Page 38 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 4

I shake my head at that. “You don’t have Charlie.” Turning away from her, I allow the defeat to wash over me as I head for the exit.

I’ve lost everything.

I set my pack onto the curb beside me and rest my head on my folded arms. On the heels of having finally reported Layla to the police, only to find she was returned to Eden Ranch Academy, I feel as if I’ve failed everyone.

In the last week, I sold the gun, my bloodstained dress, the jewelry I wore the night I went after Dorian, and the cash I made was enough to pay the fees. It would’ve been enough to get Charlie back. I’d have had to work something out with the shelter where I’ve been staying the last week, but the woman who runs it seems nice. She even offered me a job and told me I could use her address for Charlie’s license. The plan was to earn some money at the shelter and take night classes to get my GED. To make a better life for Charlie and me.

That was the plan.

I don’t know what the plan is anymore.

Every minute of my day is spent ducking out, waiting for the moment when Dorian’s men come for me. Or the Agency tracks me down. I’m always looking over my shoulder, waiting to be swiped off the streets.

My stomach twists with the familiar pain of withdrawals, but not from the drugs. I want Ripley. I crave him so badly that it physically hurts to think about him. One more night, one more hit would settle me, make things right again.

The heart may be resilient, but it’s born of fire and longs for the flame.

It’s too late for that, though.

With my head tucked inside my arms, I sob.

21

Ripley

Blood is everywhere.

Pooled on the floor beside Marchetti’s bodyguard who lies with the vacant stare of death. Beside him, what’s left of another guard is piled into loose body parts that I cut away myself. I can’t tell where one guard’s blood begins and the other’s ends.

I trail my gaze down to my hands where their blood coats my skin, all the way up to my elbows.

So much blood.

Back in my C4 training, we were made to wade in pools of blood and discarded organs from the nearby slaughterhouse. They wanted us to be immune to the sight and smell of it. Some vomited during the exercise. Others panicked and refused to complete it.

I always thought it strange that it never bothered me.

A flash of Dylan’s face hits the back of my skull and my fingers curl around the knife in my hand. More blood. I push the thoughts of her aside as I’ve done every day for the last three weeks I’ve spent drowning myself in liquor and the blood of my enemies.

My love for her has turned to rage. Soul-consuming, heart-numbing rage, and the blood I’ve spilled isn’t enough.

Kill. Kill them all.

Marchetti is strapped to his desk, held down by the thick rope that binds him. I’d expected more resistance. More manpower. Now I understand why Dorian sought out his men, how he groomed their loyalty over time until this moment when they abandoned him. Left him with his two most trusted guards, whom I took the liberty of killing first and brutally.

That’s how it is in the underbelly.

One minute you’re on top of the world, and in the next breath, you’re fighting just to stay in it.

I glance around Marchetti’s office, noticing there are no pictures anywhere. No wife. No child. No family but the men who lie in a heap on the floor beside him.

The rapid rise and fall of his chest tells me the wounds I’ve inflicted are too deep for his body to keep fighting, carved with the same expertise as every kill—designed to end life slowly. Miserably. Hopelessly.

The one I sliced into his side shows a hint of the viscera within, and the pallid tone of his skin tells me he’ll be dead within the hour.

“Was it worth it?” My tone is flat and devoid of the emotions that are slamming around in chaos inside of me.

His brows crease with a frown. “What?”