Chapter 32 Louise
LOUISE
He was squatting just outside the secret room, sitting back on his haunches like he had all the time in the world.
Melting snow clung to his hair and the shoulders of his plaid button-up, soaking the flannel and plastering it to the muscle beneath.
Mud speckled his jeans and boots, and shadows darkened his face—save for the crease in his brow, pulled tight in a mix of confusion and disappointment.
A gun in the face would do that to a man.
Before I could take another breath, he moved.
Fast.
The pistol was slapped from my hands, clattering to the floor as a steel grip closed around the collar of my sweatshirt. I shrieked, arms flailing, legs kicking as he yanked me out of the room like I weighed nothing.
“Let go!” I clawed at his forearms, nails digging into his skin.
I twisted hard, bucking wildly—caught him between the legs with my knee.
He grunted, grip faltering just long enough for me to lunge for the open door. My hand grazed the edge—
And then I was airborne. Laid out on the floor like a ninety-pound freshman in her first scrimmage. The wind shot from my lungs as Ryder flipped me, pinning me beneath him, my arms shoved above my head. His weight straddled my hips, hot and heavy and unyielding.
“You went snooping,” he growled.
“You killed Kara!” I spat the accusation, my voice cracking with fury and fear.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Kara. My friend. She was beaten, strangled—just like Leon Ortiz. I know what you did.”
His stare sharpened, eyes narrowing to cold slits. “What the hell gave you that idea?”
“Leon Ortiz.” I spat the name like poison. “You’re a psychotic murdering bastard. I saw the mug shot. The news reports.”
Ryder leaned down, so close I could see the flecks of snow still melting on his lashes. “I didn’t kill your friend,” he said, voice low and razor-edged.
“Liar. You beat Ortiz to death. Kara was only a year younger. Same injuries. You’re the same man.”
His grip slackened, but he didn’t move. His eyes locked with mine—dark, unreadable. A excruciating minute passed as he stared down at me. Then, without a word, he shoved off me and stood.
I scrambled up like a feral cat, wild and breathless. My socks skidded on the slate floor as I bolted out of the library and into the kitchen. The cordless phone was on the counter—I grabbed it, hands shaking.
Nine. One—
“Hang up the phone.”
I spun. Ryder stood in the doorway, soaked and simmering.
“I’m calling the police.”
I barely had time to scream before his arms clamped around me, pinning mine to my sides. He spun me around and bent me over the island. The phone dropped to the floor and was crushed to pieces by his boot.
“Let me go!”
Face pressed against the counter, I thrashed, kicked, bit his arm hard enough to taste blood.
He didn’t flinch, just pressed his hard body up against mine, pinning me in place.
“You will not call the police.” His voice was deadly calm. “Do you understand me?”
My chest heaved. “You’re insane—”
His mouth was close to my ear, his voice a dark whisper. “If I wanted you dead, Louise, you’d be dead already.”
And terrifyingly, I believed him.
But I also believed that if I stayed… I might never leave.
“I didn’t kill Kara,” he said.
“Liar.”
“I don’t lie.”
“Why should I believe you?”
His groin pressed harder into my ass. “Because I don’t lie.”
“But you killed Leon Ortiz, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Louise, I did. And I had a good reason.”
“To kill someone?”
“The world is better without him in it. Trust me.”
Trust me.
Did I?
Dammit, I did. Somewhere deep in my soul, I trusted Ryder.
I stopped fighting against his hold, but his grip didn’t loosen.
“I want to know everything,” I said firmly. “I want to know about the fake identities; about what you do for Astor Stone. I want to know why you killed Ortiz. And let the fuck go of me.”
The moment he released me, I whipped around and took a step back, but was already backed up to the island. Still trapped.
He glowered down at me. “I didn’t kill Kara, and I’m not the String Strangler. You can believe me or not. But I want you to make the decision right now, because I’m not going to deal with this bullshit all night.”
He stalked to the cabinet and pulled out a glass.
I looked down at the shattered phone on the floor. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
“To who?”
I crossed the floor and jabbed my finger into his chest. “Me. Me, Ryder. The woman who’s trapped in your damn house.”
“My past is my business.” He turned on the faucet and filled the glass with water.
“Your business was splashed all over the freaking news.”
“I don’t owe you a damn thing, Miss Sloane.”
“You owe me common fucking courtesy.”
He angrily chugged the water, then turned to me. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“You’ll hate me even more when I call the cops and tell them about all the passports and guns in that chest.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
He stared down at me with a look that could burn holes through steel—dark, dangerous, and barely contained. Most people would’ve run. Most people should’ve run.
But I didn’t move.
Because even now, even in the chaos of shattered trust and locked doors, I knew one thing with bone-deep certainty.
Ryder Jagger would never hurt me.
With a sudden, guttural roar, he spun and hurled his glass against the wall. The shatter cracked through the air like gunfire, whiskey and shards spraying across the floor.
“Goddammit, Louise!”
He gripped his hair with both hands, pacing the floor like a caged animal. His boots thundered with every turn. His breathing was heavy, wild—like he was fighting something inside himself, something that wanted out.
Then he stopped.
Whirled on me.
“You want courtesy, huh?” His voice was gravel and heat.
My pulse pounded. “Yes,” I whispered, swallowing the knot in my throat.
“Okay.” He stormed to the cabinet, yanked down a clean glass, filled it with water, and thrust it at me.
“I’d rather have a real drink.”
“You’ll do water tonight.”
Brow cocked, I took the glass from him, marched over to the sink, poured it out, and replaced it with the whiskey he’d been drinking the other night.
“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” I said, voice low and steady. I sipped, never breaking eye contact, then leaned back against the counter, letting him take me in.
Ryder’s nostrils flared as his chest rose and fell. Seeming to come to a decision, he plucked the whiskey from my hand, poured it down the drain, and jerked my chin to face him. His hands cupped my face.
My heart lodged in my throat, and before my brain could catch up, his lips were on mine.
Hard, greedy, hungry. Angry kisses as if his brain was telling him not to do it, but his body wasn’t listening.
So raw, so intense, there was nothing else to do but give in.
The moment I opened for him, he devoured me as if he couldn’t get enough. His lips parted mine and he took more—tongue sliding deep, coaxing a whimper from my throat as he devoured me like he hadn’t touched a woman in years. Like he didn’t know how to be careful. Like he didn’t want to be.
Fireworks? Mine were like a nuclear bomb.
His teeth grazed my bottom lip, pulling it gently before his mouth slammed into mine again. My hands flew to his chest, gripping his shirt, twisting the fabric, anchoring myself to him like he was the only solid thing in the room.
And in that moment, he was.
His fingers curled into my hair, tilting my head back so he could kiss me deeper. A growl vibrated in his chest—low and primal, a sound that shot straight through me.
I opened for him like a door blown off its hinges, my body trembling with want, with hunger I didn’t know I had until he touched me.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathless.
I stared at him, stunned. My lips swollen. My chest rising and falling against his.
His gaze devoured me. And then, as if snapping out of a trance, he stepped back.
The heat disappeared like someone had flipped a switch.
The cold between us rushed in like a tidal wave, but my skin still burned.
He stared for one long second. “How’s that?” he rasped.
I swallowed hard. My voice trembled as I said, “Now I really need that drink.”
He retrieved the antler mug, filled it with ice and water, then handed it to me. I was glad I didn’t get the whiskey. After that kiss, I wouldn’t have been able to control myself with a buzz.
I chugged, cooling my insides. Ryder watched me closely, like he wasn’t sure how I’d react to what just happened between us.
“Okay.” I set down the mug and took a deep breath. “Now that we got that out of the way, it’s time to talk.”