Page 44 of Ripper's Redemption

The warmth from the alcohol spreads through my veins, but it isn’t enough to chase away the chill of disappointment.

“You’re thinking too much,” Poison said, nudging me gently with her elbow.

Her grin was infectious, and for a moment, I allow myself to bask in the camaraderie of the moment.

“Maybe,” I concede, lifting my glass in mock salute. “But can you blame me? He’s supposed to be my knight in shining armor, right?”

“More like a knight in tarnished leather,” Siren quips, earning a laugh from all of us.

“Guess I should know better than to expect anything else,” I shake my head. “Still, a girl can dream.”

“Dreams are good,” Poison says with a soft tone, “Just don’t let them blind you to what’s right in front of you.”

“Thanks,” I whisper, feeling a flicker of warmth that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

The girls are right.

Ripper’s absence might sting a bit, but it doesn’t diminish all of the people who are actually here celebrating with me.

The music thumps outside the clubhouse, a steady pulse that matches the rhythm of my heart.

Empty glasses litter the tables, and laughter rings out from everywhere.

It’s the kind of night where time seems to blur, and for a while, I almost forgot that Ripper isn’t here.

“Let’s get another round,” Siren suggests, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Poison cracks up and slaps her on the back, “Look who’s livin’ on the wild side a bit!”

I laugh, “Sure, why the hell not?” I agree, raising my glass.

But as I do, Ripper appears out of the darkness like a demon being summoned.

Ripper stands there, his silhouette cutting an imposing figure in the fire light.

My breath catches in my throat as I spot the blood streaking down his arm, stark against his pale skin.

He doesn’t hesitate—he moves through the crowd like a predator, eyes locked on me.

“Ripper,” I whisper, concern threading through my voice. “What happened?”

He stops inches from me, his jaw clenched tight.

His eyes are dark, stormy, filled with something I can’t quite place. “Nothing you need to worry about,” he grumbles, brushing past my question.

“You’re hurt,” I say, reaching out instinctively.

My fingers brush against his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the sticky wetness of blood.

“It’s nothing,” he snaps, pulling away.

His tone is rough, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his gaze.

I keep my voice firm. “Don’t lie to me,”

He exhales sharply, looking like he wants to say more but is holding back.

There is a hierarchy here, unspoken rules that even I knew not to push too far.

---