REAPER (Boston Underworld Book 2) (7 page)

Chapter Seven

Sasha

I
’m sitting on mom’s bed, watching her favorite true crime shows. I narrate them for her since she isn’t really able to see them for herself. I don’t know if she can even hear me, but I like to tell her who I think did it and add my own reasons to their motive.

Just like we used to do.

Those days are never going to happen again. She still hasn’t woken. It’s been two days. Her skin is growing more pallid by the hour, and I know the end is coming soon.

I’m angry with her. I’m angry that she decided to give up, even though that isn’t fair. I want her to fight. I want to be selfish and demand that she stay a little longer. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. The medication she’s on makes her sleep all the time, and I worry that she’ll go before I get a chance to say anything at all. Emily’s flying back home in two days. It’s all becoming too real.

Amy said she would taper off the dosage of her medication before she progresses to the point of no return. It still doesn’t comfort me. Because getting that chance doesn’t change the words that won’t come. What am I going to say to her? How do you tell someone you love so much goodbye?

My phone beeps from the dresser beside me, and I consider ignoring it. Nobody ever texts me unless it’s work. One of the other dancers probably called in sick. I don’t feel like working tonight. But I don’t feel like sitting in this house and watching my mother die either. I’m not spoiled for choices, so I pick up the phone.

I’m surprised to see it’s Mack. After one glance at her message, I’m up and out the door before I can even give it any thought. I don’t know where I’m going. The only thing I know is that I need to get to him.

***

By the time Rory and Conor’s cars pull up to Lachlan’s house, I’ve nearly worn a hole in the pavement from my pacing.

Mack jumps out of one car, barking out instructions as Michael and Rory carry Lachlan up the stairs.

“Where is he?” I demand.

“Conor’s helping him,” Mack says, pointing at the other car.

I rush over to help, and the sight of Ronan lying in the backseat with his face beaten makes me irrationally angry.

“How could you let him do this?” I yell at Conor. “He needs to see a doctor.”

“The doctor cleared him to come home,” Conor answers. “And there’s another on the way. And for the record, I don’t have any say over what Ronan or Lachlan does.”

Rory appears at my side a moment later, giving me a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “Hey, Sash. He’s going to be just fine, okay? Now step aside so we can get him in the house.”

I do as he says, watching as they lift his limp body up into their arms. I feel like I should be doing something. Helping somehow. Ronan’s always been so strong, I never imagined seeing him like this. I never imagined anything could ever actually hurt him. That he’d ever let anyone close enough to.

The guys carry him inside and I’m hot on their heels.

They heave Ronan onto the sofa and then Rory gives Conor some instructions while I walk into the kitchen and grab a wet cloth. When I come back out Rory is gone and only Conor is sitting in the parlor.

I kneel down beside Ronan and wipe away the blood on his face when Conor hovers over me with a nervous expression.

“I’m not so sure you should be doing that,” Conor says. “He went sort of nuts at the fight and they had to sedate him after. He said not to let anyone touch him. He was very, very clear about that.”

“Well I’m not anyone,” I argue. “And I don’t care what the stubborn bastard said. I’m cleaning him up.”

Conor remains quiet while I continue to do just that, but it’s obvious he doesn’t like it. There isn’t a single part of me that cares what he thinks. I know Ronan is his superior. He gives out instructions, and Conor has to follow them. That’s the way it works in the mob. But I’m not one of their lackeys, and I’m sure as hell not going to follow a ridiculous order at a time like this.

Ronan was there for me when I needed him. And as distant and strained as our relations are right now that’s not going to stop me from being there for him too.

He has a cut just above his eyebrow that’s been packed with some sort of salve, but there’s still blood trickling out of the wound. I wipe away what I can and then check his head and neck.

“The doctor will be here soon,” Conor offers in another effort to get me to stop.

I ignore him and sit down beside Ronan on the sofa while we wait, watching his chest rise and fall in an even and steady rhythm. It reassures me, at least a little, that he’s going to be okay. When the doctor finally does come, he tends to Lachlan first, which only serves to irritate me further.

By the time he comes out to check on Ronan, it’s been over an hour since they brought him here. An hour of putting his health on the line, and for what? Another surge of anger moves through me, and I only have one place to direct it. I wait to see what the doctor does with Ronan, which isn’t much, but he does manage to rouse him for a few moments. Just hearing his voice, no matter how briefly, calms me. He’s going to be okay, the doc says. He’s going to be just fine.

But that’s not true. Because how can anyone be just fine when they’ve been beaten to a pulp like that. I’m pissed off. And all I can think about is how this happened. Why this happened. Once the doctor’s done and out the front door, I walk down the hall to Lachlan’s room to find Mack sitting on the bed. He’s passed out too, and in about as good of shape as Ronan.

Mack looks up at me, and there are tears in her eyes. I don’t care.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand.

She blinks at me in confusion. I’ve never yelled at her before. I like Mack. I respect her. And I’m grateful for what she’s done for me. But that doesn’t stop me from being angry at her right now too.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t know they were going to do it until it was happening.”

“But you let it happen anyway, didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t stop it,” she says. “I’m sorry, Sash.”

Her voice is sincere. She’s genuinely as sick as I am over what happened, but right now I don’t care. I want to lash out at her. And it isn’t until the words are out of my mouth that I even understand why.

“He did this for you,” I snarl. “Ronan did this for you.”

Mack stands up and reaches out towards me tentatively. “That isn’t true, Sash. He did it for Lachlan.”

“No,” I argue. “He talks to you. Why? Why can he talk to you, but not me?”

Again, Mack stares at me in confusion. “He doesn’t talk to you?”

“No,” I bite out. “He never says one fucking word to me. But you come in here, and he has no problem talking to you. Or fighting for you…”

My words drift off as Mack pulls me in for an unexpected hug. I know she doesn’t like to hug. But she’s hugging me now. And it turns out to be the thing I needed because I break down in her arms.

I don’t know why. I’m just emotional with everything that’s happening. With my mom and Ronan and all of the unknown changes I’m facing in the future. That’s what I tell myself.

“You should just try to talk to him, Sasha,” Mack says as she pulls away. “Believe me when I say Ronan never talks to me by choice. I usually just annoy the hell out of him until I get him to talk.”

I smile through bleary eyes and wipe my tears away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I would yell at me too.”

“I should go sit with him.”

She nods, but then gives my arm a little squeeze. “Hey, Sash, for what it’s worth, I talked to Lachlan.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “And?”

“And he said you can go. He’d even help you out if you need him to. He just wants to talk to you about it first.”

I should be happy with that. But I’m not and I can’t figure out why. So I just give Mack a weak smile and a nod. “Thank you.”

Chapter Eight

Sasha

W
hen I walk back out into the parlor, Conor is passed out in the recliner, so I sit down on the sofa beside Ronan. He’s sleeping, and at peace right now, even with his bruised and beaten face.

His glasses are missing, and he’s wearing a tee shirt. I didn’t notice it before, but I am now. I’ve never seen him in a tee shirt. It makes him look younger. More like his age. At twenty-nine, he’s only six years older than me. But he doesn’t carry himself that way.

He’s an old soul trapped in a young man’s body. But then there are moments when I glance at him, like right now, when he seems so young too.

I quietly squeeze my body into the gap between him and the back of the sofa and use the opportunity to soak in his handsome features. We’re so close right now I could touch him if I wanted to. Conor’s words still linger on my mind and I wonder why Ronan told him not to let anyone touch him.

In the three years I’ve been hanging around the club, I’ve never seen him touch any woman. Or vice versa. Which is a good thing because I don’t think I’d like that at all. He’s so quiet and guarded that I doubt he lets anyone touch him.

But he did let me once. I was high on him, but I still managed to notice how unsure of himself he was. He never even kissed me. I have so many questions about him. Almost everything about this man is a mystery. And against my better judgment, I want to know him.

I reach down and drape his arm over my hip. And then I touch his face. I can’t help it. It’s been so long since I’ve felt him. I want to feel him right now. My fingertips ghost over his cheeks and his jaw line. He shaved this morning, so his skin is smooth. I want to kiss every inch of it. My thumb drags across his lips, and they part a little for me. And then he moans. Afraid that I’m hurting him, I let my hand fall away and lean closer to give him a gentle kiss on the forehead.

I don’t know when it is exactly that he woke during my exploration, but I can feel it now. His eyes are still closed, but his breathing has changed, and his hand has tightened reflexively on my waist. He doesn’t move, or say a word. So I nuzzle closer and drape my own arm across his stomach, falling asleep enveloped in his warmth.

It’s the best sleep I’ve had in three years.

***

With the arrival of dawn, so comes something else.

It takes me a moment to understand what it is. The words are muffled, but Ronan is thrashing beside me as he repeats them over and over again.

“Will not speak,” he murmurs. “Will not question. Protect your brethren… free the chains. The chains. The chains.”

His voice grows more strained with every word. More agonized. And I don’t know what to do. I’ve always heard that you aren’t supposed to wake someone during a night terror, but it seems cruel to let him suffer through it.

“Ronan.” I give him a gentle shake, and he still doesn’t wake. So I clasp his face in my hands and try to soothe him with a calm voice.

Before I can even make sense of what’s happening, he’s got me flipped onto my back with his hands wrapped around my throat. I can’t breathe. I can’t even fight him. The man is a goddamn machine. He’s crushing every part of me with his body, and the only defense I have is to claw at his hands with my own. But it doesn’t even faze him. I’ve never felt strength like this before.

He just keeps repeating the same garbled words under his breath.

Free the chains.

I try to choke out his name. But it’s too quiet. He isn’t hearing me. Blackness is seeping in around my eyes again, and the irony is too painful to consider. This is how I was dying when he saved me. And now he’s going to kill me the same way.

I shove at his chest, but he’s like a brick wall, and I’m too weak.

“Ronan!”

Someone else is shouting now. Through my hazy vision I can barely make out Conor, trying to pry Ronan off of me.

“Ronan!” he screams again.

He manages to loosen Ronan’s grip enough that I can take a breath, and in the next instant, Lachlan is charging down the hall with Mack trailing behind him. He tackles Ronan to the floor, and I gasp for air as Lachlan holds him down and repeats a bunch of stuff I don’t understand.

“Ye’re not there,” Lachlan says. “Ronan. Ye’re okay. You are in Boston now. With me, Lachlan. It’s okay.”

Ronan’s breathing hard and fast, his eyes fully dilated as they dart around the room. He’s a cornered animal right now. Unrecognizable. But those eyes. They remind me of a small boy. One who has no idea what he’s just done. And when they land on me curled up on the couch with Mack trying to calm me, they fill with horror.

“I told you not to touch him,” Conor whispers.

“I didn’t know,” I croak.

My voice is hoarse. I can barely speak. And I have no doubt I’ll have bruises around my neck when I look in the mirror. But Conor is right. I should have listened. But I couldn’t have known. My eyes find Ronan’s again, and he looks away.

Lachlan takes over, shouting out directions.

“Conor, take Sasha home.”

I try to argue, but I can’t even speak. Mack gives me a worried look and then pulls Lachlan across the room where they start to argue. But it doesn’t matter. One look at Ronan, and I know he doesn’t want me here. I never should have come here.

I stand up on shaky legs and nod at Conor. He helps me across the room, and Mack runs over to meet us at the door.

“I’m so sorry, Sash,” she says. “They gave him something to knock him out. It must have done something. I don’t know. But it’ll be okay, I promise.”

I give her a nod because I can do nothing else.

It’s the lie we all want to believe. That it will be okay.

The problem is that it never really is.