Ripper
“Nope,” he said.
“Of course you are,” she said, playing along.
“Well, I could be,” he grumbled.
“I know where the room is,” he said.
“I figured,” she breathed. Smart-ass. Ripper kept walking even as he heard her laugh behind him. He just ignored it—mostly.
The paper bag swung beside his leg. Inside was a blueberry muffin, a cinnamon roll, and some weird-ass yogurt thing the woman at the coffee shop swore was healthy.
Ripper didn't know what Sarah liked, and that bothered him.
He knew she drank coffee, or she had before she'd disappeared. Harlow had told him that much.
Sarah had worked for Richard Kane's foundation. She was twenty-three years old, a college graduate who wanted to work in nonprofit management, and she liked coffee. Sarah apparently used to bring Harlow one every morning. That was about the sum total of everything Ripper knew about Sarah Mitchell.
Well, that wasn't exactly true. He knew she screamed when men touched her without warning.
He knew she couldn't stand closed doors.
He knew she slept with the bathroom light on because complete darkness sent her into a panic.
He knew she had a scar around her left ankle from where those motherfuckers had chained her to a wall.
He knew she'd lost almost twenty pounds during the eight months she'd been missing.
He knew she'd been moved between three different locations before ending up at the warehouse outside Huntsville.
And he knew when the Savage Bastards stormed that warehouse, Sarah had been the one who didn't run toward them.
The others had. Some screamed, some cried, and one woman had thrown herself into Butcher's arms. But Sarah had backed into a corner and grabbed a broken piece of wood off the floor.
She'd held it like a weapon while blood ran down one side of her face.
Her feet were bare, her clothes were dirty, her blue eyes were terrified, and she'd told Ripper she'd kill him if he came any closer.
He'd believed her. He'd also thought she was the bravest fucking woman he'd ever seen.
Ripper stopped outside room 417. The door was open because it was always open.
He knocked against the frame anyway. Sarah looked up from the book in her lap.
Her blonde hair was pulled into a messy knot on top of her head.
Color had started returning to her face over the last few days, but it wasn’t enough.
She was still too pale, too thin, and the bruising along her cheek had faded from purple to yellow.
The cut near her temple was almost healed.
She wore an oversized gray sweatshirt and had the hospital blanket pulled over her legs.
She looked fragile, but Ripper knew better.
“You’re here again?” she asked.
He leaned against the doorway. “Nice to see you too,” he said.
Sarah closed her book. “You were here yesterday.”
“Was I?” he asked.
“Yes, you were,” she breathed.
“You sure?” he asked. “I bet you have a lot of men visiting you. Maybe you’ve confused me with someone else.”
“I haven't suffered a head injury,” she insisted.
“Could've fooled me,” he said. “I mean, you’re getting me mixed up with other men and everything now, honey.”
Her eyes narrowed at him. There, that was what he came for, not that he would admit that to her or anyone—ever. He liked it when she got irritated, because angry Sarah didn't look scared. He fucking hated scared Sarah.
Ripper lifted the cup holder. “Brought coffee.”
Her eyes dropped to it. “You're bribing me.”
“Yep,” he breathed.
“For what?” she asked.
“How about five minutes without you telling me to go away,” he said.
“I've never told you to go away,” Sarah insisted.
“You think it's really loud,” he said. The corner of her mouth moved, barely, but Ripper caught it. He caught everything with her, and that was becoming a problem.
“Can I come in?” he asked. Sarah glanced toward the hallway and then at him. Her hesitation lasted only a second. Still, Ripper waited. He always waited for her permission.
Finally, she nodded. “Okay.” He entered slowly. He knew not to make any sudden movements. He didn’t reach for her or shut the door behind him. He set the coffee and bag on the rolling table beside her bed.
Sarah looked inside the bag. “You brought enough food for three people.”
“Didn't know what you liked,” he admitted.
“So you bought everything?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” he said.
She pulled out the cinnamon roll. “This. I like cinnamon rolls,” she said.
Ripper nodded. “Good to know.”
“Why?” she asked.
“For next time,” he said.
Sarah looked at him. “There shouldn't be a next time.”
“Probably will be,” he insisted.
“Why?” she asked. That was the question he'd been avoiding for a week.
Ripper grabbed the chair beside the window and turned it around before sitting.
He sat back far enough from the bed that she had space, but close enough to catch her if she fell—not that she needed catching. He'd learned that too.
“Club's checking on everybody,” he lied.
“Bullshit,” she spat. His eyebrows rose, and Sarah took a drink of coffee. “Sorry.”
“Don't apologize,” he said.
“I shouldn't swear,” she breathed.
“Says who?” he asked.
“My mother,” she admitted.
“Is your mother here?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Then fuck it,” he teased. Sarah laughed, actually laughed. It wasn't loud, and it didn't last long, but Christ, Ripper felt that little sound straight through his chest.
He leaned back. “See? Better.”
“You're a bad influence,” she said.
“Definitely,” he agreed. She picked at the edge of the cinnamon roll, and her expression became serious again.
“The other women aren't getting daily visits from the Savage Bastards,” she said. Fuck. Sarah was too fucking smart. She saw right through him.
“No, they are not,” he admitted.
“So why am I?” she asked. Ripper rubbed his beard. He could lie and probably should. He could tell her Butcher sent him, or that Harlow asked him to check. He could tell her the club was worried because Sarah might know something useful. All of those would sound reasonable, but none were true.
“Don't know,” he said with a shrug.
Sarah stared at him. “You don't know why you keep coming here?”
“Nope,” he admitted. That was the truth too. He had no fucking idea why he showed up at the hospital every day, just to see her.
“That doesn't make sense,” she insisted.
“Most shit I do doesn't make any sense,” he admitted. She looked down. Ripper watched her thumb rub over the cardboard sleeve around her coffee. He could tell that she was nervous. He immediately wanted to take back every word that had put that look on her face.
Fuck. He wasn't built for this. Wade should've come to check on Sarah.
He offered, but Ripper insisted that he be the one to check on her—again.
Plus, Wade was currently so far up Harlow's ass Ripper doubted the man remembered other women existed.
And Butcher was worse. Princess had that bastard completely domesticated.
They were both so pussy whipped, they were practically useless, not that he was stupid enough to say it to their faces.
Ripper was his own person with nobody pulling his damn strings, and he planned on keeping it that way.
“I remember you,” she breathed. Sarah's quiet words pulled him out of his thoughts.
He looked at her. “What?”
“From the warehouse,” she said. “I remember you.”
Every muscle in his body tightened. “Yeah.”
“You came through the back,” she said. He remembered every goddamn thing about that day, even when he wanted to forget.
Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the gunfire and shouting that followed.
He remembered Butcher giving orders through the radio and the smell of oil and blood and fear.
Ripper had taken the rear entrance with two brothers.
One guard had gone for his gun, and that had been the last mistake the bastard ever made.
Then they found the locked rooms and the women inside them—all eleven of them. And then, there was Sarah.
“I did,” he whispered.
“You killed someone,” she said. Ripper didn't answer, and Sarah looked at him. “I saw you.”
He kept his voice level. “You don't need to think about that right now.”
“I think about everything. There’s not much else to do in here,” she said, looking around the hospital room.
Fuck. “Sarah—”
“I remember all of it,” she breathed. Her fingers tightened around the coffee cup. “Sometimes I wish I didn't.”
Ripper leaned forward and then stopped himself before getting too close. “What do you remember?”
Her gaze moved toward the open doorway. “You kicking in the door.” He remembered that too. The damn thing had been reinforced and took three hits to kick it in. “When it opened, I thought you were one of them.”
“You picked up that piece of wood to defend yourself,” he said. He remembered the fear in her eyes and hated seeing it.
“I thought I'd have one chance to take down whoever came through that door,” she said.
“You would've hit me?” he asked.
“I would've tried to,” she admitted.
Ripper smiled. “You would've hit me.”
Sarah looked at him. “You think so?”
“Definitely,” he said.
Her almost-smile returned and then disappeared.
“You put your gun down.” Ripper's smile vanished because she was right.
The second he'd realized Sarah was terrified of him, he'd handed his weapon to the brother beside him, and then he'd crouched in front of her. He kept his hands where she could see them and told her his name. He told her that they were there to get her out, and he could tell that she didn’t believe him.
Why the fuck would she? Every man she'd trusted for eight months had probably hurt her.
“I remember you telling me you wouldn't touch me,” she whispered.
“I didn't,” he reminded.