Chapter 24 Ryder
RYDER
Ipaced the hallway, eyes fixed on the closed door of my bedroom.
My bedroom.
I didn’t even know her. Didn’t know a thing about the woman who would be sleeping in my bed tonight.
My skin started to itch as I wondered what she was doing in there. What she was touching, what she was thinking. If she was using my things. If she was undressing. If she was showering.
Cupping my hands over my nose and mouth, I inhaled. Again, and again. And again.
I could feel her in the house. The presence of another body. The heat of her skin. Her lungs, breathing my air.
I could smell her. Her scent lingered like dust after a nuclear bomb, settling into my hair, my skin, spreading to every corner of every room in my house.
My space.
The image of the last woman who’d been in my house flashed through my head, followed by visions of murder and death. I squeezed shut my eyes, shoving away the memories.
No, Ryder, Louise is safe. This one’s safe, I told myself. Promised myself.
My pacing quickened with the pounding of my heart, fists clenched tight at my sides. Back and forth. Back and forth. Each step heavier than the last, feeding the storm rising inside me. The same anxiety that had taken years to learn how to tame.
Louise Sloane.
I had no patience for impulsive people. No tolerance for those who moved through life without forethought—people like Louise Sloane.
She was the embodiment of everything I’d spent the last twelve years avoiding.
A walking disaster. She’d driven straight into one of the worst snowstorms Berry Springs had seen in years—in an SUV held together with duct tape and prayers.
Her three bags held no emergency gear, no food, no water.
Just clothes, toiletries, wine, a hammer, and an expired condom.
When her car slid off the road, she didn’t stay put. No. She wandered off into the blizzard on foot and broke into a stranger’s house.
My house.
A convicted felon’s house.
It was a miracle she made it that far. These mountains weren’t safe. I’d been tracking a mountain lion for weeks, and there were rumors of the String Strangler—another body found not far from here. Everyone talked about it. Everyone except Louise Sloane, who either didn’t know or didn’t care.
Reckless. Foolish.
Infuriating.
The woman had been two seconds from losing her life when I caught her snooping in my library. The only thing—I repeat, the only thing—that saved Louise Sloane was her height and small frame. I’d instantly known my intruder was a woman, and therefore easier to disable if the situation called for it.
She had no idea whose house she’d walked into.
I knew what evil could do to someone. I knew the merciless, blind rage. I knew the feeling of blood on your skin, the adrenaline rush that came from incapacitating someone. The moment of watching someone take their last breath. The power of knowing you’d delivered that final blow.
There were monsters in the world, and this woman had already crossed paths with one, unbeknownst to her.
Fool.
This was why I built walls. Why I lived alone. Why I’d buried myself in silence and routine and concrete. To keep everything out. Everyone out.
Especially people like her.
But Louise Sloane hadn’t just walked through the front door—she’d exploded into my life like a wildfire.
All chaos and curves, dripping sarcasm and sin.
She was a collision of broken and bold. The kind of woman you knew was trouble the second you laid eyes on her—but you looked anyway. You always looked.
A disaster I couldn’t stop watching. A temptation I couldn’t stop thinking about.
She was everything I’d worked so hard to lock out.
I reminded myself it was temporary. Just a few days. She’d be gone soon. I’d buy new sheets, burn the comforter, maybe even knock down the whole damn bedroom and rebuild. Add more locks to the door. A deadbolt. A trip wire. A moat. Whatever it took.
It was only temporary.
Only temporary.
Then I heard it—the sound of the water in the bathroom turn on.
I froze.
She was bathing.
Every muscle in my body tensed, my head slowly turning toward the door.
And just like that, the image hit me like a freight train.
Her body, wet and naked. Steam curling over her flushed skin.
Her hand trailing over her bare breasts, her stomach…
her thighs. I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ground.
My fists curled until my nails bit into my palms.
One second ago, I was fantasizing about burning my bed to erase her from my life. Now all I could think about was kicking down that door, dragging her out of the bath, and fucking her until she couldn’t remember her own name.
Get it together, Ryder.
I stormed to the kitchen like a man possessed, grabbed a towel and the bleach, and started scrubbing everything she’d touched.
The door handle. The floor. The hinges. I didn’t stop there—I cleaned the front door again, the windowsill, the entry knob.
Even the single damn tile where she’d slept the night before.
Twice already, I’d cleaned it. And still, it wasn’t enough.
Still, I could see her there. Knees pulled to her chest. That wild, frizzy hair. Those tired brown eyes with gold flecks I couldn’t forget, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the smirk that pissed me off more than it should have, the kind that said you’re not as scary as you think you are.
That mouth.
That godforsaken mouth.
Soft, full lips always a little chapped, a little red. And that tiny dip in the bottom one. I wanted to taste it. I wanted to ruin it.
My pulse was out of control. I could hear it in my ears, feel it pounding behind my eyes. What the hell was happening? I needed to get her out of my head.
I stalked to the utility closet, grabbed a hammer, and crossed the floor in three long strides.
With a guttural groan, I raised the hammer and destroyed the tile Louise Sloane had slept on.