Page 85 of Ramsay

“In your car?” he asks, his brow furrowing. I don’t comment because I don't know any more than he apparently does.

“And you’re asking if it's from me?” He chuckles, but the sound isn't lighthearted.

No, it's dark and brittle and pained. Flinching away from him, I cautiously take a step back, but he just follows, grabbing my chin.

“What are you asking, Willow? Whether I’m a fucking killer?” he rasps.

“What? No!” I whisper, whimpering under his painful grip.

“Then what?” he demands, pushing me away.

“I’m asking if you put it there to scare me off. It never occurred to me you might be a fucking killer,” I say, turning away as his implication runs through my brain.

I mean, I think he’d do whatever he thinks it takes to keep his world wrapped up in a shiny bow, but Ramsay’s too dispassionate to be the killer, even if he has the psychopathic tendencies for it.

“Open up, dick. We’re here,” Diem calls through the door followed by his fist hammering the thick wood.

Wide-eyed, I jump and turn at the sound as Ramsay glances between me and the rabbit's foot still clutched in his hand. With a sigh he opens the door and Oliver and Diem trail in before closing it behind them.

They show no surprise at my presence although I sense their curiosity. I suppose my car in the drive tipped them off.

“What’s going on?” Diem demands, glancing between us with wide eyes.

“Why was the door locked?” Oliver asks.

I eye Ramsay, curious as to what he might say, but he’s focused on Oliver with an ice-cold expression.

When he doesn’t answer, Oliver says with a frown. “Well?”

“Calm down, I didn't want Patty and Rich to interrupt,” he grumbles, turning away.

Why did he lie? Or is he just waiting until I’m gone? They don't tend to keep secrets between each other.

Oliver’s suspicious gaze flies to me before he huffs and turns away. Diem’s brows clench even further over his nose which I ignore, my cheeks flushing of their own accord.

Why I’m embarrassed, I’ve no clue. I mean, it’s none of their fucking business.

“What’s she doing here?” Oliver asks.

Ramsay holds out the rabbit’s foot between his fingertips, and Oliver sucks in a breath.

“Fuck,” Diem swears, running his hands through his hair.

“Where did that come from?” Oliver demands.

Caught off guard, I step back but catch myself and raise my chin because I refuse to show these fucking predators’ weakness.

“It was in my car.”

“In your fucking car?” Diem exclaims.

“Willow here wanted to know if the gift was from me,” Ramsay says, his eyes so fucking cold my bones chill.

“Really?” Oliver sneers.

Diem shakes his head and I avert my gaze, my stomach burning as I say through clenched teeth, “You’ve drugged me, taken pictures of my half-naked body, threatened me with all my secrets, revealed disgusting shit to Sabrina fucking Dawson, and, oh yeah, pushed me into playing a fucking drinking game when you know I’m a recovering addict! Ex-fucking-cuse me for assuming you might have tried to freak me out with a fucking rabbit’s foot!”

Diem’s mouth curls down and he looks to the ground, and I turn when Ramsay claps his hands with a chuckle. “Well done. Nice speech. I didn't do it. Let's move on to who we think did.”

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