Page 52 of Riot's Thorn
“Shit.” He runs a hand through his hair. “He’s not dead. . . yet.”
“So youwillkill whoever this man is?”
“If I don’t do it, Killer will. Probably her because she’s good and pissed off.”
I stare at the ground, feeling my false sense of security slip away. Riotisa murderer, notwas. He is a murderer, and he’ll keep doing it. Hell, he could kill me with his bare hands right now if he wanted. How do any of the people in this club just become okay with taking a life? Even if the person deserves it?
He tips my chin up. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking it’s time you let me go.”
“No.” He crosses his arms over his bare chest, his tattoos even more intimidating with his strong stance.
“You don’t need to worry about my safety. I’ll hire personal protection.”
“No,” he repeats.
“You can’t just refuse and have it be so. I need to go. I have things to take care of.” My voice is shrill, but I can control it as much as I can control the insanity brewing inside, which is not at all.
“I’llneverlet you go. You’re mine.”
“Stop saying that! I’m not yours.” I walk past him and go straight to the dresser to pull out a pair of leggings.
He grabs my arm and flips me around. “I could’ve killed you right alongside your worthless, piece of shit father, but I didn’t. And I didn’t let Killer do it either. That was me saving your life twice. You owe me.”
“I don’t owe you my life.”
“The hell you don’t.” He maneuvers me until I’m next to the bed, my calves pressed against the frame, and pushes me back until I’m flat on the mattress, my legs hanging over the edge. Leaning over me, he pins my arms above my head and gets right in my face. “I don’t like having to repeat myself over and over. I’ve told you, you’re mine, and you’ll always be mine. I’m not speaking just to fill the air with sound; every single word is a promise carved in stone. And you’re in no position to challenge me.”
“Why? Why me?”
“What does it matter why? It just is.”
“What if I don’t comply? Will you put me in the room that man is in and kill me too? Is that how you handle people who don’t do what you want?”
“You think so little of me that I’d hurt a man to the point of his blood soaking my clothes over a simple disagreement?” He sounds wounded, and it gives me pause, but I can’t give in now. If I don’t push back, I’ll never see the outside world again.
“Who knows? I don’t think I need to bring up the situation that got me here.”
“Maybe we do, because that wasn’t a difference of opinion. Your dad was a revolting piece of filth, just like the man I have locked away in a room.” He releases me and stands to his full height. “Maybe you’d feel better about his situation if we asked his girl what kind of man he is. Oh, wait, we can’t. She’s in the ICU, fighting for her life.”
That takes the wind out of my sails. “Who is she?”
“We’re not talking about her. We’re talking about you and how I’m trying to save you from being in the hospital bed next to her. Does that make me a bad man?” He storms toward the door. “Am I that horrible?”
He disappears down the hall, leaving me with my thoughts. I’ve never been more confused in my life and can’t help but feel guilty for hurting Riot. Everyone in his life treats him like a pariah, only bringing him into the fold when he’s useful. Even his own mother played with his emotions, shunning him when his dad was around and then relying on him for her every need when he was gone. That kind of emotional abuse is bound to take a toll on a person.
Riot’s not a bad guy, and he’s so much more than what everyone else sees. They’re not around when he’s tending to his rats or when he’s taking care of me. His methods are questionable, but his intentions are good.
Maybe there’s a way for us to both get what we want, but I think we both need time. He needs time to see I’m just as curious about this connection we share as he is and trust we can come together without force. And I need more time to think this all through. Since no one is sure what happened to me, I’m confident Dad’s affairs will be put on hold for at least a month or two, probably longer. It’ll be hard to explain where I’ve been, but I can give that to Riot.
I sit up and rest my head in my hands. Am I really going to concede and voluntarily stay with the man who murdered my own father in cold blood before abducting me? Jesus Christ.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RIOT
My head falls back, hitting the wall with athunk. It’s always a toss-up whether I’ll go to my safe place or for a ride when I’m feeling out of control. Today, I chose my little corner. I’m so fucking angry she thinks my reaction to any inconvenience is murder. I’m not a goddamn Boy Scout, but I’m not fully psychotic either. Every life I’ve taken has been because my life, or the lives of my brothers or someone they cared about, was threatened, or the person was someone the world would be better without.
