Chapter 10
10
RYKER
R alston ran like a man who had never been truly afraid before.
I watched him disappear down the street, one hand clutching his ribs, the other fumbling for his phone. His breath came in ragged gasps, his polished Citadel uniform torn and smeared with blood. He wasn’t used to this. To pain. To knowing someone bigger, stronger, darker had him marked.
He thought his name meant something. That the brass on his collar, the family money, the years of daddy’s protection made him untouchable.
He knew better now.
I should have let it end there. Should have walked the other way.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I turned back toward the hotel, my pulse still running high, my knuckles raw and aching.
Isabel was gone.
She had dropped the umbrella—Ralston’s umbrella—right there on the sidewalk before vanishing inside. She’d looked at me like she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Like she had been afraid. But that wasn’t the part that stuck with me.
The part that stuck was what had been underneath the fear.
Something else.
Something she hadn’t figured out yet.
I took the side entrance into the hotel, moving quickly through the hallways, staying in the shadows. I didn’t need a front desk clerk asking why I was back. Didn’t need security footage capturing me too many times in one day.
She was upset. That much was obvious.
But I didn’t like not knowing. I didn’t like not seeing.
A quick scan of the lobby told me she hadn’t gone to the elevators. She wasn’t heading to the guest floors.
No. She had gone down the hallway leading to the back of the hotel. Where the staff went when they didn’t want to be seen.
I followed.
Her scent lingered faintly in the air—vanilla and something softer, something warm. Something I had no business noticing but fucking did anyway.
The staff bathrooms were tucked at the end of the hall, near the breakroom.
One door was closed.
I stepped closer, listening.
At first, nothing.
Then—the sound of running water.
She was inside.
Good. She was taking a second to breathe. To pull herself together. That should have been enough. I should have turned around. Should have left her to whatever storm was running through her head .
But then I heard it.
Soft. Strained.
A sound I knew too fucking well.
I stilled, every muscle in my body locking up.
Was she crying?
My fingers curled at my sides. The thought of her shaking, falling apart behind that door, made something sharp coil low in my gut. Maybe I should have handled things differently.
No.
I listened harder.
And that’s when I realized. She wasn’t crying. She was breathing—uneven, hitched. Her breath wasn’t broken with sobs. It was broken with something else.
Fuck.
That sound—low, breathless, the slight pause between exhales—wasn’t grief.
It was need.
Heat licked up my spine, sharp and immediate.
I braced a hand against the doorframe, exhaling slowly through my nose.
Jesus Christ.
I should have walked away. Should have left her alone.
But I didn’t.
I stood there, pulse thick, jaw tight, my body already reacting.
Because I knew those sounds.
And those sounds? They got me hard.
I shouldn’t have knocked on the door.
Should have walked away. Should have shoved my hands in my pockets, turned on my heel, and put as much distance between us as possible.
But I didn’t .
Instead, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Isabel stood in front of the sink, her fingers curled around the edge of the counter, her body stiff with tension. The mirror above the sink was still fogged from the shower she hadn’t taken, the air thick with heat and the unmistakable scent of her.
She saw me in the mirror before she turned.
Her lips parted slightly, her cheeks flushed.
I closed the door behind me. Not locked. Just shut.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.
Because I knew.
Knew exactly what she’d been doing. Knew exactly why her skin held that glow, why her breath still came a little too fast, why she couldn’t quite meet my eyes.
She had tried to erase it. Had washed her hands, scrubbed her skin, but it didn’t matter.
I could still smell her.
I moved closer. Slowly. Deliberately.
Her breath caught, but she didn’t step back.
I reached for her hand—the right one, because I knew—and took it gently in mine.
Her fingers trembled slightly as I lifted them to my lips.I kissed them. Soft. Barely a touch. Her scent clung to her skin. Warm. Faintly sweet. Fucking addictive.
I breathed in deep, dragging my lips over her fingertips, exhaling warm against them.
She shivered.
“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice lower than I intended.
She nodded quickly, but her pulse was a rapid beat against her throat. “I—I’m fine.”
A lie.
She was embarrassed. Ashamed, maybe. And that was sweet .
That softness. That innocence. That raw, unguarded reaction—like she didn’t know what to do with the weight of this moment.
But I did.
Because fuck, I wanted.
Wanted to feel the heat of her skin against my mouth. Wanted to taste the slick, aching part of her that she had touched just minutes ago.
My grip on her wrist tightened slightly. She gasped, eyes flicking up to meet mine. And in them, I saw it.
Longing.
Curiosity.
A hunger she hadn’t named yet, but I could feel it, thrumming between us, pulsing through my veins.
I could have had her. Right then.
Could have backed her against the counter, slipped my fingers into the heat she had tried to wash away, dragged my tongue over every inch of her until she learned that no matter how hard she tried?—
She’d never get rid of me.
But then?—
Will.
His name cut through the fog in my head like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.
Will trusted me.
I clenched my jaw, inhaling slow and deep, willing my body to obey something other than its instincts.
Back off. Back the fuck off.
I let go of her hand.
Stepped back.
Put space between us, even though every inch felt impossible.
Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something—but didn’t know what .
I did.
I wanted to say that I could still smell her.
That I could still taste her on the air.
That I wasn’t some fucking saint, and if she looked at me like that for one more second, I’d ruin every boundary I’d set.
But I didn’t say a damn thing.
Instead, I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through my hair.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, my voice rough, uneven.
And then I walked away.
Because if I stayed?
I wouldn’t have stopped.