Sweet Obsession: Ruthless Games #1

by Rose, Callie

  “A safe house.”

  “Where are Marcus and Theo?”

  He jerks his head. “Living room. I told them I’d keep watch over you.”

  “Why?”

  Something flickers in his gaze. “Why what?”

  I sigh, feeling a hint of exhaustion creep in again. “Why any of it? Why me? Why Carson? What the fuck is going on?”

  Ryland’s face goes still for a moment. Then he lets out a heavy breath, reaching up to scrub a hand over his jaw.

  “I don’t think you know what you looked like that night, Ayla. The night you got shot. That fucking image will haunt me for the rest of my life.” His eyes go out of focus a little, like he’s seeing something I can’t, reliving a moment I’m not privy to. “It wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t even seeing someone die. That wasn’t new to me. It was the look on your face. You looked at us—you looked at Marcus—like he could save you.”

  He looks down at the floor, and I watch the muscles in his throat move as he swallows.

  “We did what we could to help you. We paid your medical bills and bribed that woman from CPS to say she’d gotten the money from other sources. We made sure you got what you needed to help you heal.”

  I blink. “What?”

  Ryland chuckles, but there’s not an ounce of humor in it. “The state wasn’t going to pay for shit. And your foster family? They couldn’t have afforded it even if they’d tried to pay your medical bills—which they didn’t. So we made sure you were taken care of.”

  “You… paid my bills? All three of you?”

  “Yes. It was the least we could fucking do. We all agreed on that.” His jaw clenches. “That’s all we agreed on, though. Marcus didn’t want to let you go. But I never wanted to see you again.”

  A dull ache spreads across my chest at the truth in his words, as if a heavy weight has settled on me. I swear I can almost feel my ribs crack from the strain. From the hurt. But I keep my voice detached as I shrug, still lying on my side. “Sorry.”

  “No. Ayla.” Ryland looks up sharply, shaking his head. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks like he’s at a loss for words—not just choosing to withhold them. He tugs his chair a little closer to the bed, dropping his chin to meet my gaze. “It wasn’t for me. It was for you.”

  “For me?”

  He nods. “It was always for you. That’s the only reason I tried to convince Marcus to back off. I… I thought about you all the fucking time. I still do. But I thought you would be safer, that you’d have a better life, if we weren’t in it.”

  I blink at him, then slowly sit up on the bed, tucking my legs under myself. This is the most openly Ryland has talked to me in… well, maybe ever. I want to pepper him with questions, but I’m afraid if I do, the pendulum will swing back the other way again, and he’ll go silent.

  And it turns out he doesn’t need the questions anyway. Unprompted, he continues.

  “Marcus and I fought about it all the damn time, but I pushed him to believe me. To believe that I was right. For more than two years, we kept our distance, but we all watched you. We all kept tabs on you.” He lets out a soft laugh. “I don’t think any of us could help ourselves. But at least you never knew we were there. Until that night you almost got mugged, and… everything broke.”

  I nod, remembering the way the three of them emerged from the shadows as if they’d once been a part of the darkness themselves. The way they melted back into the night afterward. If I hadn’t seen Marcus’s distinctive eye, if I hadn’t called out to stop him, I might never have known who stepped forward to help me.

  That’s not true, a little voice whispers in my head. You knew anyway. Some part of you always knew.

  Ryland shakes his head, running a hand through the short strands of his almost-black hair. “Even after that night, I told Marcus it wasn’t too late. We could still walk away from you—sever ties completely this time, pretend you didn’t exist, let you go for good—but I should’ve known how fucking wrong I was.”

  “You didn’t sever ties,” I say quietly, speaking the obvious.

  Ryland’s eyes flicker as they meet mine. “No. You’re like a fucking drug, Ayla. We spent two and a half years hovering on the periphery of your life, but the moment we stepped into it that night, the moment we got close… it was like a barrier came down that was impossible to put back up. It was the first fix. And we kept coming back for more.”

  I make a soft noise, plucking at the sheet beneath me as his words sink in.

  Like a drug.

  I’ve thought the same thing about these three men and their effect on me. The way they seem to immolate reason and self-control. Self-preservation, even. When it comes to them, I can never seem to help myself.

  Honestly, I’m not sure it’s better or worse to know that I seem to have the same effect on them. In a party of addicts, does anyone ever say stop?

  “Is this why you didn’t want to be in my life?” I ask, gesturing around me to encompass not just this safe house, or whatever he called it, but the other house I was taken to. The one where I was held captive.

  He clenches his jaw, anger burning in his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Did you know that Carson would—”

  “No.” He cuts me off before I can finish, the word heavy and emphatic. “Believe me, if we had known, we would’ve done more to try to protect you. Marcus having you stay at his place was supposed to be an unnecessary precaution. We didn’t know Carson would use you to try to get to us.”

  He stands, his broad form looming over me on the bed as he gazes down at me. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve made Marcus and Theo see.”

  “See what?”

  “We should never have been in your life, Ayla. If we hadn’t been, none of this would’ve happened. You don’t belong in the middle of this, and I fucking hate that we dragged you into it. It’s not fucking fair. This isn’t your world, this isn’t your fight, and yet you almost died because of it.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “None of us expect to live long. But you should. You have to.”

  Something in his voice strikes a chord deep inside me.

  He means it. He’s not speaking metaphorically or exaggeratedly.

  He truly doesn’t expect to be alive for long.

  Memories of each of my brushes with death filter through my mind, and I rise up onto my knees, reaching out to him with my good arm and grasping his hand.

  I bring his fingers up to brush against the scar on my upper chest, shivering a little at the feel of his touch on my damaged skin. Ryland has barely ever touched me before, and my body blazes with awareness of that fact.

  I let his blunt fingertips linger on my scar, allowing him to absorb the feel of it. Then I release his hand and turn my arm over, letting him see the scar on my forearm. Letting him have that piece of me.

  “I never expected to live past fifteen. I tried not to,” I say softly. “I’m on borrowed time already. And I don’t think anything you do or don’t do will change that.”

  Ryland catches my wrist in his large hand, staring down at it. I can feel emotions radiating from him, but I can’t read his closed-off expression well enough to know if Marcus already mentioned this to him or not. But regardless of whether he knew about my suicide attempt before now, his gaze burns with conviction when he meets my gaze again.

  “Yes, it will. I fucking promise.”

  Somehow, I expected him to say that. Maybe it’s because these men are all so fucking determined, and I’ve never once seen them back down from an idea they believed in. Maybe it’s because even in this moment of softness, Ryland still has to be a stubborn, rigid ass. But whatever the reason, I’m not surprised by his words.

  I am, however, knocked completely off balance by what he does next.

  Still holding my gaze, he drops his head and clasps my face in both hands, tilting my chin up. Then he presses his lips to mine.

  This man is all hardness.

  All taut fury and straight lines
.

  He’s stubborn and callous and harsh.

  But none of those things are in this kiss.

  This is the gentlest kiss I’ve ever received, a soft, barely there brush of his lips against mine—as if he believes all those things he told me so much that even now, he’s trying to pull away from me. To protect me from himself.

  I lift my head higher, lengthening my spine as much as I can to press my mouth harder against his. His body tenses, and for just a heartbeat, the kiss morphs into more. For just an instant, his lips turn possessive and demanding, full of pent-up need.

  Then the beast is locked back in its cage, and he pulls away.

  He blinks, looking almost as surprised as I am by what just happened. Then something settles over his face—the same expression he wore when he watched Marcus fuck me and Theo kiss me.

  As if he’s looking at the most precious object in the world, but it’s enclosed behind a glass case.

  As if he’s looking at something he will never, ever have.

  His hands stay on my face for a moment longer, thumbs brushing softly over my cheekbones as if he can’t tear himself away. Then he drops them and steps back, offering me his arm to help me slide off the bed.

  “Come on. Marcus and Theo have been waiting for you to wake up. We need to talk. You deserve some answers.”

  Chapter 22

  Answers.

  Fucking finally.

  My mind is reeling from all the new information Ryland just dropped on me, but there’s still so much I don’t know. And I’d rather risk brain overload than go another minute without getting my questions answered.

  Marcus and Theo are standing near the entryway in the small living room. Both men look up when we enter the sparse room, and I have a sudden vivid memory of their faces hovering above mine—Marcus’s cock still inside me and Theo’s taste on my lips.

  A flush of heat moves up my chest, and I can’t tell if it’s embarrassment or lingering desire. Maybe a little of both.

  That entire encounter feels like a dream, in a way, something that happened to someone else. In that moment, nothing seemed as important as keeping these three men with me, but now, with some of my shock fading and reality settling in, I wonder if it was a massive mistake. Another hit of the drug I can’t seem to resist.

  In a party of addicts, does anyone ever say stop?

  Marcus’s expression is serious, and his gaze drops to the proprietary way Ryland is holding my arm, something flickering in his eyes.

  Then he gestures toward a worn couch in the middle of the room. Ryland directs me toward it, sinking onto the cushions next to me, and Theo and Marcus sit on the heavy-looking wooden coffee table in front of it, putting us all in a rough circle.

  Marcus’s gaze travels up and down my body, and I get the sense that even though they’ve all had plenty of time to examine me while I slept, he’s still checking me for signs of injury. Not finding anything other than the red marks left by the bands of tape, he steeples his fingers together and rests his forearms on his thighs.

  “What happened, angel? From the minute we left my house until the minute we found you. I need you to tell me everything that happened.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. I thought I was about to get some goddamn answers here, and instead, I’m getting more questions.

  But from the grave look in his eyes, I think the answers I’m so desperate for are coming soon. So I tell him what he wants to know, starting at the beginning.

  “Nothing happened for a long time after you left. I watched movies. Cooked meals. Took a couple baths.”

  A flash of something warm and possessive sparks in Marcus’s eyes, like he’s enjoying the image of me making myself at home in his house, but he doesn’t interrupt me as I continue.

  “I’d actually just gotten out of the bath when Natalie texted me. She told me our building was on fire, and I thought she was just fucking with me at first, but then she showed me. It was burning.” My stomach clenches as I wonder if any part of the structure was saved. With everything that’s happened, I’ve barely even spared a thought for it until now, but I very well may be homeless. All my possessions may be gone.

  “What the fuck?” Theo mutters.

  I nod, trying to think about all of this as if it happened to someone else. It’s easier to think logically if I pretend it’s not my life we’re talking about.

  “I…” My gaze catches Ryland’s as he leans forward a little on the couch, listening intently. “My whole life is in that apartment. Every possession I own. I don’t know what I thought I could do, but I wanted to be there. I wanted to help. So I drove over.”

  Marcus nods. “And?”

  “And when I got there, Natalie was there too. Of course she was. Her apartments were already burning, and she told me we were supposed to wait across the street.” I lick my lips, feeling an echo of the sharp zing of pain at my neck. “Someone injected me with something. Carson, I think. Natalie lured me right to him.”

  All three men are focused entirely on me, and there’s so much fury in their features that I rush to continue, wanting to get everything out before one of them explodes.

  “I woke up in the room you found me in. Carson was there, and a guy he called Dom.”

  “Dominic Roth,” Marcus growls. “That slimy little fucker.”

  I’m not surprised the men know him. The way he talked to Carson about them, it’s clear Dominic knows them too.

  “I was taped to a chair,” I add. “They were talking about setting you up. About using me as bait, and how you’d come for me.”

  Ryland makes a noise deep in his chest, like the angry warning a bull gives right before it gores someone. Given what he just said to me in the bedroom, I can only imagine how much rage he’s feeling—toward Carson and probably toward himself and his two friends. What happened to me today is exactly what he was trying to avoid by pressuring Marcus to stay away from me.

  But none of them did.

  And now we’re all facing the fallout of that.

  I don’t know anymore whether to be angry at these men for bringing utter chaos into my life or grateful to them for all the times they’ve saved my life, so I push past the churning emotions in my chest and keep reporting the events as dispassionately as I can.

  Except, as soon as I open my mouth, the next words catch in my throat. The picture Carson held up less than a foot in front of my face feels like it’s been scalded into my retinas. Like I could draw the photograph from memory and not miss a single detail.

  The young man’s partially obscured face, half of it hidden by shadows.

  The limbs bent at odd angles.

  The gray shirt soaked in blood.

  “He showed me a picture,” I say slowly, my voice hoarse. “Of a dead man. He told me you killed him. Devin Brooks.”

  My gaze flashes up to meet Marcus’s as I speak.

  I expect him to deny it. Whether it’s true or not, I’m sure he’ll tell me he’s innocent.

  But he doesn’t.

  He holds my gaze steadily for several long beats, and the silence has already given me my answer long before he finally speaks. “Yeah. I did.”

  My chest tightens, my stomach clenching. Well, didn’t Carson tell me I was wrong? That I’d trusted the wrong people?

  “He told me I saved a murderer,” I murmur roughly. “That you killed him in cold blood.”

  “Fuck. Tell her, man.” Theo shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “We have to tell her. Everything.”

  Marcus is still staring at me. He hasn’t looked away since I first said the name Devin Brooks—hell, I don’t even think he’s blinked. I’m not even sure he’s really seeing me though. I can practically hear the gears grinding in his head, and after a long moment, he looks to Ryland with a question in his gaze.

  “We have to,” Ryland says, and I can hear the regret in his voice. “It’s too late for anything else. It’s too late.”

  I hold absolutely still, torn between le
aning forward eagerly and pulling away. I know the three men have been keeping secrets from me, and a desperation to understand them burns hot and bright in my chest.

  But I also know that this will change everything.

  Right now, it might still be possible for Ryland to get his wish. For the three of them and me to tear our lives free from each other, to separate and go our own ways. To never see each other again.

  To pretend none of this ever happened.

  I can’t do that though. I may not bear the marks of the past several weeks as obviously as the scars from the bullet wounds in my chest, but that doesn’t make them any less real.

  And these aren’t marks on my body.

  They’re marks on my soul.

  These men have infected me. Changed me. And I can’t ever go back to who I was before.

  Maybe Ryland’s wish was always a fucking pipe dream. Maybe it was already too late the moment the three of them first brushed by me in Club 47 all those years ago.

  “Tell me,” I say.

  Marcus holds my gaze for another second, then nods. “Do you recognize the name Luca D’Addario?”

  I furrow my brows as I sort through my memories. “No.”

  “Yeah. That’s by design. You don’t know his name, and he probably doesn’t know yours, but he affects your life on a daily basis.” Marcus straightens, leaning back a little as he holds my gaze. “He’s the man who runs this city. He controls everything here; he’s got his hands in every fucking thing. The most powerful, wealthiest families, the mafia syndicates, the politicians—they all answer to him. His power and influence go back years, and he’s fair but brutal as fuck. No one’s ever been able to unseat him from power, and the last time someone even tried was over a decade ago.”

  “He’s the fucking king of Halston,” Theo puts in. “What he says goes.”

  “Okay.”

  I draw the word out. The thought of someone wielding that much power is vaguely terrifying, but I still don’t understand what it has to do with the three men gathered around me—or with Carson Purcell.

  “Luca was married once,” Marcus goes on. “Over twenty years ago now. None of us remember the woman who was his wife, but the way our parents talk about it, he fucking worshipped her. He adored her.”