Sweet Retribution (Ruthless Games 2)

Because that means he’s gone.

I clutch the little elephant, holding it tight to my chest.

It’s all I have left.

* * *

I jolt awake, my heart racing as half-remembered images flit through my mind.

Fuck.

With a low groan, I roll over onto my side, curling up into a ball. Despite the fact that things are changing between all of us, I haven’t had the guts to beg Theo to sleep in the guest room with me again—or to crawl into bed with him in his room. And right now, I really fucking wish I had.

I pull the blankets higher, tugging them up until they’re all the way over my head. Darkness envelops me, and I blink into it, trying to calm my racing pulse.

For the past several nights, I’ve had new, strange dreams instead of the usual fragmented memories of the night I was shot.

I don’t like it. The new dreams don’t make any sense. There’s nothing outwardly all that upsetting about them, but I always wake up in a cold sweat or on the verge of tears without knowing why.

And I also don’t like that Marcus has stopped appearing in my dreams. I don’t believe in signs from the universe, and I remind myself of that frequently, but his disappearance from my dreams worries me in a weird way. As if his energy has ceased to exist.

That’s bullshit, Ayla. I clench my teeth, mentally chastising myself. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just your mind dealing with trauma.

I lie in bed for a while longer, distracting myself from the lingering terror of the dream by going over my mental roster of players in the game. I’ll be meeting most of them for the first time tonight, at Luca D’Addario’s party, and I want to be ready.

This isn’t the first time he’s done this. According to the guys, he throws a party about once or twice a year, often falling within a month or less of the most recent bloodshed. It’s a chance for people to realign themselves as the fallout from the period of violence settles, and a chance for Luca to evaluate his chosen competitors.

Everyone involved in the game will be there, as well as other wealthy or connected members of the Halston elite.

I’m both looking forward to it and dreading it, to be honest.

On the one hand, it could give the guys and me a chance to start maneuvering for power—we’ve decided to go after Adrian first since he seems the least connected to other players, which makes him the most vulnerable.

But on the other hand, despite Theo’s insistence that I’ve got a knack for this kind of thing, I’m not sure how good I’ll be at playing the political games.

I’m used to saying what I mean, if I say anything at all, and the idea of having to cover ugly truths with pretty lies like these people all do sets my teeth on edge.

Will Marcus’s parents be there? If I meet them, will I be able to keep my mouth shut? There’s a lot I want to say to both of them, and none of it is good.

My mind starts to wander as my head clears, the dream dissipating into nothingness. I doze in bed for a while longer before getting up. In the early afternoon, Ryland takes me to get a dress. Unlike the clothes that just showed up in the guest room closet for me, they want me to pick this one out myself.

He takes me to an expensive as fuck boutique in downtown Halston, and intimidates the fuck out of the saleswoman as he waits for me with folded arms, his expression impassive. Or at least, it’s impassive until I step out of the dressing room. Then hunger infuses his features, the heat between us flaring so strongly that the saleswoman flushes and stammers some excuse before making herself scarce.

Ryland strides forward to meet me, reaching out to run his knuckles along my bare arm and leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake. The dress is a backless design, made of a deep royal blue fabric. It hugs my breasts and waist before trailing softly down to the floor, just hinting at the shape of my legs beneath. It’s sexy but understated, and its thin straps show off every one of my old wounds, which is just what I want.

I want everyone I meet tonight to know they’re dealing with a warrior.

Let them see my fucking battle scars.

“Fuck, Ayla.” Ryland’s voice is hoarse. “You look…”

He shakes his head, like he can’t come up with the right word to describe it. But he doesn’t need to. The burning heat in his eyes tells me plenty.

“Thanks.” I shiver as he drags his hand back up my arm, brushing his fingertips over my bare collarbone. My pussy clenches, heat pooling low in my belly.

I didn’t look at the price tag for this dress when I slipped it on because Ryland told me not to, but now that I know it’s a winner, I can’t resist glancing down at the tag. As I read the number, my heart skips a beat.

Holy fuck.