Chapter 71
Islip back into the shadows. Rip’s clearly working through something, and it’s not my place to interfere with that. Despite every fibre of my soul screaming at me to dive into the ocean alongside him and help wash away all his troubles, I’m going to take advantage of the alone time.
I jog back to the house, cradling the stitch in my side as I power through the door, beelining it to our bedroom.
I dart inside the ensuite, kneeling to pull out the boxes of scarlet hair dye.
It’s the only way I could inconspicuously get rubber gloves.
My hair would need so much processing to get it back to what it was, it’s not worth it.
I pull the gloves from the box, tucking everything back in nice and neat so Rip is none the wiser.
I slide the gloves on before sweeping the dried monkshood into a mortar and pestle. I purchased it from a second hand store the other day while on a solo walk around the area. I doubt Rip’s even noticed it sitting on the bottom shelf of the bedside table.
There’s enough toxin in this flower to kill Ripley’s entire team, and then some probably.
I move with hurried, silent steps to the backyard.
If Ripley comes back before I’m done, I won’t be easily found.
Slinking back into a more concealed area with dim light, I start to grind down the plants.
I’m not wasting a damn bit of this powder, it may be my only saving grace if someone else in his organization becomes a problem.
I should have a mask to ensure I don’t inhale any of this, but the bandana wrapped around my face, that’s tucked into my hoodie, will have to suffice. There’s no way I could get a proper mask without raising a red flag, especially since he knows about my evil streak.
The plants crumble to dust within seconds, the long length of time they were left drying working to my advantage. The granite grinds as I work it into the finest powder possible.
Almost there.
The front screen door creaks open, and I crouch low, needing to remain hidden until I’m finished.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
This will have to be good enough, the sound of the circling pestle will undoubtedly lead him my way if he so much as leans toward an open window.
I pull the funnel I made out of rolled paper from my pocket, sticking it in the top of a small corked apothecary jar. It makes me miss my little collection of ground toxins at home. Chelsea used to joke I was a witch-in-the-making. I never corrected her, because then I’d have to tell her the truth.
Slowly, I pour the ground monkshood into the tube, watching as it fills the little jar with toxin. Giddy elation swims through my veins.
I want to be there when Shantel keels over.
Every light in the house starts to flick on as Rip races through the space, sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. “Rose?” he calls out, searching for me. My pulse pounds in my ears as I fight to stay focused. The last thing I need is this shit spilled all over my clothes.
Faintly, I hear the basement door slam open, and his feet pounding down the steps. If he gets distracted by his favourite room in the house, I might have a few extra minutes before he finds me.
To say I was surprised when he showed me the room is an understatement.
A full-blown mural of his favourite movies wrap the walls.
Bright dinosaur eyes peeking out from behind the shelves housing his expensive dinosaur figurines.
Some are highly detailed miniatures, while others are self-made from plastic bricks.
On the far wall is a massive projection screen he can pull down at will, and a half a dozen recliners facing it.
Several different inflatable dinosaur costumes hang from hooks by a mirror, and when asked why he had them, he simply replied, “Sparring is more fun with them on.” Honestly, I can only hope to see it one day.
I push the cork into the top of the jar, slipping it into a plastic bag before darting to the trash cans stored on the side of the house.
Opening the bag on top, I throw the tainted mortar, pestle, crumpled funnel, and gloves in.
I do up the bag, and replace the lid, before pulling my sweater back down and slipping off the bandana.
“Rose?” Ripley’s panicked voice reverberates through the house, and I move to the sliding glass door just as he pulls it open. Tucking the small jar and face wrap into my hoodie pocket, I look up at him. “Where were you?” he pants.
“Looking for you,” I reply. “Where’d you go?”
“For a run,” he replies.
“Can you let me know next time? I was worried.”
“Sure. You were sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Well, do it if you’re leaving me.”
“Okay, sorry.”
“You should be,” I reply lightly.
Gods, I’m an ass, but this is a one-time thing.
“Won’t happen again, flower.”
“It better not,” I joke, slipping by him to step inside. I can’t risk him touching me and getting any trace amount of aconite on his skin. “You should shower, I can smell you from here.”
“You going to join me?”
“Maybe… Maybe not.” I shrug, backing down the hall. I just need a minute alone to toss these clothes in the washer and tuck away the jar. I toy with the waistband of my leggings, slowly pushing them down my thighs. “Better hurry, or I may start without you.”
He takes a determined step toward me, ready to fuck me raw on the spot.
“If you listen, I’ll give you what you’ve been aching for.” Just take the fucking bait, Ripley.
“And what’s that?” He strokes his hardness over his pants, as I step out of mine.
I look him right in his gorgeous dark eyes. “My mouth.”
He grips himself so hard I don’t know how it doesn’t hurt.
Turning, I bend to pick up my discarded pants.
“Flower…” he growls.
“Tick-tock,” I call over my shoulder, striding down the hallway to the bedroom.
He’s hot on my trail, but when I dip into our room, he keeps going. Moving to the front door to drop off his shoes. I wrap the plastic bag covered jar in the bandana, and shove it into the back of the bedside table drawer.
Moving quickly to the ensuite, I strip, tossing my clothes into the washer and starting a load.
Initially, I thought it was weird that the laundry was in the bathroom, but now it just makes sense.
It was only him living here, why have to travel to a completely different area when all your dirty clothes would be in the hamper in your room anyway?
I dart into the shower, turning the water on before it has a chance to warm up.
“Not going to wait for me?” Rip calls out, entering the bedroom.
No I’m not, I have to scrub every spec of this from my skin before he so much as lays a finger on me.
I manage to get my hair and body washed before he steps into the bathroom, figure distorted through the fogged up glass.
He strips for me, so fucking slowly. If I wasn’t paranoid about accidentally infecting him, I’d drag him in here already.
Ripley’s dark eyes bore into me, following the path of my hand as I leisurely wash a second time, allowing the conditioner time to saturate my slowly splitting ends.
He pushes the grey joggers down his muscular thighs, boxers going with them, as I spread the suds across my abdomen. I dip my fingers between my thighs, breathing sharply when a zap of desire zips through me.
A muffled groan meets my ears, the cascading water drowning out the potency of it. Ripley grips his cock, stroking slow. The lewdness of his partially obscured form makes my mouth water. Nothing says sorry I’m about to kill your head of security like a world-rocking blow job. Right?
Finally, his body slides in next to mine, hard cock brushing along my heated skin. Arching my back, I rinse the conditioner from my dark hair. Even with my eyes closed, I feel his gaze on me.
Rip’s fingers drag up my stomach, awakening a pulse between my thighs. His hand cups my breast, hot mouth coming down over my nipple, as the other arm bands around my lower back. Effortlessly, he lifts me, turning us as he steals my spot beneath the hot spray.
His body abandons mine, a sexy little smirk plastered on his gorgeous face as he soaks his hair, rinsing away the sweat and salty ocean water.
Grabbing the loofa, I coat it with soap while he’s busy washing his hair. Slowly, I run it over his body, attempting to scrub away whatever was bothering him enough that he needed to leave.
“What are you doing?”
“Washing you.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I can do it.”
“Do you want me to stop?” I drag the sponge down his abdomen, grazing gently over his straining erection, to wash the top of his thigh.
“No,” he grumbles.
“Then stop bitching and let me take care of you.”
“I’m not a child,” he snaps. As usual, he sidesteps the new emotions, trying to grab onto something he understands.
“Well aware, Rip. You probably didn’t have anyone to take care of you then, either, which is why you’re such an ass about me doing the smallest thing now,” I bitch back, sick and tired of this fucking dance I know isn’t his fault.
His silence is answer enough. Instead of letting the moment ruin this, I continue to lather up his skin. Proving to him that my touch isn’t meant as painful or predatory, and I won’t back down from him or his repressed pain.
“Turn,” I instruct, and he complies, hanging his head as the water runs down around his stoic face.