Page 12 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

“He bought me. The scars on my back? He’s the reason I have them. He put the tattoo on my wrist, too.”

“Rook.”

“Both of them did it to me, actually.”

“Where are they?”

“Why?”

“You don’t get to ask why. You sought refuge in my house. You stole from me. That means you tell me everything I want to know, without asking why.”

“Can I just ask what you plan to do with that information?”

“I don’t know yet. But you belong to me, and anyone who fucks with you lands on my shitlist. Believe me when I say that is not a place you want to be.”

My heart lurches at that. I’ve never had a protector before—someone who considered me valuable enough to kill for. Sure, Randy acted protective, but only to save his own ass. It had nothing to do with me.

Ripley can’t know how he’s affected me, because that would imply that I’m more than just his temporary whore, and I know better. I brush off the flattery and tip my chin up. “Well, doesn’t matter. The cops aren’t going to believe you. Randy? He’s connected. Rook must be too because nothing—”

“Dylan,” he cuts me off. “I’m not going to any cop. If anyone comes looking for you, I’ll put a bullet in his head without thinking twice.” He says it as easy as if he just offered to pay off all my debts. As if human life is merely a matter of his mood, extinguished as quickly as he sheds his slacks at the end of a workday.

I’d never given thought to what my life would be without the mocking laughter echoing inside my head, silenced by a bullet.

Relief shouldn’t beat through my veins. I shouldn’t be happy that a man is offering to kill off both of my nightmares in one sweep—one who’s very capable of doing that. Just like I shouldn’t have been relieved when he killed the man who tried to rape me back at the factory. After all, there’s nothing heroic about murder. It’s vile and disgusting and in the end, doesn’t change what’s already been done.

But I’ve been living in a world of corruption, where justice is nothing more than a bullshit fairytale. Yeah, it kind of turns me on in a creepy, Mickey and Mallory sort of way. Even if I know it’s wrong, I still smile at the thought of Randy and his sick bastard friend lying in a pool of blood, completely at this man’s mercy.

“I’m flattered, believe me. But if I had to guess, Randy and Chanel skipped town. They don’t stay in one place for very long. I have no idea where to find Rook.”

“I want to know if they contact you. No one comes near you. And I can assure you, no one will ever leave a fucking scar on you again or I’ll mount his head to my wall and use it for target practice. You keep that shit from me, though? I’ll string you up beside them. Never lie to me and I’ll look out for you as long as you’re here.”

“Why do you care?” As if reality has taken hold again, my mind flips back to anger that this guy, who’s been kind of a dick to me too, suddenly wants to be my hero? Bullshit. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. “To get out of paying me the money? Think if you kill my torturers that you’ll end my problems?”

“No. I’m not trying to get out of paying you. As long as you’re mine, nothing touches you. Simple as that.”

I want to argue that I’m no one’s, but the sincerity in his eyes disarms me. His stony expression is both chilling and mesmerizing. I almost feel sorry for anyone who happens to land under his blade. “Well, like I said, I don’t need you looking out for me. But I guess … if I had to have someone watching my back, I’m glad it’s you. I mean, you’re obviously qualified.”

“I got your six, Bandit.” His lips kick up at the corner, and one thing I’ll say about Ripley is, he doesn’t smile often, but when he does, that shit’s about as awesome as cherubs sitting on rainbows, throwing glitter down on unicorns.

And then it disappears as quickly as it arrived.

“Holy hell, did you just smile?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “I swear I saw dimples.”

“It happens sometimes.”

“It freaked me out a little. I almost thought you had happy thoughts tromping all over the blood, gore, and death.”

“Those were my happy thoughts.”

“Right.” Letting out a huff, I twist around, looking for any scrap of clothing that might be lying around to cover myself and find the paper bag beside me. Struck by the pang of hunger that I ignored during sex, I nudge my head toward it. “Can I have that?”

“Of course. Said I picked one up for you.” He removes his T-shirt, giving me an eyeful of chiseled abs along with two bulging pectorals, and hands it to me.

Slipping it over my head sends me into a dark world which smells of that sandalwood and man, the same scent I touched myself to earlier today, and like a trigger, it clenches my thighs.

I sit down at the table and slide the greasy burger out of the bag. Across from me, he pulls a beer from the six pack on the table, pops the top, and takes a sip of it, then tips the mouth of it toward me.

“You can get in trouble, offering alcohol to an underage girl like that.” I snatch the bottle from his hands and kick back a swig.