Page 9 of Rio (Redcars #3)

SIX

Rio

I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t Lyric begging for his life and, then, collapsing back on the bed, his expression twisted with pain.

He looked pathetic.

No, he looked sweet.

He looked… needy.

Staring at me as if I could save him. I saw Danny’s face. I saw acceptance and pain change to abject terror. I saw something that made my heart stop.

It made me feel strange. Not guilty. Not exactly. More like—uncomfortable. Wrong. Watching something pathetic and real unravel simultaneously. His voice was cracked and raw with desperation. He was terrified, and it clawed at something under my ribs. Was it real?

I couldn’t tell.

I should’ve been unmoved. I told myself I was. I told myself it was just noise. But the expression on his face—that fear—it wound its way inside, buried itself in a soft place that I thought I’d scorched clean a long time ago. I’d kill him at the drop of a hat, anything to keep my family safe, but…

Enzo was in the room now, driven by temper, with rapid-fired questions, and with each one, he moved closer to Lyric, who writhed in pain. “What do you know about LyricNight? What is Kessler to you? Who shot you?”

He was getting closer with each question, and abruptly, I didn’t like it.

“Did you know about the kids he trafficked? Did you know he had Robbie?”

Instinct fired through me, sharp and fast, and I stepped in front of Lyric without thinking and faced Enzo. Between our visitor-slash-prisoner and one of my best friends. Blocking his path.

Enzo snarled. “Get out of my fucking way, Rio!” His voice cracked with fury. “If he knew what was happening to Robbie?— ”

I shoved him back a step, hard enough to rattle him. “Don’t,” I warned, low and tight.

He didn’t hesitate. Came back at me with a shove of his own, sending me back a pace.

“You think I won’t go through you if I have to?” Enzo shouted.

Jamie was suddenly between us, both hands out, one on each of our chests, pushing back with all his strength. It had come to something when Jamie was the one who wanted peace. “Pull your shit together! Both of you!” he yelled.

I met Enzo’s eyes over Jamie’s shoulder, my chest heaving, rage still hot in my blood.

He was just as wild, torn between murderous intent and fury.

I knew his obsession with protecting Robbie had turned into love.

But he needed to back off from the sick guy on the bed before I—fuck knew what I’d do. I wasn’t in control. My temper was.

Enzo finally stepped back, but I stayed right in front of Lyric.

“I found him,” I said, before I could stop myself. “Mine to kill if we need to. No one else touches him.”

It wasn’t only about protection. It wasn’t even about power.

It was something darker—something raw and territorial, as if I’d sunk my teeth into him and dared anyone to take him from me.

I didn’t understand it, didn’t want to, but the second those words left my mouth, they felt right. Not rational or safe, but true.

Fuck.

What the hell was that?

I had no fucking clue why I was talking as if I had control, as if I had some plan beyond this compulsive instinct in my chest that said protect .

Or destroy. I couldn’t even tell which it was.

All I knew was that something in Lyric had gotten under my skin, and now, I was standing between him and Enzo as if I’d drawn a line I couldn’t erase.

Enzo’s eyes widened.

“It’s Robbie, man…” Enzo’s voice was low, but it vibrated with the threat of violence barely held in check.

“I get that, but he’s…” I waved at Lyric. As fragile as a baby? Maybe?

Enzo stabbed at my arm, eyes burning. “And, if he had anything to do with what happened to Robbie—if he even knew and didn’t say something—then I will rip him apart, and nothing you do will stop me.”

“Mine,” I snapped.

Lyric gasped in pain, and I didn’t move. The deadly focus was still in Enzo’s eyes. Not dangerous to me, but to someone like Lyric, already cracked open and possibly terrified? I stayed where I was, still unsure whether I was a protector, executioner, or something else entirely.

Killian got involved then, putting a hand on Enzo’s shoulder and tugging him back, firm but calm. The asshole lawyer raised an eyebrow at me, amused in that way that always made me want to punch him or laugh—sometimes both.

“How about we ask him some questions when he’s actually conscious, or do you want witnesses to see you piss on the patient to mark your territory?” Killian asked.

I glanced back at Lyric to see his breathing heavy. He wasn’t unconscious, but he was screwing his eyes shut to the room. Somehow, he looked worse than when he’d arrived.

I didn’t bother to hide my scowl. “Fuck you, asshole.”

“Charming as always, Mr. Villareal,” Killian said, giving Jamie a little shove toward the door and tugging Enzo with him. “Let the big, brave cage fighter have his broody little breakdown in peace.”

“Fuck you!” I repeated, louder this time.

“I’m just being observant,” Killian replied. “You looked as if you were a second away from throwing yourself on the floor and growling like a guard dog with rabies.”

“Better than looking as if I walked out of a boardroom to cosplay a mob boss.”

The second the words left my mouth, Killian’s smirk deepened, arrogant as hell.

And I felt it—that twist in my gut, hot and sudden.

Every muscle in my body tensed, my fists clenching without permission.

It took everything I had not to lunge, not to let the fury boil over and spill out.

Violence came too easily. It sat there, waiting.

Wanting. I’d spent years learning to hold it back, to collect it inside me until I stepped into the cage, but right then, I wanted to crack something open -- preferably Killian’s smug fucking face -- and hope Jamie didn’t kill me before I could get there.

I hated that the slick fucker could get to me with so little effort and that he knew he could.

That he poked all of us, not only because he loved the reaction, but because somewhere deep down, he thought I’d never bite hard enough to draw his blood.

At least not while Jamie looked up to him and needed him more than he’d ever needed me.

It used to be my job to ground Jamie with a word or a touch. But that was Killian’s role now.

And damn, that stung more than I wanted to admit. Every day, Jamie seemed a step further away from me. A little less mine. A little more Killian’s.

But also—fuck, maybe it was better this way. I didn’t have to worry about Jamie anymore. Didn’t have to hold him up or drag him back. He had someone else for that.

That was a good thing. Right?

Maybe he was right about me acting as if I were claiming Lyric as territory. Maybe not. But right then, I wanted to wipe that smug grin from Killian’s face more than I wanted to breathe.

I clenched my jaw and turned away before I said something I couldn’t take back—or did something I couldn’t explain.

Because I’d been here before. Fists flying, knuckles split open, a man screaming through broken teeth.

I’d thrived on the snap of cartilage, the shock in their eyes when they realized I wasn’t just fighting—I was enjoying.

That monster still lived in me, coiled tight and ready, and it wouldn’t take much to let him out.

One more smug smile. One more shove. One more reason.

The need for something to take the edge off was acid in my blood, burning through every thought. A couple of pills and the fury would fade—dull the noise, quell the shaking in my hands, make me human again .

No, what I really needed was time in the cage with a fighter who made me work for it.

I needed it more than I could breathe. Two days after my last bout -- and I was still bruised and sore -- and the craving gnawed and writhed under my skin, feeding on every second I wasn’t bleeding or throwing punches. I was desperate. Twitchy.

Fuck.

My body didn’t know what to do with this stillness, with fear and guilt and heat swirling in my blood.

I needed the slam of bone against bone. The taste of sweat and rage.

I needed someone strong, someone who could hit back.

I needed to lose myself in violence until the only thing left was pain that I understood.

I needed to burn it out before I did something I couldn’t walk away from.

I heard Lyric groan, and I turned to meet his gaze steadily, seeing the dead expression in his eyes, which indicated he wasn’t scared by the altercation.

“We’ll give him an hour to get his shit together,” Enzo growled from the door, stepping closer, his eyes hard as flint. He was beyond angry and into dangerous territory, trembling with restrained violence. “And then, we’re coming back for answers. If he lies, if he stalls to waste our time?— ”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Lyric shrank against the pillows as if he could disappear. He was wrecked. Not so much needy as pathetic. And the way he stared at me—as if I was his savior—set my teeth on edge. Fuck that noise.

I didn’t know if he was guilty or innocent.

But I knew that look—helplessness that dug under my skin, sinking claws into something primitive.

The more broken he appeared, the more I felt as if I needed to fucking save him rather than letting him die like Danny.

As if his fear—real or imagined—somehow made him mine.

And that scared the shit out of me more than anything else.

He wanted to live.

And I knew what it meant to want to live more than anything else in the world.

I waited until the door closed, and it was only me and him, then I helped him lie flat.

“Sleep,” I snapped and stepped away, jaw tight.

He stared up at me with those reddened eyes, the impossible shade of gray-green, brimming with tears.

His gaze flicked to the door, then back to me, as if he was trying to calculate if I’d leave him undefended.

“They won’t come back for an hour. Give Enzo time to calm down. ”

“Don’t… let them… hurt me… ”

That one hit harder than I expected. I froze for a second, teeth grinding, before I forced the words out. “Not your fucking protector,” I lied. But even I didn’t believe it.

Then, I yanked the chair from the corner and dropped it down between Lyric and the door. Planted it as a fucking barrier.

He watched me for a beat before his lashes fluttered down—long, dark, absurdly delicate—and he closed his eyes.

Bruises painted his throat in raw shades of violet and blue, proof of the damage I’d already done; his skin was pale, the chiseled cut of his cheekbones too prominent beneath thin, bruised skin.

He had one of those stupidly pretty faces—made to be kissed, ruined, maybe both.

And I was standing there like a fucking creep, memorizing him.

His long dark hair was tangled, twisted into knots, but I could imagine it soft, clean, spread out over a pillow.

Could imagine running my fingers through it, tugging at it, pulling his head back to taste him—and the thought should’ve made me sick.

It should’ve made me pull away. But it didn’t.

It lit something up inside me, something dark and possessive and wrong.

I knew it was twisted. Knew it wasn’t about care or comfort.

And still, I clung to it as if it belonged to me.

Jesus .

I should’ve stopped staring. I didn’t.

I crouched and tugged the blanket up a little higher. My fingers brushed the inside of his wrist. Cool skin, so thin I could see the ghost of blue veins. He didn’t stir.

There was a scar beneath his jaw. Not fresh, but jagged—maybe a knife or glass. I wanted to ask what happened. I wanted to ask who’d left it.

I wanted to put my mouth on it and promise no one would ever touch him again.

I stood too fast. My heart kicked against my ribs as if I’d been caught doing something filthy.

Fuck. I needed air.

I tore my eyes away, but the image of him under me, over me, in me, was haunting and shameful. He was shaking. Broken. Sweet.

What the fuck was wrong with me?