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Ryland’s head jerks backward, and he lets go of the gun. He grins as I hand it back to him, seeming pleased rather than annoyed that I took advantage of his distraction.
“It is fucked up,” he says, returning to our conversation. “I dunno about Marcus, but I always used to tell myself my parents acted like this because they love me. That they wanted me to have more than they had, better than they had.”
He lifts the gun to point it toward me again, but I can see in his eyes that he’s still distracted. There’s something hovering in their hazel depths, something a lot like what I saw in Marcus’s eyes earlier.
Pain.
My heart aches, my chest constricting. These men have all been betrayed by their families, and I’m not sure there’s a deeper kind of hurt than that.
“My mom is dying,” Ryland says quietly.
I blink at him, completely forgetting about the weapon still pointed at me. “She is?”
He nods, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Yeah. Cancer. She’s been fighting it, but nothing has really worked—slowed it down maybe, given her a few extra months, but not more than that.” His lips press together. “My dad… he won’t even talk about it. He can barely be in the same room with my mom anymore, and he hates any sign of her weakness. She wears wigs to cover up her hair loss, and a ton of makeup to keep herself from looking pale or exhausted.”
He goes quiet for a moment, and I let the silence hang in the air.
I don’t know what kind of relationship he’s had with his mom, and I’m guessing it’s pretty fucking complicated. I’ve gotten the impression both of his parents signed him up for Luca’s game. Still, it must hurt to see her dying.
“I used to think that was love,” he says finally. “Or at least, the only kind of love my father was capable of expressing. Like it hurt too much to think of losing her, so he chose not to face seeing her fade away. He was always a cold, distant son of a bitch toward me, but I told myself he loved me underneath all of that.”
“Maybe he did,” I offer softly. I hate standing up for his father in any way, but I hate the heartbreak I hear in Ryland’s voice.
Ryland’s gaze sharpens, as if he’s pulling himself out of old memories that play inside his head. “No. He didn’t.” He looks at me, his hazel eyes burning. “Because if you love someone, you don’t keep them at arm’s length. You don’t push them away. I tried that for so fucking long with you, and it only hurt us both. If you were sick, if you were dying, I would be there with you, no matter how much it broke my heart. I would want to, because every fucking second is precious.”
I hold his gaze as something expands in my chest, filling up every inch of space until I can barely breathe. I think we’ve both forgotten the training, the gun resting loosely in his grip as we stare at each other.
I remember all those days when Ryland held himself back, stiff and cold as a block of ice. I remember the first time he kissed me—how even then, he was trying to hold himself at a distance.
If life circumstances hadn’t forced him to see things differently, would Ryland have ended up like his father? A man who doesn’t know how to express love except through coldness and control?
The man standing in front of me now is so different than that. It’s hard to imagine him being so closed off now.
Reaching out, I catch Ryland’s wrist. But instead of grabbing the gun, I just move his arm out of the way as I step toward him.
“You are nothing like your father,” I say. “I don’t even have to know him to know that.”
Resting my hand on his chest, I lean up and press a kiss to his lips. He kisses me back, his tattooed arms going around me as he pulls me closer, trapping my hand between us. His lips move against mine, warm and hungry.
Music still plays from the speakers. I’m not sure how long we’ve been training for, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s enough for today. There are other things I want to do with Ryland, and none of them involve hitting him.
He must feel the same way, because he lifts me off my feet and lays me on the floor in one quick movement. He sets the gun aside as he hovers over me, his large body braced over mine. My legs fall open, welcoming him into the cradle of my body as he kisses me again, his tongue stroking against mine.
When he draws away to look down at me, the beautiful hazel of his eyes is filled with warmth.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
A smile pulls at my lips. “I know.”
It’s still pretty new, hearing any of these men say those words to me, but I know I’ll never get tired of hearing them. Ryland isn’t the only one who might’ve spent his life closed off and cold if circumstances hadn’t forced him to change.
When Ryland kisses me again, it’s harder and deeper, his lips moving against mine as he braces himself up with one hand. The other roams over my body, giving my breast a not-too-gentle squeeze before gliding down and fisting the hem of my tank top.
I arch my back as he drags it up and over my head. My nipples peak as cool air hits them, and I’m suddenly glad I wore a tank top with a small built-in bra. It’s one fewer layer for Ryland to have to take off.
He’s pleased too, if the low growl in his throat is any indication.
He works his way down my neck and chest, swirling his tongue over one nipple while his fingers play with the other. Then he moves lower, nipping at the skin of my stomach as his hands latch on to the waistband of my workout pants.
