Chapter 22 Ryder
RYDER
Liam passes Cora to me like she’s nothing more than a doll, and my stomach twists when I see her expression—vacant, glassy-eyed, her face streaked with tears. The fierce woman who spat in Liam’s face just moments ago seems to have retreated somewhere deep inside herself.
I want to fucking kill them both. Dominic and Liam. I want to kill myself too, because I’m as guilty.
“Come here,” I whisper, cradling her against my chest.
I position her to face me rather than displaying her to the audience like the others did. Her body trembles against mine, small aftershocks from what Liam just put her through. I brush hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I murmur so only she can hear. “Just hold onto me, okay? You’re going to be alright.”
Her eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away, unfocused and dull. This isn’t what I wanted. Not this hollow shell of a person, this broken thing wearing Cora’s face. I wanted revenge, yes, but not like this.
I enter her carefully, moving with deliberate gentleness. My hands stroke her back, her hair, trying to soothe rather than possess. Around us, the feast continues like we’re not even here—glasses clinking, conversations flowing, other prey being used for entertainment.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” I breathe against her ear. “I’ll do anything to make this right, I swear to god, Cora.”
She doesn’t respond. Her head drops to my shoulder, face hidden against my neck. Her tears wet my skin, but she makes no sound.
“Just breathe with me,” I continue, rocking her gently. “You don’t have to do anything else. Just breathe.”
I feel her exhale shakily against my neck. It’s not forgiveness—I don’t deserve that—but it’s something. A sign she’s still in there somewhere.
Waiters materialize with ornate platters of food, placing them carefully on the table. I watch Cora’s face, searching for any sign of the woman I’ve come to know over the past days.
“You need to eat something,” I murmur, reaching for a plate. I select small portions of what looks most appetizing—a slice of steak, roasted vegetables, a piece of crusty bread. “Just a little bit. For strength.”
Cora remains motionless on my lap, her eyes fixed on some distant point. I cut the meat into tiny pieces and place a small morsel against her lips.
“Please,” I whisper. Her lips part slightly, and I place the food inside. She chews mechanically.
I continue feeding her, bite by tiny bite, alternating between food and sips of water. With each swallow, I feel her body relax incrementally against mine. Her breathing becomes more regular.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her, pressing my lips to her temple.
After several minutes, Cora shifts on my lap, her hips moving slightly. Her fingers dig into my forearm.
“I can’t—” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I can’t just sit still right now. I need... I need to not think.”
I search her face, trying to understand what she’s asking for.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
She nods, eyes closing briefly. “Please. Just... gentle. Make me forget where we are.”
I adjust her on my lap, cradling her closer. Our bodies move together in the most minimal way possible—nothing that would draw attention, nothing performative. Just the slightest rocking motion, my arms wrapped protectively around her.
“Focus on me,” I murmur against her ear. “Just us. Nothing else exists.”
She turns her face into my neck, her breath coming faster. I stroke her hair, her back, keeping my touch soothing. This isn’t about dominance or revenge anymore. It’s about comfort—the only kind I can offer after what we’ve done to her.
“You’re okay,” I whisper against her temple. “I’ve got you.”
We stay like this for several long moments. Her breathing gradually steadies, and I feel her gather herself, pulling back just enough to look me in the eyes.
“Why?” she asks, her voice barely audible. “Why did you do this to me?”
There’s no anger in her tone—just raw, wounded confusion that cuts deeper than rage ever could.
“We should have warned you,” I admit, brushing a tear from her cheek with my thumb. “It was unfair. Cruel. And I’m so fucking sorry, Cora.”
She shakes her head. “You knew my father would be here.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “The feast is mandatory for all hunters and prey. And a certain elite of Ravenwood, your father included, are always invited to witness the feast. It’s part of the Hunt’s tradition—something built into the rules.”
“You could have told me,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You knew what it would do to me.”
“We did,” I confess. “At first, that was the whole point. Hurting him through you.”
Her breath catches, and I feel her start to pull away.
“But Cora,” I continue, my voice urgent but quiet, “what happened between us in that room... it became real. For me, at least.” I swallow hard. “I didn’t expect to care about you. None of us did.”
She studies my face, searching for lies.
“Your father was always going to be here,” I say. “That was part of the plan from the beginning. We just... we got in too deep. By the time things changed between us, the feast was unavoidable.”
“Doesn’t make it right,” she mutters.
“You’re right,” I admit, holding her gaze. “We were wrong. I was wrong.”
Her fingers trace the edge of my mask, hesitating at the boundary between disguise and truth. “Can I?” she whispers.
I nod, though removing our masks during the feast breaks every rule of the Hunt. At this point, I don’t give a fuck about rules. I only care about her.
Her fingers slip beneath the edge of my skull mask, lifting it carefully. I help her, pulling it off and setting it aside.
“There you are,” she breathes, cupping my cheek.
I turn my face into her palm, kissing it softly. “I’m here.”
The buzz of conversation continues around us, but it feels distant, unimportant. In this moment, there’s only Cora. Her eyes, searching mine. Her body, warm against me.
She shifts on my lap, a subtle movement that deepens our connection. I gasp softly as she takes me deeper inside her.
“Stay with me,” she whispers, her forehead touching mine. “Just... be here with me.”
I cradle her face between my palms, kissing her with all the tenderness I possess. No performance, no agenda. Just us connecting in the most honest way I know how.
We rock together slowly, barely moving. Her breath catches with each subtle shift. My hands travel down her back, supporting her, drawing her closer. Our eyes remain locked, unwavering.
“I feel you,” she whispers, her eyes growing unfocused as pleasure builds. “Just you.”
I hold her against me as her climax washes over her, gentle but profound. She presses her face into my neck, trembling as waves of pleasure move through her body.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, holding her tight.
I follow her moments later, grinding softly into her, my release gentle and deep. I press my face into her hair, breathing her in as I fill her.
We remain still afterward, still connected, still holding each other. My fingers trace patterns on her back as her breathing steadies against my chest.
“Stay with me,” I whisper, and I know I mean beyond this moment. I never want to let Cora Pike go.