Page 118 of Hidden By His Side

“You hurt what’s mine.” When he released him, Ovidio’s head thumped back down, already weak. “Now you’re going to hurt. You’ll scream and beg and the pain will continue, as long as I can make it last.”

Ovidio spat at him. “She called out for you,” he rasped. “Every time I fucked her, she begged for you to come save her.”

Ramiro’s stomach twisted as his sight dimmed. His punch shut Guzman’s mouth, but that didn’t quiet Summer’s cries in his head. He hit him again and again, then caught himself.

It was a good thing he didn’t have a gun on him, or the man would have goaded him into what he wanted—a quick death. No, it wasn’t going to end so easily for him.

Ramiro grabbed Ovidio’s uninjured wrist, the snap of it echoing in the empty warehouse. The man’s howl of pain was a start, but not nearly enough. He’d ripped Summer open, made her bleed and break.

There wasn’t enough pain that could make up for that, but Ramiro was going to try.

He slowly broke bones and decorated the carcass with bruises, the screams from what he did a backdrop for the guilt and fury that mixed sickeningly inside. When his hands got tired,he reached for the pliers. Nails and teeth were so small, but each extraction made the chains clink and the body writhe, until the screams became gurgles. By the time he used the knife, he’d reduced Ovidio Guzman to a whimpering mess.

How many times had Summer whimpered? Had she begged him not to hurt her? Or was all her begging directed toward Ramiro, crying out for him to save her, only he never came?

A pained howl escaped him as he snapped Ovidio’s neck, panting down at the bloody remains that were left.

“You fed him his own dick.” Seb crouched against the wall, his blunt long since finished.

Ramiro stood shakily, dragging his blood-soaked shirt over his head. “Did you bring the clothes?”

Seb nodded to the bag near the door.

Ramiro stripped off the rest of his clothes, staring down at his blood-stained feet. He’d forgotten he still wore no shoes.

He’d been hoping for numbness, for a moment without the gnawing guilt that consumed him from the inside.

Seb helped him bag up and clean the space in silence. It wasn’t until they were about to leave that he spoke again. “Did it help?”

Ramiro lay his head back against the headrest of the passenger seat, closing his eyes but still seeing his nightmares playing out behind his eyelids. “No.”

Seb turned the key in the ignition and began to drive.

The house showed the remnants of what had happened. Cops had been there and gone, leaving their own fingerprints on the space. Streaks of blood, both on the carpet and on the wall, drew Ramiro’s gaze. He sat on the bed, staring at those streaks.

Summer made the bed every morning. The mussed sheets made him remember the way she’d been dragged awake while naked and vulnerable.

Summer hated anything out of place.

The thought let him move again. He scrubbed the stains long after they were erased, until his hands became raw. He bagged up the things that had been broken while the sheets were in the washer. When he went to switch them to the dryer, he remembered the way they’d clung to her legs as she cried out in fear.

The sheets ended up in the trash, too.

He made the bed with new sheets. Flowered ones he’d bought for Summer on a whim but hadn’t given her yet. They were similar in design to the tea set he’d ordered. He’d been planning to give them to her together.

He smoothed the sheets until all the wrinkles disappeared.

Packing her a bag was more difficult than he’d imagined. Summer mostly owned dresses and skirts, but everything he saw made him wonder if she’d feel vulnerable wearing it. The few pants she owned didn’t seem right, either. He settled on soft and comfortable.

His body smelled of chemicals. Slipping into the shower reminded him of that night. He’d come home, and he’d showered, picturing slipping into bed beside her when he was done, maybe even slipping into her body.

His fist slammed into the tiles. He pressed his face beside it as a sob escaped.

She’d trusted him. She’d let him inside her, even let him on top of her, with no tensing or fear.

He still didn’t know what had been done to her. She’d been raped, that much he knew, but her exact triggers would reveal themselves with time. Even reaching for her had made her flinch away from him.

She’d trusted him to protect her from something like that happening again, but he hadn’t.

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