More from Laura Carter
We hope you enjoyed reading Ruthless Love .
Chapter One
GREGORY
My Omega tells me it’s been less than one minute since I last watched the second hand tick round.
Two twenty-three. It’s been almost three hours since it happened.
Less than three hours since I watched what I’ve craved for almost three decades unfold.
He’s dead. The biggest demon in my life has finally been condemned to the pit of flames he deserves.
But it’s not what I imagined. When I’ve thought of this day, I’ve thought that killing him would break the black clouds that have cast a shadow over my existence.
Now my black clouds have been replaced with torment.
What have I dragged this sweet girl into? Fuck.
I drag my hands over my tired face, as I sit in this grey, windowless box, not knowing where Scarlett is.
She should’ve stayed clear of me when she had the chance.
I should’ve been fair and stayed away from her.
But I couldn’t. I sought her out like vulture seeks its next meal.
Those devastating green eyes, the way they turn hazel in a certain light like nothing else I’ve seen.
That unbelievable body. Her skin feels like silk and once you’ve touched her and tasted her, there’s no going back.
No other woman could ever be good enough.
And she’s smart. Too fucking smart for her own good sometimes, and tougher than she thinks.
But not in the bedroom. There, she gives herself to me completely, utterly and I’m desperate to have her all the fucking time.
That laugh. I can’t help smiling now as I lean forward over the steel table in front of me.
Even when she’s laughing at something only she finds funny—that happens a lot—I can’t help but break my stoicism because it’s such a beautiful fucking sound.
I’ve broken her, corrupted her. Since the day she met me, I’ve turned her world into darkness. I’ve dragged her down to my level.
Rising from my metal chair, I kick it back against the mirrored wall and pace the concrete floor of my custody cell, my hands deep in the pockets of my blood-stained dinner trousers. Where is she? What are they doing to her? She won’t break. She’s stronger than that. I know it, but does she ?
I’m going to fix this. If it’s the last thing I ever do.
I’ll fix this.
The most peculiar pressure builds behind my eyes, making them sting. I can’t stand the thought of her trapped in a room like this, like an animal. She’ll be cold. She’ll be intimidated.
“Fuck! Get a fucking hold of yourself!” I chastise myself through gritted teeth. I need to see her. I need to hold her and make her understand that she’s safe. God, that face, that look in her eyes; she was terrified.
There’s a short tap on the door before it opens and a tall man wearing a cheap brown suit walks in.
An off-white shirt hugs his middle-aged spread just above the waistline, part covered by a questionable mustard tie.
The cardboard coffee cup in his hand is held as tightly as a full cardboard cup can be held.
He’s followed by a short woman with her mousey-brown hair in a bun, wearing a black trouser suit and flat, dull leather shoes.
She’s scowling, her brows almost meeting in the middle.
She holds one hand on her hip, exposing the gold police badge on her belt.
“Gregory Ryans?”
“Yes,” I say, holding out my hand on instinct.
The man shakes my hand. “I’m Detective Inspector Barnes and this is my colleague?—”
The woman holds out her hand. “Trina. I’m Trina.”
She’s a woman out to deny that this is a man’s world but I can tell she’s battling with her inner Aphrodite.
I’ve affected her. Another woman who sees only my looks. Like most women, like all women before Scarlett Heath swanned into my life in her fitted suits with her white-collar sass. She’s the only woman who’s ever been interested in what’s behind my money, face and clothes. A story I can’t tell her.
It’s unlike Trina to be affected by a man, Barnes’ reaction tells me that. It’s also obvious that these two people don’t see eye to eye.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” I say. “Albeit in the very worst of circumstances.”
Trina flashes a wide, coy smile which she quickly replaces with straight lips.
“Take a seat,” Barnes says, gesturing to the chair that came to rest flush up against the mirrored wall. “You’re a Safa.”
Rolling up the sleeves of my crimson-splattered shirt, I take a seat. His thoughts are written all over his face—South African, angry, volatile. And not afraid of guns. A jury would love the stereotype.
“Do you need someone to look at that?” Barnes asks, pointing to my cut shirt and the slashed skin at my ribs beneath.
“It’s been patched up but thank you. Fortunately, it’s not as deep as it seems from the mess.”
Barnes nods and pats the recording device on top of the table. “I’ll be recording your statement. We’ll start with some basic questions – name, date of birth, that sort of thing, then we’ll get to it. Okay?”
I nod, waiting. Barnes hits Record and a digital wheels counts us down. He strokes his grey-black beard before he leans back and hangs an elbow over his seat.
“D.I. Barnes accompanied by Katrina Martin. Two thirty-one a.m., Sunday, eight November. Please state your full name and date of birth for the record.”
“Gregory James Ryans. Nine October, nineteen ninety-five.”
“And your address please, Mr. Ryans.”
“One, the Shard, London.”
“Alright. We were called to your apartment this evening by a member of your Security team, Kenneth Trent. When we arrived, we found two men had been shot, one wounded but alive, the other dead. You were injured and a lady was unharmed. Two other men had arrived, one of whom was Kenneth Trent. Both men claim they arrived to the scene after the injuries took place. Does that match your understanding?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. So tell me in your own words what happened tonight. How did you come to be in your apartment and injured?”
“We’d been to a party hosted by my mother at her house in Cobham. It’s an annual thing. My mother’s a handbag designer, she throws the party every year around fireworks night.”
“Cobham, Surrey?”
“Yes.”
“And when you say ‘we,’ who do you mean?”
The image of Scarlett comes to my mind, walking down the stairs, flawless in her black gown, diamonds glimmering around her delicate neck.
Her eyes never left mine as she smiled that mesmerising smile, until she reached me.
I had to remind myself to breathe. My eyes close as I think of the kiss that followed, her soft lips against mine.
“Mr. Ryans?”
“Sorry, it’s been a long night. Scarlett Heath. I was at the party with Scarlett Heath and my driver.”
“Jackson?”
He knows him. I nod. “For the record please.”
“Yes, Jackson is my driver.”
“We spoke to Geoffrey Jackson and he called himself your bodyguard,” Trina adds. “Why would you need a bodyguard?”
Clearing my throat, I turn on my best impression of modesty. “I’m a very wealthy man. Wealth can breed enemies, whether you’re a good man or not.”
“Mmmhmm, and are you? Are you a good man, Mr. Ryans?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ryans,” Barnes interjects whilst shooting Trina a glare. “You were at your mother’s party, go on.”
Absentmindedly, I rub a hand around the painful ligature bruising around my neck. I need to concentrate. I need to get this right. God , I need to know where she is. I need to see her.
“We left the party sometime after eleven, just as the fireworks were starting, maybe closer to midnight.”
Trina frowns. “You left the firework party before the fireworks started?”
I’d be irritated by her but I’m distracted by the memory of that dance and the desire Scarlett and I both had, the urgency we felt to get home. I was desperate to feel her skin on mine, to satisfy my growling erection inside her.
“Yes.” I throw a brief and knowing look at Barnes.
He continues his questions. “Scarlett Heath is your… girlfriend?”
He startles me. I clear my throat again. “We know each other romantically.”
Trina rolls her eyes. She’s annoyed. Her flushes and smiles are replaced by a moody pout.
“Where did you go when you left the party?”
“Jackson drove us to my apartment. When we got to the car park at the Shard, we noticed that the tyres of my Mercedes had been slashed. I grabbed Scarlett.” There was no gun , I remind myself. “Jackson led the way to the lift vestibule. The door into the lift had been tampered with.”
“We need to check the CCTV,” Trina states, making a note in a small, ring-bound notepad with a cheap plastic pen.
“That’s been done. It’s clear.” Barnes briefly casts his attention to me. He knows the tapes were cleaned and probably knows they weren’t the only evidence meddled with. I get the feeling he’s more than just familiar with Jackson. Let’s see how this pans out.
“You say the door was tampered with?” Barnes asks.
“Forced open. We took the lift to my floor and when we got out, the door to the apartment was ajar. Jackson kicked it open and was shot as soon as he stepped inside. I think I told Scarlett to look after him, I can’t remember exactly but that’s what she did.
I knew the intruder had a gun and I knew I could only match that like for like, so I went to the safe and took Jackson’s Glock from it. ”
Trina jumps in. “Where exactly is the safe?”
“In my office.”
“Where’s that?”
I know what she’s getting at; sweat starts to form on my palms but I don’t show my nerves. I’ve spent my life hiding emotions, it’s second nature. “The second floor. Upstairs.”