Page 115 of Ruthless Regret

Pain drags me back, sharper this time. Everything hurts. My head. My side. Even breathing feels like knives in my chest. I can taste blood in my mouth, the metallic tang coating my tongue, making it hard to swallow.

"What about Ramsey?" Bishop asks from somewhere far away, his voice barely a murmur against the pain. "Why kill him now?"

"Had to stop him talking to Ryder. Once the case was reopened, couldn't risk Ryder finding him. Ramsey knew too much. That's why he went off-grid—knew someday someone would come asking questions."

"So you tracked him down." Rook's voice is flat.

"Wasn't hard. Even off-grid, people leave traces. Just had to make sure Ryder couldn't find those traces too."

I try to focus, to stay present, but it's like trying to hold onto smoke. The voices fade in and out, each word feeling more vital than the last.

"... watching her for days ..."

"... perfect setup ..."

"... frame the ex-con ..."

Ashley's voice cuts through it all, anchoring me, pulling me back from the edge.

"His pulse is getting weaker. Please, Zain, don't leave me." Her voice cracks on my name.

I can’t leave her. I won’t.

"Last chance, Marcus." Rook's voice turns silky, the kind of sound that promises pain. "Give us the name."

"He'll kill me if I tell you." Fear finally creeps into his voice now.

"We’ll kill you if you don't," Bishop counters, his tone almost bored. "And I promise you, our way will be much slower."

A long silence follows, broken only by the sound of harsh breathing and my own heartbeat, growing weaker with each pump. I can feel it, the way my body is failing, the way everything is slipping away. I’m losing.

"Tick tock, Marcus." The sound of a gun being cocked echoes through the kitchen, the metallic click reverberating through my skull. "Name. Now."

"Fine." Marcus's voice is resigned, the fight gone from him. "It was?—"

Darkness rushes up to claim me before I can hear the rest, dragging me down into unconsciousness. I try to fight it, to hold on for just a moment longer, but it’s too strong … and I’m too weak.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

ASHLEY

I knowthe conversation going on behind me is important. But I can't focus on what they're saying, can't process anything beyond the blood on my hands.

Zain's blood, warm and sticky, clinging to my skin. The metallic smell of it fills my nose, making my stomach roll. His breathing is growing more labored by each passing second, and I’m terrified that he’s going to breathe out and then never breathe in again.

"We need to move him," Rook’s voice cuts through my growing panic. "We need to get him somewhere more comfortable."

Bishop crouches beside me, his hand gentle on my shoulder. "The bleeding has slowed enough for us to risk it. You did a great job. Can you show us to a bedroom?"

I nod, unable to form words around the terror closing my throat, and stand up while they lift Zain. They’re careful, but he still groans, the sound piercing straight through my heart. His face is gray, dark bruises already forming where his head hit the counter. Blood matts his hair, stains his shirt, and leaves a trail of droplets across the floor as they carry him.

"When we get upstairs, I want you to stay with him," Rook orders. "Don't leave his side. There’s something we need to handle, and the best thing for you is to stay out of the way."

My legs are wobbling as I follow them up to my room, and I’m surprised they don’t collapse beneath me. But I make it to the room, and hover to one side while they lay him on the bed. My hands are shaking as I reach out, and touch his neck. I need to keep contact, feel the proof that he's still breathing, still fighting. The sheets beneath him are already turning red where they lay him down, and I have to swallow back bile.

Bishop checks his pulse, his expression neutral. "Keep him warm. Talk to him. We'll be right back. Find some towels. Keep pressure on that stab wound."

I dash into the bathroom and grab towels, then sink onto the bed beside Zain. Once I have the towels in place, and one hand pressed against them, I take his hand in mine. His skin is cold and clammy, but his fingers twitch slightly against mine. Hope flares briefly at that tiny movement.

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