Page 43 of Echoes of Obsession

“Just came to talk, Ray,” I say. “We have something you need to know.”

“Is it about Amara?” he asks. “Well, might as well come in. Besides, all my neighbors are watching through their windows. Nosey lot.”

“He’s kind of stupid,” King says.

“Not sure you can all fit inside my dining hall, but it must be important if you had to bring such a large crew along. Come on then.”

When everyone is inside, my club lines the walls behind me while I stand in front of Ray.

“Ray, honey, who are all of these people?”

“They’re friends here to tell me something about Amara.”

A woman emerges from the hallway, and I have to bite back a sigh. She’s too thin, almost frail, with short hair dyed a shade too bright to be natural, cut into an uneven bob that looks like it was styled by a lawnmower. Her makeup is caked on, with thick eyeliner and clumpy mascara that only emphasize her sunken eyes. She’s wearing a tight, low-cut top that strains over her bony frame, and a pair of jeans that hang off her hips like they’re two sizes too big. She’s tried too hard to look young and fashionable, but it’s only highlighted how out of place she is.

“Friends?” Her voice is high-pitched and slightly nasal, carrying a note of suspicion. She’s clutching a cigarette in one hand, the red-painted nails chipped and uneven. She leans against the doorframe in a way she probably thinks is seductive, but it just makes her look more unsteady.

“Yeah, friends,” Ray repeats, patting her on the arm. “This is, uh…”

“Ghost,” I supply, not bothering to mask my disdain.

She gives me a once-over, her eyes flicking over my leather jacket and the patches that mark my rank. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you boys to it,” she says, trying to sound nonchalant but her voice wavering. She casts one last nervous glance at Ray before shuffling back into the shadows of the house, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

As she disappears, Hayes leans in close and mutters, “Trying too hard or what?”

I nod, keeping my eyes on Ray. “We’re here for answers.”

“Oh, I bet you are,” he laughs. “I just know that woman has already dug under your skin. She probably wants you to learn that damn sign language. It makes you look like a retard. I refuse to learn it.”

“Then why are you fighting to keep seeing her?” I ask, buying time.

“To fuck with her mother,” he laughs. “The second I win, I’m shipping the brat off to some private school on the other side of the country. Some place where they try and teach people like her to be civilized.”

I see,” I growl. “I guess I’ll get to the point. About an hour ago, we were made aware of the beatings you’ve been giving Zoe.”

“Is that what this visit is about?” he asks nervously. “You see, it’s like this. My wife can’t understand the kid’s alien language. Hell, no one can. She didn’t do as she was told, and, as her parent, I decided she needed to be punished. Simple as that.”

“Simple as that,” Mitchell mutters.

“And all the other times?” I ask, fighting the rage inside, wanting to kill this man where he stands.

“Basically, the same reasons,” Ray answers, stepping towards the hall. “The kid doesn’t listen. Then she flings her hands around as if I know what the hell she’s trying to say. I’ve told her multiple times to use a pen and paper. It’s not my fault her mother doesn’t discipline her enough.”

Ray takes another step towards the hallway, likely thinking he can escape whatever is coming, but he stops dead in his tracks. Reynolds is already there, leaning against the doorway with a lazy grin, his massive frame blocking the exit completely.

“Sup?” Reynolds drawls, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ray freezes, eyes darting between Reynolds and me, realizing there’s no easy way out. “You can’t be serious about this,” he stammers. “She’s just a kid who needs discipline.”

I shake my head slowly, taking a step closer to him. “Zoe and Amara belong to me now. If you ever touch Zoe again, even a small bruise, the next beating won’t leave any air in your lungs.”

Before Ray can react, I move quickly, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. I push him forward, bending him over the dining table with enough force to make him gasp. My other hand grips the back of his neck, holding him in place.

I land a series of quick, precise blows to his ribs and stomach, making sure to avoid his face. Each hit is calculated enough to make him feel the pain without leaving obvious marks. Ray tries to struggle, but my grip is ironclad, and the fear in his eyes tells me he’s starting to understand just how serious we are.

“You think you can do whatever you want because she’s a kid?” I hiss in his ear. “That ends today. You touch her again, and we’ll be back. And I promise, Ray, it won’t just be me next time. We’ll take our turns, and you’ll wish you’d never laid a hand on her. You don’t touch what belongs to me.”

I release him roughly, and he collapses onto the floor, clutching his sides and gasping for breath. My club stands silently, their presence a looming threat that fills the room.

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