Chapter 13

Ryker

What the hell am I doing?

I couldn't get out of her suite fast enough, but now that I'm in the hallway, I can't seem to drag my sorry ass away from the door. Bracing against the wall, I take a deep breath.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

My heart's pounding a mile a minute. My dick's a steel rod in my pants. Squeezing my eyes shut, I lock down on my emotions and shove them right back where they belong—in the black hole where my heart once was.

This woman is fuckery personified. She's messing with my head.

I'mmessing with my head.

The sheer force of will it took not to rip the door off its hinges when Tara left her suite, in nothing but her skin and attitude, rocked me to the core. I think I would have gouged out the eyes of everyone who saw her had she made it all the way to the kitchen.

I can't afford to lose that much of my fucking staff.

And Tara might as well have kicked me in the balls for saying she was "getting shit done," as if implying I'd slacked in taking care of her.

She was right.

I might have ordered food to be sent to her suite, but I should have known it wasn't going to happen. It's my job to take care of the Butterfly, no one else's, which Dmitri took great joy in reminding me when he brought the coffee and meds for her. That motherfucker had the nerve to tell me she was my responsibility and mine alone.

He's also right.

That I let Tara go this long without the basic necessities is unforgivable.

Jesus fucking Christ, I've been her Master for less than twenty-four hours and have fucked up so much, I should be fired.

And beaten.

And left out in the desert for dead.

I know better than this. Why am I losing my decency and head?

Fucking hell, I can't stand the thought of Tara going hungry. Her headache only added salt to my reopened wound. And she didn't have meds she needed to get better faster.

It hits too close to my past that I can never escape.

Logically, I could tell Tara I can no longer be her Master. But what good would that do other than get me off the hook as her Dom?

And put someone else in my place.

The notion makes my blood boil.

Part of me fears if I walk away from this arrangement with my tail between my legs, the bricks holding this place up will crumble and bury me alive. And a very feral, territorial part of me can't imagine her with another Dom.

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

"You okay?"

I don't bother looking at Dmitri when I answer with a ragged, "No."

"You want to go down to my room for a while?"

Beating the shit out of a punching bag sounds amazing, but I'm too drained for it. And I still can't move from this spot on the wall, three feet from Tara's door, either. "This is a mistake," I whisper.

"Only if you make it one."

Sighing, I push away from the wall and scrub my face. Now I'm getting a headache too, for fuck's sake. "You knew what she needed." It's a warning, not a statement.

Dmitri doesn't deny what I'm implying either.

He was watching us from the video feed in her suite. Just like he said he would, even after I told him not to. For once, I'm grateful he followed protocol instead of whatever possessive shit I'd said to him earlier about it.

"Look," he sighs. "Maybe this is a good thing."

"Maybe. I didn't have to cheat and lose my integrity for Tara to win. We raised a lot of money for the charity. My reputation is still intact. My club is still running."

"That's not what I fucking mean, Ry."

"I know…" I rake a hand through my hair. "Fuck, I know."

"She's really gotten to you, hasn't she?"

And just like that, Dmitri's words suck me back into the past…

"She's really gotten to you, hasn't she?"

"Shut up, D." I pace back and forth in the doctor's office.

"Poor baby. You have a gorgeous woman bouncing on your dick every week."

"If you don't shut your fucking mouth, I'm going to break your jaw and have it wired shut."

"I'd love to see you try." He chuckles and then groans in pain. Holding his side, he leans back in the folding chair and rests his head against the dingy wall. "Shit, I'm pretty sure I broke a rib last night."

"Serves you right for fighting a man twice your size."

"Earned me triple the normal payout. I had to shoot my shot."

"And you lost."

Dmitri shrugs. "Still had to try."

I get it. I'm also doing things I have no business doing for good money. And D's right, Natalie is getting to me. I hate it so much I want to tear the skin from my body and set myself on fire. I'll also come running to her the second she calls me to her apartment again.

I fucking hate myself.

"Ryker Hudson?"

I spin around so fast, my foot hits the leg of a chair and knocks it over. "Yes?"

"She's all set."

"Okay." I glance at Dmitri for a hot second, then follow the nurse back into the examination room. "How's she doing?"

"I'll let the doctor talk with you."

That's not good. Every time they say shit like that, it always goes from bad to worse. I can't let them think I'm not doing anything at home for her. "She's eating more. Her appetite has definitely improved."

"That's wonderful. Her weight hasn't dropped since her last visit," the nurse says. "That's a good thing."

Good as in she's going to be okay? Or good as in, that's the only bright spot in her dark life? I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"She's right in here, sweetheart."

"Thanks." I slip past the nurse as she holds the door open for me. Mom's rolling down her sleeve and I see the cotton ball taped to the crook of her elbow. They've taken more blood from her. "Is she doing better?"

I can't look at the doctor when I ask that. My gaze remains locked onto my mom so I can read her expression when the doctor gives me his answer.

"Her levels are the same, but we're running a few more blood tests," he says from a stool. "We're going to have to run more scans next week, too. I've told your mother—"

"No more scans, no more tests," Mom says firmly. "And no more chemo."

My heart falls out of my ass. "Mom."

"I'm done." Hopping off the examination table, her legs give out and I lunge forward to catch her before she crashes onto the floor. "I'm fine," she lies, patting my arm. "He just took a lot of blood. Nothing a lollipop and juice box won't cure."

Fuck, I can't stand this. My mom doesn't need a juice box, she needs a miracle.

"Ashley, please reconsider what we've discussed today."

She puts her hand up to silence the doctor. "I've made up my mind." Squeezing my arm, she looks up at me and says, "Take me home, baby."

My legs feel like weights are strapped to my ankles as I half-carry her out of the office. Once we reach the waiting area, Dmitri hops up and gently grabs her other arm. Together, we get her outside and to the bus stop. Panic chokes me. I know damn well she'll never step foot in this side of town again if I can't get her to change her mind about treatment.

"Shit, I forgot to pay. Wait here with D, okay?" I dash back, feeling guilty for lying–because I'd paid up front for the visit the instant my mother went into the room for her exam—and I book it straight back to the doctor's office.

Out of breath, I grab his arm, stopping him before he enters the next patient's room. "What's wrong with her now?"

His frown deepens, making him look ancient. Holding the clipboard to his chest, he takes off his glasses and stares up at me. "It's spread to her bones, Ryker. I tried to convince her to be in a clinical trial, but she's not having it."

"Will it save her?" Because if so, I'll do all that's in my power to get her into that study. Why won't he fucking answer me? My voice shakes as I yell, "WILL IT SAVE HER?"

"No."

The floor opens and swallows me whole. My legs buckle. I fall to my knees. "Why…" I can't breathe. "Why would you have her in the study, then?" For more money? Because these treatments have cost me all I have and then some. For hope? Because that shit's worthless. Because they need a goddamn guinea pig? She's worth more than that.

"For more time," he says. "It'll buy her time to be with you, Ryker."

My gaze falls to the linoleum floor. I can't feel my face. "Time spent sick in the bathroom or passed out in bed." Rage coils in my gut. I understand why my mother would refuse to do it.

But I also desperately want her to be with me for as long as possible.

It's the selfishness that snaps me out of my sorrow. How dare I think of myself when she's the one suffering.

It doesn't matter that I quit school a year ago and lie to her every day about it. It doesn't matter that I work in construction by day, and as an escort by night. It doesn't matter that I've managed to put food in our bellies and pay our rent. It doesn't matter that all the medical bills are on a payment plan so I can manage them as best I can since my mom lost her health insurance because she also lost her job. I'd forged a letter from the company, saying they were giving her a severance package and allowing her to keep the health benefits as a thank you for her years of dedication. She was too sick at that point to question it. I'm not even sure she cared.

My mom's lived a hard, brutal, awful life. Abused by her father, then battered by her shit husband, only to run off with me when it got too unbearable, too painful and dangerous, to stay in her marriage to my dad. She's done nothing but struggle to keep us safe and happy ever since. I'll be damned if I make her life any harder by not giving her the choice and respecting her decision.

No matter how much it hurts me.

"I'm so sorry, son."

"Fuck you." I growl as rage rips through me. "Fuck every single one of you who said she'd be saved." I lift onto shaky legs and storm out of the office, knowing I'll never come back here again. By the time I return to my mom and Dmitri, I'm so numb I can't even hear the traffic honking around us.

"You good?" D asks.

My gaze lands on my mom. She stares at me with watery eyes and a stern expression that dares me to defy her. Dares me to beg her to do something she doesn't want to do.

I drop to my knees in front of her and hold her hands. My palms are sweaty. Hers are ice. "Make a list," I say firmly. "We're going to check it off and do everything you want until you can't anymore."

She closes her eyes as a sigh leaves her cracked lips, and the weight that seems to lift off her shoulders now lands heavily on mine.

Our bus pulls up and the doors open. D and I get her on board and into a seat where she rests her head against the window and closes her eyes.

D sits in the empty row behind her, and I sit next to him so my mom can stretch out on the bench seat if she wants. "What's going on, Ryker?"

"She's dying," I say, admitting it out loud for the first time. "And she's refusing anymore treatment."

"Shit." His head slams back on the headrest and I know his heart is breaking just like mine. My mom's been a mother to us both for years. "What can I do?"

I don't have a clue. I can't think straight.

The bus takes off and as we get further and further away from the doctor's office, it's like I didn't just leave the building behind, but all my hope too. It's done. It's over. I can't do anything but move forward.

"When she makes a list, I want to check everything off, no matter what. It might get expensive." I have no clue what my mom might want to do, but I swear to God, if she says she wants to eat a croissant in front of the Eiffel fucking tower, I'm going to make sure I take her there and get her the best pastry in all of France. "She deserves happiness before she dies."

Especially since she's had none her whole life.

"Money we can make easily enough," D whispers. "I'll enter a few more heavyweight fights."

"And I'll suck a lot more dick." Because that pays better than servicing a woman around here.

We both fall into silence with my mom passed out in the seat in front of us.

"Hey," Dmitri snaps his fingers in my face. "Ryker."

"Yeah." I clear my throat. "I'm good."

"Don't pull that shit, okay?"

"What shit?" I'm sweating like a sinner in church. Yanking on my collar, I pop the top button and it rolls across the floor. "I'm not doing anything, D."

"You're blurring the past and present. Tara's not Natalie. And your mom is—"

I wrap my hand around his fat neck and squeeze. "Don't talk about her."

We promised the day we put her in the ground, we would never talk about my mother again. All the blood, sweat, tears, and other fluids we drained ourselves of just to make her shortened life a good one blew to smithereens too fucking quickly. I don't think either of us have recovered from it yet.

"You've got to move on," D says with a strained voice. His face is a lovely shade of crimson and I have no intention of letting him get air. "Everything… happens for… a reason, Ry."

My long-leashed fury breaks free. I draw my fist and smash his face.