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34

KIRA

T he waiting is unbearable.

I pace across Ryker’s living room, my bare feet silent against the hardwood floors. It’s been hours since he made the call—a single sentence spoken into his phone before hanging up: “Proceed as discussed.”

Night has fallen, the darkness outside pressing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. As I move, I catch glimpses of my reflection—hair disheveled from running my hands through it, eyes wide and haunted. I barely recognize myself.

My uncle is going to die tonight.

The thought sends me a strange rollercoaster of emotions—horror, guilt, vindication, then, finally, relief. I’ve never wished death on anyone before. But I’ve also never hated anyone the way I hate him.

“Drink this.” Ryker’s says, standing in the doorway and offering me a glass of amber liquid.

I take it without question, welcoming the burn as it slides down my throat. Whiskey. Expensive, from the smoothness of it.

“How much longer?” I ask, my voice smaller than I intended.

Ryker glances at his watch. “Not long now.”

He looks so calm, so collected—as if arranging someone’s murder is just another Tuesday night activity. I suppose for him, it might be. The thought should terrify me. It doesn’t. It makes me feel strangely safer than I can recall ever feeling.

“Come here,” he says, opening his arms.

I step into his embrace, the solid wall of his chest anchoring me as my thoughts spiral. His heartbeat is steady and strong against my ear, his breathing even. How can he be so calm when I’m unraveling?

“Are you sure about this?” I ask. “What if they trace it back to you?”

His chest rumbles with a soft laugh. “They won’t. The people I’ve hired are professionals. They’ll make him disappear without a trace.”

I pull back slightly, searching his face. “But you said he’d suffer first.”

Something dark flickers behind Ryker’s eyes. “He will. They have their instructions.”

I swallow hard, imagining what those instructions might entail. Part of me wants to know the details; another is grateful for Ryker’s discretion.

“What happens after?” I ask. “To... to the body?”

“It will never be found.” His voice is matter-of-fact, clinical. “Your family will report him missing. The police will investigate, but they’ll find nothing. No evidence, no trial. People disappear every day, Kira.”

The methodical nature of his planning should disturb me. If I’m being honest, however, I’m relieved he’s thought of everything.

“And my mother?”

“Will never know what happened to him. She’ll wonder, she’ll grieve perhaps, but eventually, she’ll move on.” Ryker’s hand comes up to cup my face. “They all will.”

I lean into his touch, drawing strength from his certainty. “And me? How do I move on?”

“You already have.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “The moment you decided he didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you. The moment you chose your future over his.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket, interrupting the moment. I freeze as he pulls it out, his expression revealing nothing as he reads the message.

“It’s done,” he says simply.

Two words. Just two words to signify a man’s life ending. My uncle’s life. The monster that haunted my nightmares for years.

I wait for guilt to crash over me. For horror. For regret.

All I feel is lighter. As if a weight I’ve carried since childhood suddenly lifted, Ryker gave me peace of mind and solace I never thought I would find.

“They sent confirmation,” Ryker adds, his eyes never leaving my face. “Do you want to see it?”

I hesitate. “What kind of confirmation?”

“It’s... definitive,” he says carefully. “But not overly graphic. You’ll need to be sure you want to see it.”

My heart pounds as I nod. “I need to see. I need to know it’s really over.”

Ryker holds out his phone. The screen shows an image that makes my breath catch—my uncle’s face, pale and still, visible through the partially unzipped opening of a black body bag. His eyes are closed, and his features slack in death. A gloved hand holds today’s newspaper in the frame, confirming the date. There’s no blood, no visible wounds, just the unmistakable stillness of death.

“Oh my God!” My fingers tremble as they hover over the screen. “It’s really him.”

“It’s over,” Ryker confirms quietly. “He’s gone.”

A dam I’ve held intact for too long breaks, freeing the little girl that no one believed or protected. I sink to my knees, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. Ryker follows me down, gathering me against his chest as the first sob tears from my throat.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs against my hair. “Let it out.”

So I do. I cry for the little girl I was, for the innocence stolen, for the years spent afraid and ashamed. I cry for the woman I might have been if not for my uncle’s violations. I cry until my throat is raw and my tear-swollen eyes burn.

Through it all, Ryker holds me, his strong arms keeping me from flying apart completely. When my sobs finally quiet to hiccuping breaths, he tilts my face up to his.

“He can never hurt you again,” he says, wiping away my tears with his thumbs. “He’s gone.”

“Because of you,” I whisper, a new emotion surging through me—gratitude so intense it’s almost painful. “You did this for me.”

“I would do anything for you,” Ryker says, his voice rough with emotion. “Anything to keep you safe. To make you happy.”

The intensity in his eyes takes my breath away. This complicated, dangerous, brilliant man has done what no one else in my life ever could. He believed me, protected me, and eliminated the source of my deepest pain.

“I love you,” I say, the words feeling inadequate for the depth of my feelings. “I know that’s crazy. I know some might say it’s wrong. But I do.”

“There’s nothing wrong about it,” he says fiercely, his hands framing my face. “What’s between us—it’s the only thing in my life that’s ever felt right.”

I surge forward, claiming his mouth with mine. The kiss is desperate, grateful, and filled with countless emotions. His arms tighten around me as he responds with equal fervor, lifting me effortlessly.

I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the bedroom, our lips never breaking contact. The need to be close to him, to feel his skin against mine, is formidable—a physical ache that only he can soothe.

When he lays me on the bed, I pull him down with me, unwilling to let go even for a moment. My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his warmth.

“Slow down,” he murmurs against my lips, his hands gently capturing mine. “We have all night.”

“I need you,” I beg. “Please, Ryker. I need to feel you.”

Something in my tone must convey my desperation because his resistance crumbles. He helps me with his buttons, shrugging off his shirt to reveal the tattooed expanse of his chest. My fingers trace the Ghost mask inked over his heart—the symbol of his devotion that still takes my breath away.

Our clothes fall away piece by piece, discarded carelessly on the floor. When we’re finally skin to skin, I sigh with relief, as if a physical connection was all I needed to feel whole again.

Ryker’s touch is reverent as he explores my body, his lips following the path of his hands. Every kiss feels like worship, every caress a promise. This isn’t the rough claiming I’ve come to expect from him—this is deeper, more profound.

“You’re safe now. You’re mine, and you’re safe.”

Tears well in my eyes again, but these are born of gratitude and love rather than pain. When he finally joins our bodies, the sensation is boundless. I cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders as he moves within me, each thrust driving away the last shadows of my past.

“Look at me,” Ryker commands gently, his hand cradling my face. “Stay with me.”

I open my eyes, meeting his gaze as we move together. The intensity there steals my breath—love, possession, and the darkness in his soul, the one that matches the twisted parts of my soul.

“You saved me,” I admit. “You freed me.”

“We saved each other,” he corrects, his rhythm never faltering. “You showed me what it means to love something more than control.”

His words make me spiral toward the edge, pleasure building with each precise movement of his hips. I’m vaguely aware of the sounds escaping my throat—desperate, needy sounds that would embarrass me with anyone else.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice strained as he nears release. “Let go, Kira. I’ve got you.”

And I do. I shatter beneath him, around him, my body convulsing with wave after wave of pleasure. He follows moments later, my name a prayer on his lips as he collapses against me, our bodies slick with sweat and tears.

As we lie tangled together in the aftermath, my uncle’s face flashes through my mind one last time—not the still, lifeless version from Ryker’s phone, but the smug, confident man who tormented my childhood. The man who no longer exists.

“He’s really gone,” I murmur against Ryker’s chest, the reality of it still sinking in.

“Forever,” Ryker confirms, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. “You never have to think about him again.”

But I know I will—not with fear or shame, but with a strange sense of closure. The monster from my nightmares has been vanquished, not by time, therapy, or forgiveness, but by the man holding me now.

“Thank you,” I breathe, kissing Ryker’s heart. “For believing me. For doing what no one else would.”

His arms tighten around me protectively. “Always, Mischief. Always.”

As sleep begins to claim me, I feel lighter than I have in years. The weight of my past has been lifted, replaced by something new—something that looks suspiciously like a future. A future with Ryker built on the ashes of what came before.

It’s not perfect. It’s not normal. But it’s ours, and somehow, that’s enough.