Page 10 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

“And the letters?” My hands ball into fists at the sight of them, some motherfucker’s name branded on her.

“They thought they owned me. They don’t. Nobody owns me.” Her body shifts beneath me. “Just forget it. Let me up.”

Forget? No, too late now. Her words are like ash on an indomitable wind. Anger and adrenaline slam through my veins, hammering out a murderous rhythm of rage. It comes on fast, and not even the slow mental countdown inside my head can stop it. I’ve seen her scars before, but seeing them now, knowing what they mean, incites an untamable wrath somewhere deep in my bones.

The blackness in the pit of my stomach rises up like the dead, crawling up my spine, and my hands tremble with the urge to throttle something.

“You have to kill him.” A soft whisper echoes inside my head.

Kill.

“Who did this?” I grit out.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s nothing, Ripley. I want to get up.” She shifts beneath me, and I press down, still examining her wounds. “Let me up.”

Fury sheets my muscles that act on impulse, and I curl my fingers around her nape. “Who. Did. This?”

“Who did this, Ripley?” My sister asks beside me.

“Stop. You’re hurting me. Let go of me!”

I flip her onto her back and grip tight to her throat.

Dylan’s face blurs and fades into the sharp angles and stern eyes of my father. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

Instinct begs me to snap her neck.

5

Dylan

He’s going to kill me. I can see it in his round, dilated pupils and that glint of darkness behind them. The man is deranged, and I’m nothing but a kitten pawing at a lion.

“Tell me who the fuck did this!” Spittle hits my face and my heart goes jackrabbit, like it might punch right through the bone.

“I don’t know his real name! Randy, my aunt’s boyfriend, calls him Rook. He … he did this to me.”

Just like that, something unhinges. He recoils and loosens his grip.

His scowl deepens, and he looks away, the darkness shadowing his eyes just moments ago, softening to confusion. He releases my hair and rubs a hand down his face, taking a step back. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry? He must be off his goddamn rocker to apologize to me after the guy left me tied to a bed, suffering withdrawals, and a whole host of sexual shit that, yeah, admittedly I’ve enjoyed, but aren’t exactly what I’d call gentle.

Now he’s sorry?

Lifting his pants from the floor, he storms off fastening his belt, and once again, I feel abandoned. Cheap. Used and dismissed, which is completely ridiculous given this whole damn situation.

Get over yourself, Dylan. This isn’t Pretty fucking Woman.

Why even ask about the scars? I didn’t intend to relive the shit anyway, but what was the point? An excuse to ignore me for another week?

“Stick it out for Charlie,” I mutter, sliding off of the table.

“Who’s Charlie?”