Rio (Redcars Book 3), page 6
And damn, that stung more than I wanted to admit. Every day, Jamie seemed a step further away from me. A little less mine. A little more Killian’s.
But also—fuck, maybe it was better this way. I didn’t have to worry about Jamie anymore. Didn’t have to hold him up or drag him back. He had someone else for that.
That was a good thing. Right?
Maybe he was right about me acting as if I were claiming Lyric as territory. Maybe not. But right then, I wanted to wipe that smug grin from Killian’s face more than I wanted to breathe.
I clenched my jaw and turned away before I said something I couldn’t take back—or did something I couldn’t explain. Because I’d been here before. Fists flying, knuckles split open, a man screaming through broken teeth. I’d thrived on the snap of cartilage, the shock in their eyes when they realized I wasn’t just fighting—I was enjoying. That monster still lived in me, coiled tight and ready, and it wouldn’t take much to let him out. One more smug smile. One more shove. One more reason.
The need for something to take the edge off was acid in my blood, burning through every thought. A couple of pills and the fury would fade—dull the noise, quell the shaking in my hands, make me human again.
No, what I really needed was time in the cage with a fighter who made me work for it. I needed it more than I could breathe. Two days after my last bout -- and I was still bruised and sore -- and the craving gnawed and writhed under my skin, feeding on every second I wasn’t bleeding or throwing punches. I was desperate. Twitchy.
Fuck.
My body didn’t know what to do with this stillness, with fear and guilt and heat swirling in my blood. I needed the slam of bone against bone. The taste of sweat and rage. I needed someone strong, someone who could hit back. I needed to lose myself in violence until the only thing left was pain that I understood.
I needed to burn it out before I did something I couldn’t walk away from.
I heard Lyric groan, and I turned to meet his gaze steadily, seeing the dead expression in his eyes, which indicated he wasn’t scared by the altercation.
“We’ll give him an hour to get his shit together,” Enzo growled from the door, stepping closer, his eyes hard as flint. He was beyond angry and into dangerous territory, trembling with restrained violence. “And then, we’re coming back for answers. If he lies, if he stalls to waste our time—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
Lyric shrank against the pillows as if he could disappear. He was wrecked. Not so much needy as pathetic. And the way he stared at me—as if I was his savior—set my teeth on edge. Fuck that noise.
I didn’t know if he was guilty or innocent. But I knew that look—helplessness that dug under my skin, sinking claws into something primitive. The more broken he appeared, the more I felt as if I needed to fucking save him rather than letting him die like Danny. As if his fear—real or imagined—somehow made him mine. And that scared the shit out of me more than anything else.
He wanted to live.
And I knew what it meant to want to live more than anything else in the world.
I waited until the door closed, and it was only me and him, then I helped him lie flat.
“Sleep,” I snapped and stepped away, jaw tight. He stared up at me with those reddened eyes, the impossible shade of gray-green, brimming with tears. His gaze flicked to the door, then back to me, as if he was trying to calculate if I’d leave him undefended. “They won’t come back for an hour. Give Enzo time to calm down.”
“Don’t… let them… hurt me…”
That one hit harder than I expected. I froze for a second, teeth grinding, before I forced the words out. “Not your fucking protector,” I lied. But even I didn’t believe it.
Then, I yanked the chair from the corner and dropped it down between Lyric and the door. Planted it as a fucking barrier.
He watched me for a beat before his lashes fluttered down—long, dark, absurdly delicate—and he closed his eyes. Bruises painted his throat in raw shades of violet and blue, proof of the damage I’d already done; his skin was pale, the chiseled cut of his cheekbones too prominent beneath thin, bruised skin. He had one of those stupidly pretty faces—made to be kissed, ruined, maybe both. And I was standing there like a fucking creep, memorizing him.
His long dark hair was tangled, twisted into knots, but I could imagine it soft, clean, spread out over a pillow. Could imagine running my fingers through it, tugging at it, pulling his head back to taste him—and the thought should’ve made me sick. It should’ve made me pull away. But it didn’t. It lit something up inside me, something dark and possessive and wrong. I knew it was twisted. Knew it wasn’t about care or comfort. And still, I clung to it as if it belonged to me.
Jesus.
I should’ve stopped staring. I didn’t.
I crouched and tugged the blanket up a little higher. My fingers brushed the inside of his wrist. Cool skin, so thin I could see the ghost of blue veins. He didn’t stir.
There was a scar beneath his jaw. Not fresh, but jagged—maybe a knife or glass. I wanted to ask what happened. I wanted to ask who’d left it.
I wanted to put my mouth on it and promise no one would ever touch him again.
I stood too fast. My heart kicked against my ribs as if I’d been caught doing something filthy.
Fuck. I needed air.
I tore my eyes away, but the image of him under me, over me, in me, was haunting and shameful. He was shaking. Broken. Sweet.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
SEVEN
Lyric
I woke with a sharp gasp, pain flaring through my chest and ribs as if someone had cracked me open from the inside.
Something wasn’t right. I should’ve been getting better.
Instead, my head spun, heat blooming under my skin as I burned from the inside out, and sweat clung to me, chilling in the cool air. My breath caught, shallow and fast, and for a moment, I had no idea where I was. It was dark, but not pitch-black, and every shape blurred into shadow. I blinked, eyes struggling to adjust, and slowly the dim outlines of the room came into focus—the edge of the dresser, the closed door, and Rio.
He was exactly where I’d last seen him, as though he hadn’t moved at all.
My throat felt dry and raw, every word a scrape of glass. “Hello?” I whispered.
He turned his head, slow and deliberate, and stared at me. Then, he nodded. That was it—a single nod, nothing more, no word, no grunt, and I knew that was all I’d get from him. So much for rushing to my side to protect me.
It had to have been longer than the hour the other man had promised. Had they forgotten about me? Or was Rio still sitting there, making sure no one came back to finish me, but him?
I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask.
“B-bathroom.” My head was spinning so much I wasn’t sure I’d make it two steps without passing out. The words came out in a whisper, but Rio stood the moment I spoke. No hesitation. He crossed the room, tugged back the sheet, and I winced at the smell that hit me—me. Ripe. Sour. Underneath it, the metallic tang of blood.
He didn’t wrinkle his nose. He didn’t say a word, only moved as if it didn’t matter. As though I weren’t disgusting.
At least this time, he didn’t have to unhook anything. I wasn’t sure when the drip had come out—whether someone had done it while I was asleep or if I’d yanked it free during a dream.
Then, he scooped me up and carried me to the bathroom.
I prayed he wouldn’t drop me. Prayed harder he wouldn’t leave. The moment I whispered, “sick,” I expected him to set me down and walk away.
He didn’t.
He held me while I pissed, arms steady; held me when I retched over the toilet, until it was apparent nothing was coming up. I inhaled sharp breaths as he held my hair back from my face, and leaned on him, catching sight of the shower and staring at it as if it was salvation. I wanted to be clean. I needed it. The grime on my skin, the dried sweat, the stink of fear and pain—it clung to me. I wanted to scrub it all away. I wanted to clear the fuzz from my brain, brush my teeth, rinse the sourness out of my mouth.
It felt stupid. Petty. But it was important. I wanted to feel human again and be someone who could worm their way into Rio’s affections, play him so I could get away.
Even if only for a minute.
“Shower,” I rasped, the word rough and cracked. I swallowed hard. “Teeth…”
There was a long pause. Then, he sighed, a low sound that could’ve meant anything before he adjusted his grip so he could hold me with one arm while reaching to turn on the faucet in the basin with the other.
“Shower’s too much,” he said. “You’ll pass out.”
He said it matter-of-factly as I lowered my gaze and bit my lip before nodding, then eased me onto the closed toilet lid and fetched what I needed from beneath the sink.
“Toothbrush. Paste,” he muttered and slapped them in my lap, and then, he ran the washcloth under the warm water, wrung it out, and knelt in front of me.
He began to wipe the cloth across my face—carefully, as though I’d break—and it took everything I had not to cry again, the same as when he’d defended me. Fuck, these meds are wrecking my psyche.
I couldn’t squeeze the tube of toothpaste, I couldn’t brush my fucking teeth, I couldn’t bear the pressure of the cloth on my skin, but he helped, and he held me, and somehow, I felt better. My head was full of cotton, every thought sluggish and slow, words slipping away before I could catch them, as if I wasn’t even fully in my own body. In all the times this had happened to me, all the people sent to hurt me, I’d never felt so fucked up. He sprayed deodorant in my pits and, then, stepped back, one hand on my shoulder, to stare at me.
“Shower tomorrow,” he said.
If I’m still alive. The words twisted in my head, bitter and sharp, the only thing I could cling to. Was he handing me over to Kessler? Would he kill me himself? I pressed a hand to his chest—maybe too hard, maybe a stupid move—but I needed the solid weight of him under my palm. Needed to know if he’d shove me away, or if this was my last second to speak. My fingers curled, and I forced myself to meet his steady judgmental gaze. Whatever came next, I wouldn’t beg. I needed to know if this was it.
He grunted again, and I focused on a gnarly bruise over his left eye, and evidently, this was all the reaction I was going to get. I knew how people worked. How to read the tilt of a head, the shift of a glance. How to survive with nothing but instinct and desperation. But right now… right now, I couldn’t get a read on him. Everything felt as if I was missing something critical, something right in front of me but slipping through my fingers. I shivered hard, the cold sinking deeper into my bones, and couldn’t tell if it was the fever or fear. And I needed every scrap of instinct I had left just to stop him from snapping me in half.
He scooped me up again—no effort, no complaint—and carried me back into the bedroom, although he didn’t set me down on the bed. Instead, he deposited me into the armchair, handling me as if I were something fragile, then pointed at me.
“Stay.”
I nodded, but it felt as if my head was going to explode. “Mmm,” I said on a low groan, and hell, none of the groaning was an act. Fuck my life.
With that, he turned to the bed. He stripped it quickly, movements efficient and practiced. Sheets off, balled tight, tossed to the floor. Fresh linen came from a plastic-wrapped pack in the wardrobe, unfolded and smoothed with precision. The pillows were flipped, and the blanket was replaced. Not a flicker of emotion on his face—just method and motion, as if he’d done this a hundred times.
I watched, quiet, overwhelmed, and unsure what this meant as he glanced back at me every so often. I wondered if he thought I’d run. Chance would be a fine thing. Still, whatever he expected me to do, my jailer-cum-carer-cum-protector had made space for me again. Clean space. Safe space.
“N-need Jamie,” I whispered.
He came to me then, crouched low, his gaze locked on mine as if he was daring me to flinch. “Jamie found your name all over Kessler’s files,” he said.
Every nerve ending screamed under my skin, a raw ache that made me feel flayed open. The fever gnawed at my brain, a relentless, pulsing heat that blurred my vision and made every breath a shallow, painful drag. My skin prickled with cold even as sweat beaded along my spine, and my thoughts kept slipping, floating in and out as if I was underwater. I was shivering, shaking so hard I couldn’t hold my own weight. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t trust what I was seeing, and everything about Rio felt huge and dangerous and impossible to read.
The door opened and one man, then two, then all of them—boots on floorboards—came into the room in a slow, heavy wave, arranged like a firing squad waiting for a command.
Rio carried on as if they weren’t there, rising smoothly to lift me out of the chair, arms sure and steady, he took me across the room. This time when he laid me down, it was on the fresh bed linen, pillows soft. He settled me as if I mattered. As if I wasn’t shaking or dying inside, because I’d put myself in another kind of danger and I wasn’t making it out of here. There was a lightness in his touch that didn’t match the threats he’d made minutes before, but there was iron in his expression.
I couldn’t decide which part of him scared me more. The carer or the man who promised he’d kill me.
I stared at Jamie over Rio’s shoulder. This wasn’t about hiding anymore. I needed Jamie to believe me. I needed him to know that I wasn’t some traitor crawling in here to sell them out. I was here because I was out of options. Because if anyone could help me live through this, it was him.
The tall guy in the suit—Killian, I knew now—watched me. Enzo narrowed his eyes, arms folded as though restraining himself. Jamie leaned against the wall, flicking a lighter open and shut, the clicking cutting through the heavy silence; and Robbie stood next to Enzo, shoulders edging toward him.
Rio dragged the chair to the bedside and set it down, making it clear he meant to stay.
“Jamie.” My voice cracked, rough and uncertain, but I forced the word out and swallowed hard, throat tight. If this was the only way to get Jamie’s help… to survive… I’d promise anything. Do anything. Whatever it took to stay breathing.
Silence. Heavy. Cold.
“Daemon… Jamie… alone,” I started, my voice hoarse and too quick, stumbling over the names as if I couldn’t quite remember which one to use. I cleared my throat and tried again, softer this time, appealing to DaemonRaze—Jamie. He and I had crossed paths back when we were teenagers. Hacked side by side in the same circles, talked sometimes, respected each other’s reputation more than anything. I didn’t know him well. But he was really my last chance to get help with what I had to do. I needed his skills, knew he’d spent time in prison, and hoped to hell that he was still up to the job. I needed an outside man to back me up. I hadn’t come here for sanctuary. I hadn’t come here to be saved. I’d come here because Jamie knew the dark the way I did—and maybe, just maybe, he’d see that I wasn’t part of it.
“Why is your name all over Kessler’s company? Why is his system using your name?” Enzo cut me off, his voice flat, sharp as a blade. “Are you here to hurt Robbie?”
I was confused, flicking my gaze at Robbie. Why would I hurt him? Did I know him? He was a blurry shape that I couldn’t focus on. “No… Jamie.”
Killian stiffened. “Why do you want to hurt Jamie?”
“No hurt…”
I’d been running for so long that the real story was lost in a hundred different personas. This final burst of survival began with red flags lighting up across the accounts I monitored—ghost traces from people in Kessler’s world, digital breadcrumbs from names I’d kept as insurance. People I tracked to be sure they weren’t tracking me, who’d been arrested or had taken their own lives. Their secrets had been sent out into the world, and that could have been me. My brain hurt, and my eyes closed. I heard them talking over me—someone saying something about fever, about calling Doc, about a million things that spun around me like smoke.
“I… can’t… paper…” I forced out, and everyone stared at me, more talking, and then, I felt paper and a pen in my hand. I couldn’t even focus on the paper; it shook wildly, and Rio took it from me. He was close enough that I could focus on his face. I began to talk, trying to focus. I saw Jamie step closer, a crease of confusion on his brow. He crouched, eyes on the scrawl in Rio’s hand. His mouth moved, repeating fragments of code I’d half written—function calls, variable strings, server ID prefixes. He forced out short bursts of tech-speak as if he was translating me on instinct, parsing out my mess of letters and numbers into something only someone like him could understand.
When he read it back to me, slowly and deliberately, I tried to nod, whimpered at the pain in my head, then closed my eyes and curled into myself.
The rest would have to wait, and if they wanted me dead, then…
Fuck I hoped it was quick.
EIGHT
Rio
Jamie strode out first, Killian on his heels, both moving as if this weren’t a man half-dead in front of them. Enzo tugged Robbie back, one hand tight on his arm, not giving him a choice.
I stayed.
Lyric was shaking—small tremors running through his shoulders—and I didn’t miss the way his fingers scrabbled at the sheets, gripping them as if he were trying to hold on. He was pale beneath the sweat clinging to his skin, eyes half-lidded and glassy.
“What about Doc?” I called after Jamie’s retreating back. “He’s burning up.”
