Page 39 of Unlocking Ruin

CHAPTER 9

Rylan

Of course I didn’t shower. What woman would strip nude in a stranger’s house?

I leap out of bed, testing my ankle. It’s in a compress wrap. Did he touch me when I was knocked out?

I put my full weight on it and hiss, ignoring the pain as I make my way to the window. How do you open this thing? There’s no latch. The window is floor-to-ceiling and takes up the entire wall.

I bang on it and immediately regret it. What did I think, it was sugar glass? Of course it wasn’t going to crack wide open.

“Option B,” I mutter, sizing up the floor lamp. I yank out the plug, heft it, and swing with all my might at the window. The lamp ricochets off the glass, sending me sprawling. I yelp, crash to the floor, and the lamp thuds onto my torso, knocking the wind out of me.

The door bursts open. Hulk strides over, flinging the lamp off me as if it weighs nothing.

“Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay? I’ve been drugged and abducted. And shit!” Groaning, I look at my ankle. My failed escape made the intense throbbing start again.

“Are you Torben?” I ask.

He nods.

Torben hauls me upright. Not that I’d ever accept help, but he’s so strong I can’t resist. He lifts me and sets me on the bed like a doll.

His shadow falls over me. “He’s not bad, he’s just scarred and wounded,” Torben mutters, stepping back.

“Every villain thinks his cause is noble; that’s why they do it. They think they’re right.”

“Wrong,” Torben grunts.

He’s so big and muscled, yet when I look closely there is a youthfulness to his face. I think he’s around my age, but it’s clear he’s seen a lot more shit than I have. It’s the way his eyes linger, like an alley cat clinging to the shadows of a building.

“Some just want to burn the world, Rylan.”

“Help me,” I plead.

“Rylan”—Torben speaks with a voice just as deep and masculine as my abductor’s, but his accent is thicker—“if I thought letting you go would save you, I would.”

“Get out,” I snap.

Torben steps out without argument, but before he closes the door, he looks back at me one more time.

I drag my hands down my face and limp toward the closet. Each step is slow thanks to my ankle, but the compression wrap lets me put more weight on it.

I open the door to a small walk-in closet packed with clothes in my size. Even creepier? They’re exactly my style: jeans, sweatpants, and not a single piece of spandex.

Just how well does my stalker know me?

I don’t want to give in, but I can’t stand another second in my Halloween-black dress. I snatch up sweatpants and a clean blue shirt. I search for a bra, but they are all lace.

Yeah, not happening.

My black dress had a built-in bra, so it looks like I’m going braless, not that a bra has much to hold, anyway.

I head to the bathroom and shove the door open. I freeze. The place is gorgeous—white marble, glowing LED mirror—and I look like a disaster. I toss the clothes on the counter and attack my hair with my fingers, convinced a rat could be nesting in there. Come out, come out, wherever you are! I feel so greasy I might slip on myself. Shit, I need to shower.

I yank open every cabinet and drawer, finding high-end skincare, the kind that costs a fortune, but tossed into the mix is my favorite drugstore makeup.