Page 16 of Ramsay

Behind the clothes, I find a framed picture lying on its side, against the wall.

Hm. What would Ramsay keep but not display?

After a quick glance at the door, I kneel before the picture and set it up right before staring at what must be Ramsay. He’s maybe five and sitting stiffly beside a woman who I presume to be his mother. Her cold eyes glare at the photographer with the same damn distasteful expression Ramsay has perfected. Ramsay, although equally as grim, has nothing on the woman—she’s positively glacial.

She doesn’t look the type to snuggle. Hm. Does he—

Click.

The sound brings me around so quickly, I feel the resulting pulse all the way through my skull only to sag when nothing stirs.

“Fuck.”

Unsure when Oliver plans to return, I contain my urge to continue snooping and move the clothes back into the perfect formation they were in, covering the picture once more.

After, I emerge and close the doors behind me, leaning against them for a moment. I’ve always had the crazy urge to know everything about these enigmatic men, but to do so may open doors I can never close again. Just the picture has me all curious to find out more, but it’s a slippery slope when sharing secrets.

As it is, I already know too much, and I have no traction where secrets are concerned.

I don’t know why I’m here and I’m technically still in danger, which is why snooping through Ramsay’s home is a bad fucking idea.

Sitting down gingerly on the couch, I sigh and clutch my head because despite my potentially fatal curiosity, I’m still feeling shitty, and my skull is pounding so hard that I can feel the pulse in my neck.

Nausea roils around in my belly, and when I touch the back of my head, it comes away tacky and red. Shit. Maybe I was hit harder than I thought.

Uneasily I walk to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. Dark circles ring my eyes, and my makeup is smeared across my face. The one shot Sabrina made to my head, left an aching mass on my skull. Unfortunately, I earned another angry red mark on my forehead when I hit the damn bench, which may well be a bruise by tomorrow.

My clothes are speckled with dirt while my hair circles my head like a rat’s nest. But my eyes, my jaded hazel eyes, stare back at me in a dark pool of determination.

I’m staring into Pandora’s box, and I know just on the other side of the lid is something I don’t want to see, but it was inevitable because I can’t escape my past. It’s here now, and if I don’t confront it, it will eat me alive.

There’s no way the Sinners won’t be all up in my business now. How long before they discover where I came from? And Crush…it’s like the universe doesn’t want me to be fucking free.

All I know is, whatever the consequences, there are things I can never reveal. Not to anyone. Ever.

Since I’m afraid to muss the pristine white towels, I back from the room without touching anything and sit back down on the plush couch, closing my eyes to wait.

Oliver wakes me an indeterminate amount of time later, crouching before me with an honest to god doctor's black bag at his feet. His face is etched with serious concentration as he tips my head this way and that. I guess if anyone could get away with playing doctor, it would be him. After all, he’s a fucking genius and probably could give any real MD a run for their money.

I obey his commands as he observes me, staring with fascination into his pale green eyes because where an average human would have emotion within, concern, hope, fear, his are blank, empty, like looking into an abyss.

“Turn around.”

Nodding, I wince but keep quiet when he probes my head gently. Next, he shines a bright light in my eyes, causing a lance of pain to arc through my head. Annoyed, I try to pull away, but he just grips me tighter.

“You may have a concussion. Do you want to go to the hospital?” he asks.

I sense his hesitation because if I go to the hospital, it's possible questions will be asked for which there are no good answers.

I know the drill, to involve the authorities, means exposing things best left in the dark, which is why I shake my head slowly and whisper, “No.”

He eases back, studying me quietly, and once again, I feel a niggle in my chest, to which I look away against the sensation that he can see past my armor, now rusty and full of chinks.

Fuck maybe he can even see into my very soul. Staring at the wall over his head, I avoid his gaze because I’m not ready for my truths to be revealed.

“You can wash up in the bathroom,” he says finally, standing to his full height.

Although I’m touched, he bothered to check, I’m also uneasy in the face of it because these guys do nothing if it doesn’t mean a return on investment. What will be the price for this?

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