Chapter 30 Ryder
RYDER
Iwake with sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, momentarily disoriented before remembering—I’m in Dominic’s penthouse. Our new home. With Cora.
The memory of last night’s dinner flashes back—Dominic acting weird as fuck, knocking over his water when our fingers touched. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Part of me wants to roll over and go back to sleep, but my stomach growls in protest.
Dragging myself out of bed, I don’t bother with clothes.
It’s too early for that shit. I shuffle down the hallway in just my boxers, running a hand through my bedhead and yawning.
Dom’s place is ridiculous—all sleek lines and modern furniture that probably costs a small fortune.
I’m gonna break something expensive before the week is out, guaranteed.
I turn the corner into the living room and freeze.
Cora stands in the kitchen, her back to me.
She’s wearing nothing but a silky nightgown that barely reaches mid-thigh, the material so thin it’s practically transparent in the morning light.
Her hair falls in messy waves down her back, and she’s holding a steaming mug of coffee between her hands.
My mouth goes dry instantly. “Hey, princess,” I say, my voice raspier than intended.
She turns, startled, almost sloshing coffee over the rim of her mug.
Her eyes widen as they land on me, then drift down, taking in my tattooed chest and arms, lingering on the detailed sleeve that covers my right arm from shoulder to wrist. I’ve never felt self-conscious about my ink before, but something about the way she studies me makes heat crawl up my neck.
Then her gaze drops lower, to where my boxers are doing an absolutely shit job of hiding my growing erection. Fuck. Nothing like morning wood combined with the sight of a gorgeous woman in silk to make things obvious.
The air between us crackles with tension. Neither of us speaks for a beat too long.
The moment stretches between us, and then something in Cora’s eyes shifts. The flash of interest I thought I saw hardens into something cold.
She narrows her eyes, lips thinning. “Morning,” she says, voice clipped.
Then she simply turns her back on me, like I’m not even fucking there. Like, I’m not worth acknowledging beyond the bare minimum of courtesy.
Fuck this.
I cross the kitchen in five strides, not giving myself time to think about what I’m doing. My body presses against her back, the heat of her seeping through that thin silk. I place my hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her against the kitchen island.
I lean in close, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “Still pissed at me?”
She stiffens against me but doesn’t pull away. “What do you think?” Her voice is ice, but there’s heat underneath it.
“I fucking apologized,” I say. “Multiple times. For what it’s worth, which probably isn’t much, but I meant it.”
“Apologies are just words, Ryder.” She grips her coffee mug tighter, knuckles turning white. “You used me to hurt my father.”
“Yeah, I did. And I’m sorry for that.” I inhale the scent of her shampoo, something floral that makes my head swim. “But if you’re so goddamn angry, why’d you come back from your place looking thoroughly fucked?”
She tries to turn, but I hold my position, keeping her caged between my arms.
“That’s different,” she whispers.
“Is it?” I press closer, my chest against her back. “You’re pissed at him too. At all of us. But you still let him touch you.”
Her breath catches. “It’s complicated.”
“No shit.” I laugh softly. “Look, I get it. You’re allowed to be angry and still want us. That’s the fucking mess we’re in.”
She finally turns to face me with her coffee mug clutched between us like a shield. Her eyes meet mine, defiant and vulnerable all at once.
“I hate that I want you,” she admits. “I hate that my body reacts every time one of you touches me.”
I grin at her confession. “Good. At least we’re on the same page about something.”
Her eyes flash with irritation, but I catch the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth. That’s the thing about Cora—she fights her own reactions as much as she fights us.
“You hungry?” I ask, shifting topics with deliberate casualness. “I could make breakfast.”
“You cook breakfast too? Not just pasta?”
“Princess, I cook everything.” I step back, giving her space but keeping my eyes locked on hers. “It’s my one marketable skill besides gambling and looking pretty.”
That earns me a reluctant smile. “Modest too.”
“Never claimed to be.” I reach past her for a coffee mug, letting my arm brush against hers. “What’ll it be? I make a mean Eggs Benedict. Or pancakes if you’re feeling basic.”
She sips her coffee, studying me over the rim. “Did you learn to cook in prison or something?”
I laugh, the sound echoing in the kitchen. “No prison record, sweetheart. My mom taught me. Said no son of hers was going to be helpless in a kitchen.”
“Smart woman.”
“The smartest.” I move around the counter, opening the fridge to survey the contents. “So, what’s the verdict?”
Cora sets her mug down and leans against the counter, the silk of her nightgown shifting against her curves. “Surprise me.”
I close the fridge and move toward her in one fluid motion. “Careful what you wish for.”
I catch her waist with one hand, pulling her closer. She doesn’t resist, though her breath catches. My other hand tilts her chin up, and I press my lips against hers—gentle at first, then with more heat as she responds.
Breaking the kiss, I lean back and wink. “That’s just the appetizer.”
Cora laughs, the sound catching her by surprise. It transforms her face, softening the edges of anger she’s been holding onto. I can’t help but grin in response, savoring my small victory.
“You’re impossible,” she says, but there’s no bite to her words.
“Part of my charm.” I turn back to the fridge, pulling out eggs, butter, and bacon. “My mom always said I could talk my way out of anything except her kitchen rules.”
“Tell me about her?” Cora asks, settling onto a barstool at the counter.
I pause, surprised by her interest. Most women I’ve been with don’t ask about my family.
“She was amazing. Worked two jobs most of my childhood but still made dinner every night.” I crack eggs into a bowl, focusing on the task to keep my voice steady. “Taught me how to cook, how to iron my own shirts, how to sweet-talk my way through life.”
“Is she still...?”
“No.” I glance up at her. “Cancer, five years ago.”
Cora’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well. Life’s a bitch sometimes.” I shrug, then flash her a smile to lighten the mood. “But she’d be proud I’m putting her lessons to good use.”
I move around the kitchen, pulling out a frying pan. The familiar motions center me.
“What about you? Your mom teach you anything worth knowing?”
Cora’s expression changes instantly, something darkening behind those green eyes of hers. Fuck. I immediately regret asking about her mom.
“My mother died when I was six,” she says quietly, staring into her coffee cup. “Cancer.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.” I pause in the middle of whisking eggs, feeling like a complete asshole. “I didn’t know.”
She shrugs, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. “Not something I talk about much. I barely remember her now, just fragments. Her perfume. The way she’d sing while brushing my hair.”
I set down the whisk and lean against the counter, giving her my full attention. Something tells me she doesn’t share this kind of thing often.
“Must’ve been rough, growing up with just your dad.”
Especially that asshole.
Cora’s fingers tighten around her mug. “That’s when it started, you know. The beatings.”
My body tenses immediately.
“After mom died, he changed.” Her voice drops so low I lean in to hear her. “It was just little spanks at first. When I’d make too much noise or ask too many questions about her.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. Fucking Pike. I’d hated the man for his anti-gambling stance that cost me contracts, but this is a whole different level.
“Then they got worse,” Cora continues, staring into her coffee like she’s reading the memories there. “As I got older, it escalated. A slap for talking back. A belt for staying out too late.”
I fight the urge to touch her, sensing she needs space to get through this.
“And then there were the women,” she says with a bitter laugh. “God, so many of them. One after another. He’d charm them, move them in, and eventually, they’d get it too.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, unable to keep quiet.
“I’d hear it happening. The fights, the slaps, the crying.” She takes a shaky breath. “Some of them were kind to me. Most just tried to stay out of his way.”
She looks at me finally, her eyes clearer now, anger replacing the sadness.
“And then there’s Addison. The trophy wife who finally stuck.” Cora’s mouth twists into something that’s not quite a smile. “She pretends not to see it when he hurts me. Looks the other way. We don’t exactly get along.”
I want to break something. Preferably, William Pike’s face. The righteous, holier-than-thou politician who built his reputation on family values while terrorizing his own daughter and partners behind closed doors.
“Why do you still live with him?” I ask, unable to keep the anger from my voice. My hands grip the edge of the counter, so I don’t punch something.
Cora looks up at me, surprise flickering across her face. Maybe no one’s ever asked her that before. She takes another sip of her coffee, buying herself time.
“I don’t know,” she finally says with a small shrug that breaks my fucking heart. “I never found a way to escape. Or maybe I was too scared to try.”
This fierce, defiant woman who stood up to three men hunting her. It doesn’t compute in my head, but I know trauma does weird shit to people.
“You’re an adult,” I point out, trying to keep my tone gentle. “You could’ve walked out anytime.”
She gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Could I? My father controls everything. My trust fund, my connections, my future. Every time I tried to build something separate, he’d find a way to tear it down.”
I turn back to the stove, focusing on pouring eggs into the pan so she doesn’t see how much this is affecting me. The sizzle fills the silence between us.
“The summer after college, I got an internship at this small environmental nonprofit,” she continues. “He called in a favor, had the funding pulled. They couldn’t afford to keep me.”
I watch the eggs cook, trying to process the level of control this man has exerted over his daughter.
“Last year, I rented an apartment without telling him. He found out somehow, called the building manager, convinced him I was unstable. Had the lease terminated before I could even move in.”
“And the bruises? The ones I saw at the Hunt?”
Cora shifts her coffee mug between her hands; eyes fixed on the dark liquid.
“The night before the Hunt. We were at dinner, and I mentioned deferring law school for another year.” Her voice becomes mechanical, like she’s reciting a shopping list instead of describing abuse. “I told him I wasn’t sure if it was right for me.”
I stand frozen at the stove, eggs burning as Cora describes what happened that night.
My jaw clenches so tight I can hear my teeth grinding.
She recounts her father’s violence with a detached calm that’s somehow worse than tears—the bruises, the slap across her face, the way he threatened to cut her off completely.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter, turning off the burner with a sharp twist. My hands are shaking with rage.
The kitchen fills with the smell of scorched eggs, but I couldn’t care less about breakfast now. All I can picture is Cora on her knees, picking up broken pieces while blood and tears mix on the floor. While that self-righteous bastard straightened his tie and walked away.
I grip the counter to stop myself from punching something.
“And people call me degenerate,” I say, my voice rough. “That sanctimonious piece of shit parades around town talking about justice while he beats his own daughter.”
I look at Cora, really look at her, seeing the strength it took to survive that house. To endure that control. The Hunt suddenly makes more sense—her desperation for some freedom, any escape, even one that landed her with three men who had their own agenda.
I push away from the counter, needing to move. “Fuck, Cora.” I run a hand through my hair, struggling to find the right words. Nothing seems adequate. “You know you’re not going back there, right?” I finally say. “Not after everything. Not ever.”
For a heartbeat, Cora just stares at me, her green eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. Then something breaks inside her. All at once, she’s off the barstool and rushing toward me, colliding with my chest as her arms wrap around my waist.
I freeze for half a second, caught off guard by the sudden contact. Then my arms close around her automatically, pulling her against me as her body shakes with sobs.
“You’re okay,” I whisper into her hair, one hand moving to cradle the back of her head. “I’ve got you.”
She cries harder, fingers clutching me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. Each sob tears through her body and straight into mine. I hold her tighter, absorbing her tremors.
How long has she been holding this in? How many years of pain is she releasing right now?
I’ve never been great with crying women. Usually, I’m looking for the nearest exit. But with Cora, all I want to do is shelter her, protect her from everything—even the memories she carries.
Her tears soak my skin. I press my cheek against the top of her head, breathing in the jasmine scent of her shampoo, and close my eyes.
None of this was supposed to happen. We were going to use her, break her, and walk away satisfied. Instead, I’m standing in Dominic’s kitchen, holding Pike’s daughter like she’s something precious, something worth saving.
And fuck me if she isn’t.