Page 48 of Ryker

I have twenty-eight days left with this man and I refuse to let my personal struggles influence what I want from Ryker.

God, that look in his eyes? The one Ryker wore when he came up behind Garret and punched him in the back of the head? It was the same vicious, possessive darkness he had when he thought Vault might have hurt me in the hallway.

That look.

That look!

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone possess such a brutal, feral, murderous gaze in all my life. I bet Ryker holds himself back from shredding the world to ribbons every day.

What has he gone through to make him this way?

The terrifyingly possessive and vicious gaze that made Ryker seem like he’d gladly bash the brains in of anyone who ever tries to hurt me, is absolutely terrifying.

Because the sickest part is…

I want Ryker to always stare at me like that.

Chapter 17

Ryker

I have no business being this possessive and protective over a woman. Let alone someone like Tara. She’s using me the same way every client in my past has used me. She wants a good time.

Only I’ve paid her for her privilege to fuck me.

How shit-tastic is that?

Ever since this woman’s been in my crosshairs, she’s head-fucked me. I go from craving her, to wanting to kick her out, to fighting the urge to protect her at all costs, and even contemplating murder.

I wasn’t kidding about that. No man should lay their hands on a woman in anger. That motherfucker’s only still breathing because I wanted Tara safe and away from him first. Even now, the urge to take the elevator back down to the lobby and hunt him down is fucking strong.

But unlike my best friend, Dmitri, I have enough control left in me to table it for now.

If D was here, and this was his woman, the lobby would be soaked in blood and Dmitri would be on the news, getting hauled away to prison with a life sentence. I have people who need me, and I’ve hesitated because of it. Well, that and I don’t know this woman at all.

Just like I don’t know who that guy was downstairs.

Was that her husband? Lover? Friend? Enemy? Co-worker?

I hate not knowing the answer. Why does she refuse to give it to me?

Scrubbing my face with both hands, I familiarize myself with her apartment. It’s swanky. Smells feminine. Most of her furniture is white with splashes of turquoise. Her kitchen looks like it barely gets used. In fact, the only thing that looks used is her desk positioned in front of an enormous window. Stacks of papers and folders litter the top. One drawer is half-open. Most of the letter keys on her laptop have all worn off.

It's quiet in here. You can’t hear the busy street below since the windows are high quality like the rest of the place. I can’t even hear Tara in the other room. The silence makes my balls clench. I like noise. No, I need it. Chaos is very much my comfort zone, and this place makes me feel like I’m walking around a graveyard no one visits.

Knocking on her bedroom door, I hold back from barging in. “You okay in there?”

No answer.

“Tara?” Did she climb out the window or something? “Tara, answer me.”

Still nothing.

“I’m coming in.” Shoving the door open, I expect it to be locked, but it isn’t. Her bedroom is white on white—from the cushioned headboard to the bedding, curtains, and rug. It’s like an empty canvas. There are no photos or art hanging on the walls. No plants. Nothing that makes it seem personal.

It’s a hollow shell.

“Tara?” Her closet door is open, so I head there first. It’s not until I see her bare feet in the corner and hear sniffling when my heart falls out of my fucking ass. Jesus Christ. “Tara,” I say softly, kneeling in front of her.

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