Chapter 19
19
ISABEL
T he world tilted. The sky spun. The wreckage of the Bentley blurred in my peripheral vision, nothing but twisted steel and shattered glass. Everything hurt.
Smoke choked the air, the scent thick, acrid, laced with the sharp tang of burning oil. My head throbbed. I could hear voices—low, steady, controlled—but my mind was struggling to keep up.
I blinked hard, my lashes damp, my vision struggling to focus. Everything felt distant, like I wasn’t quite inside my own body. My limbs were heavy, sluggish, every movement met with resistance, as if I were trapped underwater, fighting to break the surface.
And yet—I wasn’t in the car anymore.
I was being held.
Warm, solid, unyielding arms wrapped around me, keeping me pressed against a broad chest. A steady heartbeat pounded beneath my cheek, an anchor in the chaos. The scent of him—smoke, sweat, and something unmistakably Ryker—cut through the haze, grounding me in a way nothing else could.
I tried to shift, to move, but his grip only tightened.
I had never experienced anything like this before. Never been in an accident, never had my body thrown like a ragdoll, never felt the disorienting, crushing weight of adrenaline flooding my system all at once. My world had always been safe, controlled, predictable. Even when Will joined the military, even when I knew he was doing things he couldn’t talk about, he kept it away from me.
He never let me see the violence.
Never let me hold a gun, other than the old hunting rifle Dad had kept locked away in the garage.
Never let me worry about the darker corners of the world he lived in.
But now?
Now I was drowning in them.
“Stay still, baby,” Ryker murmured, his voice rough, gravel and steel, thick with something dark. Not pain. Not relief. Something lethal.
I barely had time to process his words before?—
Boots.
The sharp, deliberate crunch of footsteps on gravel.
Relief flickered—brief, instinctive. Help. Someone had seen the wreck, had stopped, was coming to check if we were okay. Maybe an off-duty paramedic, maybe a bystander with a phone already in hand, calling 9-1-1. Maybe this nightmare would be over soon.
But then—Ryker’s body went rigid.
Every muscle in his frame locked down, his grip on me tightening, his breathing shifting from controlled to something colder. Sharpened.
It was then that I realized—the footsteps were not paramedics. Not good Samaritans stopping to help .
No.
Something in my gut coiled, awareness slicing through the fog like a blade.
This wasn’t a rescue. This was an ambush. Right here in Downtown Charleston. My, God.
My breath caught, my body tensing, but Ryker was already ahead of me.
His grip around me shifted, one arm still cradling me protectively, the other moving with controlled precision—reaching for something.
Then—a shadow fell over us.
“You two look like shit.”
My stomach plummeted.
Matt Ralston.
His voice was too smug, his stance too relaxed for someone who had just stumbled upon an accident. No—he had been waiting.
I turned my head, heart slamming against my ribs, and spotted five other men standing behind Matt. Citadel cadets. Or at least, that’s what they looked like.
My stomach twisted.
I recognized some of them—not from the hotel where I’d met Matt, but from The Sound Barn. They had been there last night, laughing, drinking, flirting. One had even danced with me. But Matt hadn’t been there.
Had he?
My mind scrambled for a reasonable explanation, for some normal way this could all make sense. How many cadets went to The Citadel? Did they all know each other? Was it possible that this was some twisted coincidence—that the guys I had met at The Sound Barn just happened to know Matt? Just happened to be nearby when the accident happened ?
I wanted to believe that.
But Ryker’s body was coiled like a predator’s, and the look in Matt’s eyes told me everything I didn’t want to admit.
Not a coincidence. Not a mistake. They had come for us.
A chill crawled up my spine, an instinctive warning that this was more than just payback for the beating Ryker had given Matt. This wasn’t about bruised egos or getting even.
They weren’t here for a fight. They were here for us.
Ryker’s hold on me didn’t waver, his body taut as a wire, every muscle locked down in controlled tension. His breathing was even, but I could feel it—the slow, deadly rage simmering beneath his skin.
Matt’s smirk widened as he took another slow step forward, his hands loose at his sides, but his posture was calculated. His friends—no, his backups—held their positions, waiting.
“You don’t look too good either, Ralston,” Ryker said, his voice low and smooth, but razor-edged. “Didn’t learn your lesson the first time?” There was blood running down the side of his face from a cut above his eye.
Matt chuckled. “Oh, I learned plenty.” His gaze slid to me, dragging over my face, my body, still pressed against Ryker’s chest. His smirk turned knowing. Filthy.
My stomach twisted.
Ryker’s arm flexed around me. “You got three seconds to back the fuck up before I put another dent in that smug face of yours.”
Matt ignored him.
“This wasn’t exactly how I planned on seeing you again, Isabel. ”
I stiffened at the sound of my name coming from his mouth. It felt wrong. Dirty.
Ryker’s hand twitched against the trigger.
Matt’s voice was too smooth, too confident, laced with something ugly. His gaze dragged over me, slow and deliberate, lingering on the way my loose sweater dipped off one shoulder, the way my joggers clung to my hips.
“But I won’t complain,” Matt murmured, his smirk darkening. “I was hoping to get my hands on you eventually … maybe see just how soft you really are. Peel you out of those sweats, slow. Take my time.” His eyes gleamed as he tilted his head. “Make you beg.”
“Say her name again, and I’ll cave in your skull,” Ryker growled. “You won’t touch her. You won’t even fucking look at her. Because if you do, Ralston, I won’t just kill you. I’ll make sure you suffer first.”
Matt laughed. Actually laughed.
“You’re protective,” he mused. “But see, here’s the thing, Dane—you don’t own her.” His head tilted, the smirk returning.
The air between us went still.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then—Ryker moved.
One second, he was holding me. The next, he was shoving me behind him, shielding me as he surged forward. He whipped his gun level with Matt’s head before I even registered the movement, his forearm pinning him in place as he backed him into the wreckage of the Bentley.
“You’re about ten seconds from needing a closed-casket funeral,” Ryker murmured, voice smooth as silk, dangerous as a blade.
Matt’s smirk faltered, but only slightly. “Come on, Dane,” he exhaled. “You’re not gonna kill me in broad daylight, right here in the middle of the street. Besides my guys have more guns.”
Ryker didn’t blink. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll be the first to die, Ralston. How many of your pals do you think I’ll take after that. Let me guess, you guys hit the range twice a semester. Me? I was born with this thing in my hand.”
I could feel it, the crackling tension in the air, the thin thread of control Ryker was barely holding onto. My pulse slammed against my ribs as I shifted, trying to get my bearings.
The Citadel guys were too still, their hands hovering near their belts.
Guns.
My stomach dropped.
I grabbed a fistful of Ryker’s shirt, pulling hard. “Ryker?—”
His hold didn’t loosen. His breathing didn’t change.
But his voice?
It deepened, turned lethal.
“You’re gonna walk away, Ralston. You and your buddies are going to get the fuck out of my sight before I decide I don’t give a shit about making a scene. Besides, you rammed into us, remember? I’m sure the cameras they have installed at the intersection will be happy to corroborate that fact.”
Matt’s jaw tightened. His fellow cadets shifted uncomfortably.
Ryker held his gaze a moment longer before finally stepping back.
Matt ran a hand through his short hair, trying to look nonchalant. But I saw the fear there. “Fine. We’ll be seeing you.”
Then, one by one, the Citadel guys backed off, slipping into a pair of sedans parked at the curb. The tires screeched as they peeled away, disappearing around the corner, leaving nothing behind except the suffocating weight of what had just happened.
For a long second, neither of us moved.
Then, Ryker turned, grabbing my face with both hands, his grip firm but not cruel, his thumbs sweeping over my cheekbones, his breathing shallow, unsteady.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was low, guttural.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
His eyes narrowed, his gaze sweeping over me, his fingers trailing down my arms, my sides, checking for injuries.
My breath hitched, but not from fear.
Not even close.
His hands. His touch. Even now, after an ambush on the street, my body still reacted.
And Ryker? He felt it, too.
I saw the shift, the way his dark eyes flickered, the way his fingers lingered on my waist, his grip tightening for just a second before he ripped himself away.
“Let’s go,” he muttered, turning toward the car Marcus had pulled up to the curb.
I barely registered the sound of the engine idling, my body still vibrating with adrenaline. But as Ryker led me forward, a question clawed its way to the surface.
How did Marcus know to come here?
Ryker hadn’t called him—his phone was still in his pocket, untouched since the crash. And I sure as hell hadn’t had time to send out a distress signal. But Marcus had shown up exactly when we needed him, pulling onto the scene like he’d been tracking us the whole time.
I turned toward him, but his expression gave nothing away. His hands were steady on the wheel, his posture relaxed, like he hadn’t just rolled up on our brush with death.
“Marcus,” I said, my voice still raw. “How did you?—?”
His gaze flicked to me. Unreadable. “We have ways.”
I frowned. Ways? What ways? That wasn’t an answer. That was an evasion.
Before I could push further, Ryker opened the car door and nudged me inside, his grip firm but careful, as if I might shatter.
I hesitated. “Where?”
His gaze snapped to mine. “Home.”
I swallowed hard, my pulse skipping.
Not my home. His. Dominion Hall.
He didn’t ask.
He told me.
And I didn’t argue.