just be Paige, not the PR guru trying to fix another mess I'd made.
"I don't regret one second of it," I replied roughly, my voice edged with anger. "The asshole deserves it. You're mine, Paige. He needs to know that."
Her expression hardened. "And what about the team, Ryker? I thought you cared about them more than anything."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. She was right, and it stung more than any blow Brendan had landed. "I—" I faltered, unable to find the right words. Instead, I stayed silent, my jaw clenched tight.
She sighed deeply, running a hand through her hair in frustration. "I need to handle this," she muttered, more to herself than to me.
The air between us felt charged with unspoken words and unresolved tension. The weight of everything hung heavy on my shoulders—Brendan's accusations, Paige's disappointment, and the undeniable truth of my own feelings.
As she turned away to grab her phone and start making calls, I couldn't help but feel a pang of frustration. She was right—we needed damage control—but every part of me rebelled against letting go of this moment.
I watched her pace back and forth, already diving into crisis management mode. It was both maddening and admirable how quickly she shifted into problem-solving mode.
I sank deeper into the chair, feeling every bruise and cut on my body throb in rhythm with my racing heart. The battle wasn't over—not by a long shot—but for now, all we could do was pick up the pieces and figure out how to move forward from here.
My phone rang, the shrill sound cutting through the tense silence. I glanced at the caller ID and saw my father's name flashing on the screen. The last person I wanted to deal with right now. Ignoring it, I let it go to voicemail.
The texts started pouring in almost immediately.
What the hell are you thinking?
You and Paige Adams? Really?
You just threw away everything to fuck some slut? Is this a way to get back at Brendan?
Each message was like a punch to the gut, each word stoking the fire of my fury. My grip tightened around the phone until my knuckles turned white. Finally, unable to contain it any longer, I hurled the device across the room. It smashed against the wall with a satisfying crack.
Paige jumped at the sudden violence, her eyes wide with shock. She looked at me; her face pale. But concern flickered in her eyes.
I met her gaze but said nothing. Words seemed useless, empty. The rage and frustration churned inside me, threatening to spill over.
For once, I wasn't worried about being perfect or holding everything together. I didn't care about appearances or consequences. I wanted Paige in whatever way I could have her—raw, real, and unfiltered.
She took a tentative step towards me, her expression softening as she reached out a hand. "Ryker," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
I closed the distance between us in two strides, capturing her hand in mine. The contact sent a jolt through me, grounding me.
"Don't," I said hoarsely, my voice raw with emotion. "Don't say anything."
She nodded silently, her eyes never leaving mine as she laced her fingers through mine.
In that moment, nothing else mattered—not Brendan, not my father, not even the mess we'd have to clean up later. It was just us—two broken souls finding solace in each other's presence.
Her phone rang, cutting through the tension like a knife. Paige glanced at the screen, her eyes widening slightly.
"I have to take this," she whispered, her voice tight with urgency.
She pulled away from me and walked over to the kitchen; her back straightening as she answered the call. I watched her, wishing I could pull her back. Even now, during this shitstorm, she was composed and focused.
I ran my hand through my hair, trying to shake off the lingering anger and confusion. Usually, I knew exactly what I intended to do. Every move was calculated, every step planned. But now? Now I felt like I was free-falling without a safety net.
But despite the uncertainty gnawing at me, I didn't regret any of it. Not the fight with Brendan, not standing my ground for Paige. Even if this blew up in my face later, it felt right in the moment.
Paige's voice carried softly from the kitchen as she spoke into her phone. I couldn't make out the words, but her tone was serious, professional. She ended the call and turned back to me. She chewed her bottom lip.
"What is it?" I asked, my voice sounding rougher than I'd intended.
"I have to go to the office," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Gideon wants to see me."
"Now?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
She nodded. "Yeah, now."
I wanted to argue, to tell her that it could wait or that she didn't need to go alone. But I knew better. This was her job—her responsibility—and she'd handle it just like she handled everything else: with grace and strength.
"All right," I said finally, exhaling slowly.
She headed into her bedroom without a word, probably to get dressed.
And I…
I hoped I hadn't fucked everything up for her.