Chapter 5
RYKER
I stood in the center of my living room, flinching at the sound of my footsteps on the hardwood. The house looked the same, but it didn’t feel the same. It was as if the air remembered the version of me that died.
After a year of orderlies shouting, patients screaming, and metal doors clanging shut at the facility, the silence felt like cotton stuffed in my ears. Now there was nothing to drown out the echo of fists connecting with my ribs.
The memory flashed—a figure in the shadows, the crack of something hard against my skull—then vanished.
Something important lurked just beyond reach.
My stomach twisted into a knot, acid rising in my throat.
I leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
The worst part wasn’t fear. It was the blank space where answers should be.
I wasn’t just dead. I was erased. Someone had wanted me gone so badly they tried to take their story with me.
I focused instead on her, the woman from the Ritual.
I hated how easily she cut through the noise.
I hated more that I let her. My prey had been much sweeter than I’d anticipated.
The way she’d thrashed against my grip, her fingernails leaving three perfect cuts on my forearm.
I ran my thumb over them, still raised and angry red.
Pain was reliable. It didn’t lie. The marks were proof I could still feel something.
Proof I wasn’t all titanium and blank space.
I pictured her, the way her dark hair had fallen across her forehead as she’d spit in my face, those brown eyes wide with determination rather than fear, the surprising strength in her runner’s legs as she’d kicked.
She’d fought as if she’d expected to win.
That kind of defiance stays with you. Not like the nurses at the facility who’d just begged for me to fuck them.
Her face floated in my mind as I paced the kitchen.
I checked my phone three times in five minutes, scrolling to Mitchell’s name but not tapping the call button.
When she’d asked if I would be at next week’s games, my “yes” had tumbled out before I could even consider my calendar.
Was that a hint she’d be there too? My thumb hovered over Mitchell’s contact again.
He might not give me her number, but maybe he’d text me when she showed up.
I reached for my wallet on the counter, mentally counting the hundreds inside.
Maybe I could pay him for the info. I didn’t like wanting. Wanting made me sloppy.
She was already in my head, though. Not the sweet kind of lingering. The kind that turned into an obsession. The kind that kept you awake at three a.m., replaying every word, every glance, until the memory wore thin.
The pressure built behind my eyes first, slow and mean.
The pain snapped hot and immediate, a blunt force.
My knees buckled. I clawed at the black granite counter, fingers slipping across its cold surface as the kitchen tilted sideways.
The agony I could handle. Losing time inside my own head was the part that made my stomach turn.
“Fuck!” I gritted out, desperately attempting to hold on to reality.
The hot knife sliced through my brain, leaving me gasping for air before it began to let up just a little.
I slid down against the cabinets, the cool tile against my palms, and I pressed my forehead to my knees.
Back at the facility, these attacks came less often, but the orderlies would pin me down and shove pills past my lips.
Those meds turned my thoughts to sludge, worse than the haziest high.
Minutes passed. I flexed my toes inside my shoes.
Tensed and released my calves, my thighs.
By the time I reached my shoulders, my breathing had steadied.
Sunlight streamed through the window, and I pulled myself up using the edge of the counter, legs trembling.
Slowly, I walked to the kitchen sink where I turned on the water and washed my face.
It was such a simple act, but it always helped.
The microwave clock read 2:14. I didn’t remember the last eight minutes at all.
Eight minutes stolen.
Eight minutes someone could use against me.
The doorbell’s chime jolted me. I looked at the cameras before I moved. Angle. Distance. Hands. Exits. My brain ran the checklist before my heart finished reacting.
I wasn’t expecting anyone, but that never stopped my friends from coming over, especially if we were working on helping a new mother and children hide from a monster.
At least I still had the Horizon Society to focus on.
Something positive to balance out the dark path I was tumbling down.
Save the women and kids. The significant others, the real scum, never walked away.
Maybe the work there would save my soul, but I wasn’t sure if I had one left.
My brain quickly returned to the night of the attack, rage burning through me. Images of how I planned to dispose of the person or persons behind it all flooded my system. I craved the idea of dismantling someone myself. “I will find you, motherfucker,” I swore under my breath.
The doorbell chimed. Ryan was already on the camera feed.
I’d installed three exterior cameras myself, one of the first things I’d done after returning home.
My phone buzzed and I pulled it from my back pocket, tapping the screen out of habit.
Tomorrow the full system would be installed, the wiring, and the rest of the coverage. I wasn’t sure it would be enough.
I opened the door. Ryan stepped inside, his hand landing on my shoulder with a small thud.
“Holy shit. I still can’t get over how good you look.” His attention traveled to my chest and legs. “Those rehab weights did you good.”
I glanced past him to the oak trees at the edge of the property. Something moved in the shadows. A squirrel, probably. Or not.
“Probably” was how people got buried. I had stopped believing in “probably” a long time ago.
“I bench-pressed three-fifteen last week,” I said, securing the door behind him. Strength was easy to measure. It was the rest of me that didn’t add up. “I haven’t touched a joint in twelve months.”
Ryan’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Not even to celebrate freedom?”
“Nah. That shit wrecked my lungs.” My mind flickered: sneakers slapping wet pavement, ragged breath burning in my chest, streetlights blurring as I ran. The memory teased me right to the edge of revelation before vanishing.
I led him into the kitchen, and he pulled out a barstool and got comfortable.
“Are you off duty?” I eyed the bulge of Ryan’s holster beneath his jacket. He placed his police badge face-down on the kitchen counter between us. Face-down meant this conversation didn’t exist.
My friend was a good cop by day. By night? The newspaper clippings told another story: “Child Trafficker Found Dead,” or “Known Abuser Missing.” The same headlines that made the force sweat made us sleep better. The cops had no idea who was behind any of it, though. We planned to keep it that way.
I glanced at my phone, a sharp pang shredding my chest.
He gave me a relieved smile. “Yeah, a few days off finally.”
I pulled open the refrigerator door. “Want a beer?”
“Sounds good.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled as Ryan’s gaze burned into me.
“I talked to Death.”
I froze halfway to the shelf. “And?” I grabbed a drink for him and a protein shake for myself. The beer bottle cap clattered into the trash can. I slid the beer across the counter.
“He’s not convinced that you’re ready.” Ryan’s fingers drummed against the bottle. “Says he needs to know you won’t hesitate when it matters. Says he understands needing the blood on your hands, but …”
“He’s always been careful.” I twisted the cap off my protein drink.
Ryan took a long pull from his beer, his throat working. “Until he isn’t. Then Kip and I mop up.” His lips curled upward and his eyes darkened. “Between us, Do—I mean, Ryker, sometimes I wish I could get in on the action too. But Death keeps the best jobs for himself, and I’m needed elsewhere.”
I leaned back against the counter, crossing my arms. Ryan’s gaze dropped to where my sleeves strained against my biceps.
“I definitely need to work out with you, man. It looks good on you. I’m jealous.” He chuckled. “You’re making the rest of us look like we’ve never seen a gym.”
“Except Death. The guy’s got abs you could grate cheese on.”
“That’s because he has an unconventional workout plan. Dead weight and all.” Our laughter filled the room with his joke, but mine sounded foreign to my ears. I cleared my throat before I said, “So that’s why you stopped by? Death sent you over to assess me?”
The word assess scraped. I’d been assessed for a year. Measured. Handled. Managed.
He gave a small shrug. “Better me than Sebastian.” Ryan’s fingers tapped against the counter. “The guy still flinches when we talk disposal methods. He turns a nasty shade of green. At least he’s getting better. He’s had more time to process Death’s activities.”
“I don’t know if he’ll ever really come to terms with what we do, but at least he’s staying in his lane, saving families, and leaving the rest to us.” At one time, I’d been squeamish too, so I understood Bass. But that was before.
When I’d come back to the living, something in me had snapped.
The thought of blood, of taking my time, lit a darkness I hadn’t had before.
I was eager. Ready. Itched for it like it was a new drug and I was the fiend on my knees at its altar.
I wondered if the motherfucker who’d put me on the ground had meant to build a monster out of what he’d left behind. Either way, he was about to regret it.