Chapter 22 Faith
FAITH
I’d replayed that kitchen moment approximately seven hundred times since last night.
“We seriously could’ve done this over coffee,” Ryker said, navigating another turn one-handed, his other forearm casually resting on his knee as his vehicle rounded the bend smoothly.
“We could have done this last night.”
He shot me a teasing look. “You fell asleep last night.”
“I woke up.”
“Only when I was carrying you to bed.”
The memory of his arms around me, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Yeah, let’s not think about that right now. “My brother should have let you finish the trip.”
“Your brother knew I might not leave.”
I smiled, but the truth was harder to ignore in daylight. Something had shifted in that kitchen. Something that had been replaying on a loop every quiet moment since.
And here was the thing that really got me: Ryker could have insisted on working last night, my exhaustion be damned. Most lawyers might have. But he’d prioritized my sleep instead. Actually said, “You’ve had a long day, Warrior. Get some rest.”
Then he’d looked like he wanted to kiss me good night. Would have probably, if Blake hadn’t been glaring daggers from across the room.
So, they’d all left instead.
This morning, he’d shown up bright and early, two coffees in hand and that devastating smile that should be illegal.
“Hard work will be good for us,” I said, trying to sound more convinced than I felt. Trying to pretend I wasn’t a ball of nerves with the conversation looming ahead of us.
“This isn’t the group home,” I said when he parked.
“I know. I’ll be quick, and then we can be on our way.”
I followed Ryker into a commercial building that smelled faintly of carpet cleaner and ambition. The lobby was all polished floors and generic corporate art, the kind of space designed to look expensive without actually being memorable.
He held the door for me, then led me down a hallway lined with frosted glass offices. Each door had a nameplate. Each office looked identical through the glass. Efficient. Professional.
We stopped at a door marked Kincaid & Associates.
He pushed it open, gesturing me inside.
The reception area was bustling. A woman at the front desk looked up with a polite smile. Phones rang in the background. People moved between offices and desks with files tucked under their arms, the hum of a working law firm in full swing.
Ryker nodded to a few people as he passed, but didn’t stop to chat. He led me down another hallway, past what looked like conference rooms and paralegal stations, until we reached a door at the end.
His door. His name on the placard.
He opened it and stepped aside.
“So, this is your office, huh?” I stepped inside and stopped cold. The space was … bare. Aggressively bare. Like someone had staged an office, using only the minimum required props: desk, chairs, bookshelf.
Check, check, check.
But where was the life?
Ryker moved past me without comment, tossing his keys on the desk with a metallic clink. He crossed to a filing cabinet and started rifling through folders, clearly on a mission.
I drifted toward the bookshelf, scanning the spines. Legal textbooks, case law, statutes. Row after row of dense, imposing volumes.
Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled one out at random and flipped it open.
Pursuant to the aforesaid provisions under subsection 12(b)(6), the court shall consider whether the pleading states a claim upon which relief can be granted, notwithstanding the defendant’s assertion of qualified immunity as articulated in Harlow v. Fitzgerald …
I blinked. Read it again. Still gibberish.
“You actually understand this stuff?” I called over my shoulder.
Ryker glanced up from the filing cabinet. “Wouldn’t be a very good lawyer if I didn’t.”
“This reads like an instruction manual for assembling a spaceship.” I squinted at the page. “Written backward. In Latin. With extra parts included just for fun.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “That’s actually a pretty accurate description of most legal briefs.”
I slid the book back onto the shelf and turned to face him fully.
Okay, I had to admit, the whole lawyer thing was sexy as hell.
Ryker had the brains to navigate this kind of complexity, the dedication to master it, and somehow, he still managed to look like he could throw someone through a wall if the situation called for it. Tattooed, muscular, brilliant.
How was that fair?
“You find what you need?” I asked, turning back to him.
“Almost.” He didn’t look up. “Need Knox’s file. Visiting him later today.”
Right. Knox. The reason we made this pit stop on the way to the group home.
I wandered closer to his desk, noting the complete absence of anything personal again. No photos. No knickknacks. No coffee mug with a stupid slogan. Nothing that said, Ryker exists here as an actual human being with interests and memories and people he loves.
It bothered me. More than it should have.
“It’s very bare in here,” I mused.
He glanced up, one eyebrow raised. “It’s an office.”
“It’s a cell with better lighting.”
That earned me a ghost of a smile. He pulled a folder free and straightened. “Yeah, I guess it could use some life.”
“You guess?”
He shrugged, tucking the folder under his arm. “I don’t have the time.”
And there it was. That casual admission that landed like a punch to the sternum.
I don’t have the time.
Of course he didn’t. Because Ryker spent every waking hour grinding through someone else’s crisis. Researching. Filing motions. Showing up in court. Visiting clients. Helping friends. Saving people.
Meanwhile, his own space looked like a storage unit for legal knowledge. No warmth. No personality. No evidence of him.
Where was the proof that Ryker mattered? That he wasn’t just a machine built to dispense justice and ask for nothing in return?
Something sharp twisted beneath my ribs with something uncomfortably close to anger. Not at him. Never at him. At the world that took and took from people like Ryker and never thought to give anything back.
“Well,” I said lightly, “that’s depressing.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Welcome to law.”
“Is this what they teach you in law school? How to create an environment that sucks out your soul?”
“That’s first semester.” He moved toward the door, clearly ready to go. “Soul extraction is a prerequisite.”
I followed, but the image of that barren office stuck with me. Burrowed under my skin.
I would do something about this. I didn’t know what yet, but something. It wouldn’t be much compared to everything Ryker had done for me, for Knox, for everyone who crossed his path.
But it would be something.
Before we reached the door, Ryker paused at his assistant’s desk. “I need you to start the whiteboard on the Morrison case. Timeline, victim history, every piece of evidence we have so far. I’ll fill in the gaps after I interview Ms. Morrison this afternoon.”
There was that word again. Interview. Like I was a witness. A suspect. Not the woman he’d kissed in my kitchen.
“Also,” he added, lowering his voice, “any word from Danny on the surveillance footage?”
The woman shook her head. “Still nothing. He says it’s like hitting a brick wall everywhere he turns.”
Ryker’s expression flickered. Just for a second, but I caught it. Concern. Maybe even suspicion.
“Tell him to document every dead end,” Ryker said. “Every refused request, every missing file. If someone’s blocking us, I want a paper trail.”
“Got it.”
He turned back to me, and just like that, the mask was back in place. Calm. Controlled.
“Ready?” Ryker asked, pausing at the office’s front door, prepared to drive me to my chosen location—the group home, which was currently empty.
I nodded, swallowing against the sudden thickness in my throat.
That small, traitorous voice from the kitchen was back, whispering about trust. About what it might feel like to tell someone the truth. Even just part of it.
The problem was, I didn’t know if I could. But ready or not, Ryker needed answers. I’d have to show him at least some of the parts I’d kept hidden.
Even the thought of showing him anything real made my stomach drop. Because once he saw who I really was—even just glimpses—everything would change.
When Ryker finally knew the real me, would he stay? Or would he become just another person who decided I wasn’t worth the trouble?
God, please don’t let him reject me.
Not him.