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This. The soft little hand in his, the big-eyed woman in the pretty little dress and pigtails trailing after him, that’s why he’d done it. And sure, of course, the wanted-to-be-noble part of him said it was for the next woman Damon could’ve grabbed, but he knew the truth. It was mostly for Cosima. His beloved. One of them anyway.
The four of them were a unit and while his love for Hudson and Ian was different from his love for Cosima it didn’t make it any less real, any less deep or profound. The place on his neck where Ian had bitten him still stung and he didn’t mind.
Once he’d tossed his duffel on his bed and dragged Cosima into the bathroom, he placed her in the center of the porcelain tiles. The sugar sweet girl digging her knee-socked toe into the floor and knitting her fingers together didn’t look like the type of person who would be able to withstand his love. But that was the thing about Cosima—she was this impossibly intoxicating mix of tough and soft. Perfect for the three of them.
He didn’t say a word as he prowled over to her, pulled the ribbons and elastics from her hair, stripped off her darling dress and the adorable knee socks Ian liked to dress their little doll in.
“You need to be changed?” he asked when he got to her diaper.
“No, Sir,” she replied, her cheeks pinking.
He took that off her too and there she was, all creamy skin and myriad scars, her dark hair about as long as his now.
Mostly he could overlook the damage Damon had done to her because she was theirs now and they’d never leave permanent marks unless she asked them to. But today the evidence of the abuse she’d endured didn’t glance off him, easy come easy go. No, today the imperfections stabbed like jagged knives between his ribs, into his stomach. Made it hard to breathe.
“Sir?”
Ryker shook his head, not wanting to worry her. She was safe now, would always be safe with them, and she didn’t need to fret.
He passed a hand over her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Undress me.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Cosima took off his gloves first, and set them tenderly on the counter. She reached for the hem of his shirt and he had to bend down so she could tug it over his head.
He’d ceased to be self-conscious about his own scarring some time ago but Cosima always made him feel more naked than anyone else. Maybe it was that she was so careful with him. Treated him as though he was just as worthy of care and gentleness as she was. Ridiculous.
As he stood up, he caught her studying his shirt, her brows knit and her pert little mouth turned down at the corners. If he were Ian, he’d make a joke—had he gotten mustard on it or something? He wasn’t Ian. Wasn’t clever, wasn’t funny, didn’t have the talent to make their little girl laugh. And she wasn’t laughing now.
She pinched a piece of the collar between her fingers and held it up to him, her head tipped like a curious little bird’s.
“What’s this?”
Between her sparkly blue nails with little unicorn decals on them there was a small rust-colored stain, and his breath caught in his throat. He opened his mouth to tell her it was nothing. He’d cut himself shaving or he’d grabbed a slice on the way home and hadn’t been able to totally wipe off the tomato sauce he’d dropped. But his honey-eyed girl blinked at him, and said, “Please don’t lie to me.”
He wouldn’t, but he also didn’t have to like telling her the truth, as proved by the way his molars ground together and he scrubbed a hand through his beard. “It’s blood. Not mine.”
“Whose is it?” she demanded, although from the look on her face, she knew the answer already. She just wanted confirmation and perhaps to test him—see if he’d lie after she’d asked him not to.
“Let’s just say Judah will never hurt you or anyone else ever again.”
Chapter Four
Cosima
Awave of emotions crashed over her, drawing her under like a riptide.
He was dead, she was certain of it. From that tiny little spot of faded blood, she knew. If Sir had gotten his hands on Judah, he wouldn’t have stopped at decking the guy, or even torturing him. He was gone, no longer taking up oxygen, never to be a threat to her or anyone else.
It should have been a relief—and it was, partly. Too, there was satisfaction for the bloodthirsty piece of her who’d wanted to rend Judah limb from limb and inflict anywhere near the pain on her old master that he’d inflicted upon her.
There was also, to her shame, grief. He’d been horrible—abusive and cruel and sadistic in a stomach-churning way. But he was also the only person she’d had for eight years, who had shared the incredibly fucked up but nonetheless formative experience of her captivity.
Perhaps most unexpectedly, there was anger.
It welled up in her, piercing every other feeling. Not dropping the shirt that was now balled up in her hand, she shoved Ryker in his chest. Not that she’d be able to move him any other time, but he stepped back probably out of surprise. She wondered herself how she’d dared do it, but then she found herself doing it again and again, this time against a wall of unmoving muscle and bone.
Cosima barely recognized the voice that was shrieking “How could you? How fucking dare you?” but she knew it was hers. Felt the hot, furious tears flowing down her cheeks.
