Chapter 12
Ramsey
Ican feel her eyes burning into my back as I kneel by the tub, my hand testing the water temperature.
Too hot, and it'll hurt her already bruised skin.
Too cold, and it won't do shit for her muscles.
The bathroom fills with steam, fogging the mirror and making everything feel smaller, more intimate. More dangerous.
"Is it warm enough?" Reese's voice is small, perched on the counter like a broken bird. Her lip is still swollen, a reminder that I fucked up. I should have never let her have a fucking boyfriend. I thought Lieutenant Polo-and-Khakis was terrified of me. First thing, I’m going to make sure she feels safe, cared for. After that though, I’m going to enjoy every second of his fear as I murder him.
But that’s the thing about men who like to push women around.
They think they’re gods, that the sun rises and sets on their asses and nothing can touch them.
They’re wrong, so very fucking wrong. Men who abuse women are bottom feeders; they are maggots.
My favorite thing about maggots is how easily they’re killed.
I can easily destroy his maggot family and whatever lineage they claim to have and spout off about like most dumbass wannabe waspy people do. I’ll erase them from ever existing.
"Almost." I dump in Epsom salt, then reach for the lavender bath oil she keeps on the shelf. Fucking lavender. The scent that's been on her skin for years after dance.
My hands shake as I add three drops, watching the oil create rainbow patterns on the water's surface. This is torture. Pure fucking torture. But I'd walk through hell barefoot if she asked me to.
I turn to face her. Her eyes are vacant, distant. I've seen that look before. Four years ago. The night Penn and I found her after tracking and chasing Reagan through the streets.
Then we found them in the field of an old abandoned hangar, Reese running for her life as the trafficker strangled Reagan, I took off after her, scooping her up as my cousin defended his wife.
After bringing the girls back together, I remember grabbing the tire iron that had been lying there and just beating the man’s already dead body until my arms gave out, until nothing recognizable was left of his face.
I felt better after that, even got an atta boy out of my cousin.
"Hey." I step between her legs where she sits on the counter, her bare feet dangling. "Look at me, Reese."
I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs gentle on her cheekbones. Her skin is so fucking soft under my calloused palms. The contrast makes me want to scream. Someone like me shouldn't be allowed to touch something so perfect.
"Breathe with me," I tell her, my voice rougher than I intend. "In..."
She inhales shakily, her chest rising.
"Out..."
We breathe together, once, twice, three times. With each breath, her eyes focus a little more, coming back to me. Back to us. This bathroom. This moment.
"There you are," I whisper.
"I'm okay," she says, but we both know it's bullshit.
The bath is ready. Now comes the hard part. "Do you…need help getting in?"
My cock twitches traitorously at the thought, and I hate myself for it. She's hurt. She's vulnerable. And all I can think about is how many times I've jerked off imagining her naked, wet, begging for me.
I'm a fucking monster.
"Just help me stand?" She asks, and I nod, offering my forearm.
She slides off the counter, wincing when her feet hit the floor. Her body is sore not just from the showcase but from that motherfucker laying hands on her. I hope he enjoyed having hands, because after this, those are the first things I’m taking.
I turn to go, pausing at the door. "You want me to call RaeRae?"
She shakes her head, water droplets flying from her hair.
"No, not yet. I can't deal with her right now.
" Her fingers trace circles in the water.
"And dealing with her means dealing with Penn and the boys, and I love them, but that's an overstimulation I don't need right now.
" She looks up at me, those hazel eyes tired.
"Not to mention the rest of your cousin cavalry arriving. You know how it is."
I do know. My family is like a fucking tsunami when they decide to show up. Overwhelming, destructive, and impossible to stop once they get going.
"Yeah," I agree, leaning against the doorframe. "I'll just be outside the door if you need me. When you're done, I'll clear out so you can change and sleep."
She nods, looking small and fragile in a way that makes my chest ache. "Thank you, phantom."
Something twists inside me, hot and fierce. She doesn't call me that often, but when she does—fuck. It's like a knife straight to the heart. A good knife. The kind that makes you bleed in all the right ways.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and step out, pulling the door almost closed behind me. I slide down the wall next to her bathroom door, my back against the cool plaster, and drop my head in my hands.
Phantom. Her protector in the shadows. The one who watches. The one who keeps her safe without her even knowing. Except for this time. She’s been calling me that since her freshman year.
The sound of water splashing echoes through the door. I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the wall. The rhythmic sounds of her movements in the tub create a hypnotic pattern—water dripping, gentle splashes, the occasional sigh.
An hour passes like this. I don't move. Don't check my phone. Just listen to her drain and refill the tub twice, maybe three times. The pipes groan each time she adds more hot water.
My mind drifts like the steam seeping under the door, but it always circles back to one thing: Justin, Mr. Khaki Fuck Boy. The idea of his hands on her burns through my brain like acid. His fingerprints on her skin. The way her lip split when he—
I dig my nails into my palms until I feel the skin break. The pain centers me, gives me something to focus on besides the all-consuming rage.
I could call Cope to help me, but I won’t.
I should call Penn, but again I won’t. I want Justin's fear, his pain, his blood on my hands alone. I don’t want to share this.
Every ounce of pain he feels will be because of me.
Delivered by only me. He touched what’s mine.
He hurt what’s mine and there’s no fucking way I’ll allow him to live after that.
I map it out in my head while water sloshes behind the door. First, I'll take his hands. Break each finger individually. Maybe with a hammer. Maybe with my bare hands. I want to feel the bones give way, feel the crunch of cartilage. I want him to watch as I destroy the things he used to hurt her.
"Ramsey?" Her voice, soft through the door, yanks me back to reality. "Are you still there?"
"Yeah." My voice sounds like I've been gargling gravel. "I'm here."
"I think I'm ready to get out."
"Okay, baby girl. I’m gonna leave your room now, but you let me know if you need anything."
"Okay." I hate how tired and quiet she sounds. It shreds whatever organ I have in my chest, and I want to claw it out, put it on a platter and hand it to her. As penance maybe. Maybe more like a sick token of love.
Leaving her bedroom, I shut the door behind me and walk downstairs to make her some tea.
Everything in me wants to leave right now and find him, but I won’t. I’m going to take care of my girl and give myself entirely too much time to plan. I want him unaware and cocky because it will make breaking him that much fucking sweeter.