Page 89

THE BONDS THAT HOLD

RYDEN

Iwas at the stove, staring at a pot of pasta in garlic sauce, thinking about everything that had gone wrong in our lives when the front door opened.

“I’m in the kitchen, love.”

It had been two days since Rose’s death, and Yara found no evidence, nothing. I gritted my teeth. This madman, despite being new to this, was good at this.

It made my head ache, but I stubbornly pushed the thought away when warm arms slid around my waist. It had been months, and she still made me feel like it was the very first day.

I couldn’t help but wonder how I was this lucky to have this woman, to be able to touch her, be touched by her all day, every fucking day.

“Hello, love,” I said.

She pressed her body to my back, her breath soft on my skin.

“You’re a sight for my extremely sore eyes,” she breathed, planting a kiss to the back of my neck. I could hear the wariness in her voice.

“You alright, love?” I asked, setting the spoon down and turning around to meet her eyes. She closed her eyes when I pulled her closer.

“No,” she said with a frustrated sigh.

She pressed a slow, lingering kiss to my throat, her fingers gripping my shirt.

“I hate this, Ryden. I hate not knowing. I hate feeling like we know just enough, but never enough to help anyone. What’s the use of knowing Patty is the Strangler? What’s the use of knowing Valentina was that Tattooist—his next victim? We saved her, but Rose died.”

She looked beaten. Defeated. Her courage, her bravery, it was slowly wavering.

“I know,” I murmured. “I know how you feel.”

Valentina lived because Rose had died. There was no justice in that, no fairness, no balance. Rose didn’t deserve to die like that.

“It’s unfair, Ryden, all of this. I have been looking at her for two days. I still couldn’t find anything.”

She frowned, her fingers slipping beneath my shirt, tracing idle patterns against my skin.

I had no words to soothe her. This world was cruel, and there was no comfort in knowing that wolves slept behind the masks of lambs, that most men often hid darkness behind their false light.

“It is.”

Her eyes were heavy with frustration. I traced my thumb over her cheek, trying to smooth away a crease that wouldn’t leave.

We had to find the Strangler and the… Tattooist—I hated that name. We had to find them and bury them for this to be truly over.

“I know, I know. I want to help you, but I can’t. I feel just as helpless.” I cupped her face, brushing my thumb over her cheek. “This is our life, but when you come home, try to leave them at the door. You’ll drown if you don’t.”

I knew it was easier said than done, but we had to do it to survive, to not completely lose our minds. We were already only half sane, anyway.

She let out a shaky breath, her fingers curling over my shoulder.

“I tried.”

“You told me once that our lives will always be full of dead bodies,” I said, staring into her eyes. “You’re right, but we can’t carry all the bodies with us wherever we go. We’ll do what we can to help them, to save who we can, but their deaths are not on us. We didn’t kill them.” I took her hand in mine, pressing a kiss to her palm. “And we can’t live with this guilt every second. It’s too much. When I’m with you, I want to see you. Only you. I want to think only about you.”

She nodded.

“I might sound selfish, but—”