Page 45 of Don't Say A Word

“Don’t,” I warn. And she looks at me with such longing in her eyes, there’s nothing left for me to do but leave.

Before I crack.

Before I submit.

Storming into my shared bedroom, I punch the wall repeatedly, not caring when the skin breaks and blood appears on my knuckles.

I’ve worked for Mr Atterton for years, and in that time I’ve been asked to do a lot of things. Everything I did without hesitation. Everything without regret or torment.

I’ve stolen and betrayed at his command.

I’ve beaten men and left them in a bloodied mess.

I’ve killed and buried their bodies in the dirt.

But I’ve never been this conflicted.

Never this tormented.

Her gaze haunts my dreams.

The memory of her touch consumes me.

But the only way I can save her is to train her for another man to ruin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

RYKER

I’m lying in bed, headphones on and attempting to ignore Marcel. He’s standing in nothing but a towel, running a piece of floss between his teeth, occasionally reaching up to flick through the channels. He stops when it shows the camera outside, a strange van pulling into the driveway. I can tell from the make and model that it’s someone who works for the Attertons. The vehicle stops, and a man dressed all in black, almost a replica of me, gets out of the driver’s seat.

“You know him?” Marcel asks, floss left dangling from his mouth.

The man walks to the rear of the vehicle and pulls open the door. He struggles with something, having a difficult time pulling it out of the back. It’s only when the man turns, that I see who it is.

“Yup,” I reply to Marcel, enjoying the way my lack of details pisses him off. I walk into the hallway and Marcel follows.

“Who is he?” he asks.

“Cameron.”

“Cameron who?”

“I don’t know his last name.” I’m at the door now and pull it open, waiting for Cameron to appear. He’s another guard with the Attertons. One assigned to Junior.

Marcel groans and rolls his eyes. “Do you enjoy being a fuckwit?”

“Most of the time.”

Cameron walks into sight, tugging a rack full of clothing behind him. “Delivery for Ryker?” He grins and claps me on the back.

“Delivery boy now, are you?”

“Thinking of becoming a personal shopper. Want to be my first client? I’ve brought some outfits along for you to try. Anything take your fancy?” He looks along the row of clothing, picking out a silken dress. “I hope you like red.”

I cuff him over the back of the head and grab the front of the rack, helping him maneuver it down the stairs.

“What happened to your face?” I ask, noting the scratches that line his cheek.

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