Chapter 4

chapter

four

Rylan’s head was pounding. The insistent drumbeat against his skull was the first thing he became conscious of as he peeled his gluey eyes open. The second was that his mouth tasted of stale whiskey and regret and was as dry as sawdust. The sunlight streaming through the blinds stabbed into his eyeballs like hot pokers. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head under his pillow, fully intending to fall back into sweet unconsciousness, but the pounding sound only got louder.

It wasn’t just in his head.

Someone was at the door, and each knock reverberated through his skull like a jackhammer.

Fuck.

With a groan, he hauled himself up to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, the room swaying momentarily before righting itself. He steadied himself with a hand on the nightstand, knocking over the empty whiskey bottle from the night before. It clattered to the floor, the sound like a gunshot in his oversensitive ears. A glance at the clock on his nightstand told him it wasn’t even eight a.m. Too damn early after drinking himself into oblivion mere hours ago.

He could ignore it. Pretend he wasn’t home. But whoever was out there didn’t seem to be planning on leaving anytime soon.

“Jesus Christ. Fine.” Dragging a hand down his face, he pushed to his feet and stumbled out into the living room, not bothering with a shirt. Whoever had the audacity to pound on his door at this godforsaken hour could deal with his bare chest and pajama pants.

Except…

What if it was Zak?

Or, worse, Shane?

He froze mid-stride, panic slicing through the hangover fog.

If it was one of the guys…

He glanced around wildly, taking in the empty bottles scattered across the coffee table and the askew couch cushions. Evidence of yet another night spent trying to drink away the demons that haunted him.

Shit.

They couldn’t see him like this—unshaven, barely able to stand upright, with the stench of booze seeping from his pores. He’d spent the last few months carefully crafting the image of a man who had his shit together, who was healing and moving on. But they’d take one look at his bloodshot eyes and haggard face, and they’d know . They’d know he’d been lying all this time about how well-adjusted he was. He’d lose all credibility with them, and he wouldn’t be able to handle seeing the disappointment in Zak’s eyes or the worry in Shane’s.

No. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.

Gritting his teeth, Rylan spun on his heel, intending to make a beeline for the bathroom to pull himself together. But the sudden movement sent the room careening sideways. He threw out his arms for balance but forgot he wasn’t wearing his prosthetic, and the move only sent him more off-kilter. His left hand flailed uselessly, grasping at air as he lost his balance and fell into the side table. The lamp toppled over with a crash, the bulb shattering. He went down hard, his knee slamming into the hardwood floor with a loud crack. White hot pain lanced through his leg, and he bit back a howl, curling in on himself.

The knocking stopped abruptly, and a muffled voice called through the door. “Rylan? Are you okay in there?”

His eyes flew open. That voice... It wasn’t Zak or Shane. It was feminine, familiar. It took his sluggish brain a moment to place it.

Isabella Delgado.

Izzy.

What the hell was she doing here?

A confusing mix of emotions swirled through him— relief that it wasn’t one of the guys, happiness at the prospect of seeing her, and a strong undercurrent of irritation. He’d made it quite clear he wanted to be left alone, and yet here she was, disturbing his solitude at an ungodly hour.

Anger won out. With a muttered curse, he hauled himself up using the side table for leverage, ignoring the sharp protest from his throbbing knee. He limped heavily to the door and yanked it open with more force than necessary.

Izzy looked as put-together and gorgeous as always, not a chestnut hair out of place despite the early hour. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in his disheveled appearance, her gaze flickering over his bare chest and down to his plaid pajama pants, which hung dangerously low on his hips. She stared at the maze of scars decorating his torso for a beat too long before snapping her eyes back up to his face. Her expression smoothed over into one of polite neutrality, but not before he caught a flash of something that looked uncomfortably like pity.

Great. Just what he needed. Her feeling sorry for him.

“It’s barely eight in the goddamn morning, Izzy. What do you want?” The words came out harsher than he intended, his voice rough from too much bourbon and not enough sleep.

She looked up at him with those big golden eyes, and his traitorous heart skipped a beat, even as his gut twisted with a confusing mix of longing and resentment.

Goddammit. He thought he was over this, over her, but apparently, his heart hadn’t gotten the memo.

“Ry...” Her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “I’m sorry for just showing up like this, but I didn’t know where else to go. I need your help.”

He barked out a humorless laugh. “What makes you think I’d help you after what you did?”

Izzy lifted her chin, meeting his glare head-on. “I know I have no right to ask you for anything. But this isn’t about me or even about us.” She took a deep breath as if steeling herself. “Can I please come in?”

He stared at her for a long moment, jaw clenched, warring with himself. Part of him wanted to slam the door in her face, to tell her to go to hell. But another part, the part that still cared about her despite everything, was curious. What could be so important that she’d come to him, of all people, for help?

He finally gave a resigned sigh and stepped back, holding the door open wider in silent invitation. He didn’t particularly want to be standing on his porch in the cold, wearing nothing but his pajama pants and last night’s regrets.

Izzy slipped past him into the cabin, her slender frame brushing against his chest as she squeezed by in the narrow entryway. The brief contact sent an unwelcome jolt of awareness through him, and he had to resist the urge to reach out and pull her back against him.

Damn traitorous body.

He needed to put some clothes on.

He shoved the door shut and stalked toward his bathroom. “Give me a minute.”

He made it to the sink and gripped the cool porcelain with his left hand, staring at his haggard reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes in a pale, unshaven face stared back at him. The beard that had grown out in the last three months looked like it belonged to a man who’d given up on everything.

He looked like hell.

Felt like it, too.

With a shaking hand, he turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face, trying to shock his system into sobriety. It helped marginally. At least the room stopped spinning. He gritted his teeth against the pounding in his skull and fumbled for the bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet, dry-swallowing three pills. He grabbed his toothbrush and hurriedly scrubbed away the foul taste of stale alcohol. He ran his hand through his tousled hair, trying to tame the unruly waves into some semblance of order. It was a losing battle. With a sigh, he pulled on a wrinkled t-shirt from the hamper, sniffing it first to make sure it didn’t stink, and then fished his prosthetic arm out from under a pile of dirty clothes.

How it got there, he had no idea, but he figured the people at QuenTech Bionics would be horrified by his treatment of their thirty-thousand-dollar prototype. Hell, if they knew, they’d definitely yank him from the beta test.

He jammed the prosthetic into place on his right arm and fumbled with the attachments, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. Finally, he secured it and flexed the artificial hand, watching the sleek metal fingers curl into a fist. The movement was smooth and effortless, a far cry from the rigid, useless plastic of his old prostheses.

At least this part of him was still functioning properly.

Squaring his shoulders, he limped back out to the living room to face Izzy, his movements stiff and halting. She was perched on the edge of his couch, her posture tense and her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the disarray—the empty bottles, the overturned lamp. Evidence of just how far he’d fallen.

Dammit. He shouldn’t have let her in.

“Sorry about the mess.” He subtly kicked an empty bottle out of his path as he limped his way over to her. He sank onto the opposite end of the couch, leaving a vast gulf of space between them.

“Are you okay?” she asked with what appeared to be genuine concern. “What happened to your leg?”

He waved away her questions. “Old injury acting up. I’m fine.” He fixed her with a level stare, ignoring the way his pulse jumped at having her this close after so long. He could smell her perfume, warm and subtly floral, and he wanted to breathe it in.

And that pissed him off.

“Let’s not do the small talk thing. Why are you here, Izzy? What do you want from me?”

She took a deep breath as if steeling herself. “I need your help. Or, more specifically, I need Redwood Coast Rescue’s help.”

“You seriously think I’d let you anywhere near my team after what happened?”

She flinched at the bitterness in his tone but forged ahead. “I know I’m the last person you want to see right now. Or… ever. And I wouldn’t have come if I had any other choice, so please, just hear me out. There are kids’ lives at stake.”

He pictured Aiden Ellison’s grinning face on the missing poster—his sandy blond hair and blue eyes so alive with mischief. Then, the mental image morphed into the dead, staring eyes and blue lips of the boy they’d found yesterday—the boy they were too late to save.

The memory stole his breath, and for a horrifying moment, he thought he might throw up. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out, and suddenly, desperately wished he had another bottle of whiskey to wash away the image.

Kids’ lives at stake.

Goddammit. He couldn’t turn his back on kids in danger. Not when there was even a slim chance he could help. He knew he’d never be able to live with himself if he did.

And, of course, Izzy knew that, too. So not only was she a liar, she was also a manipulative bitch.

He released a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, waiting until he was sure he wouldn’t puke the moment he opened his mouth.

Fucking hangovers.

Finally, he opened his eyes and studied her. She looked so earnest, but he knew he couldn’t trust that.

“I’m listening. You’ve got five minutes to convince me why I should let you anywhere near my team.”

Izzy visibly exhaled, her shoulders slumping slightly in relief. “Thank you. I know I don’t deserve your trust, but I promise this isn’t some ploy or manipulation.”

He didn’t fully believe that, but he waved a hand for her to continue. “Four and a half minutes now.”

She leaned forward, her amber eyes serious. “Two kids have gone missing. Grace and Noah Holt, ages eighteen and twelve. They drove here yesterday and checked in to the Whispering Pines resort, but this morning, their mom found the cabin empty. The lights were on, the door was wide open, and all their luggage was still inside.”

Rylan frowned. “Hang on. Their mom let a seventeen-year-old?—”

“Eighteen.”

He continued like she hadn’t spoken. “—take a twelve-year-old on a solo trip out here? From where?”

“Sacramento.”

“That’s a six-hour drive. Doesn’t that seem a bit odd to you?”

“I know how it sounds, but Grace is more responsible than your average teenager, and their mom, Monica, was right behind them. She had to wrap up a few things in the city first.” She pulled out her phone and opened the photo app, turning the screen so he could see. “This is them. Grace and Noah.”

He studied the smiling faces— a pretty teenage girl with streaky blond hair and warm brown eyes and an impish-looking boy with a mop of sandy hair.

Shit. That boy looked enough like Aiden Ellison that they could be related.

His chest tightened.

Then he noticed the other two people in the picture. One looked like an older version of the girl. She had to be their mother. The other was Izzy.

His gaze snapped up. “You know this family personally.” It wasn’t a question.

Izzy nodded and pocketed her phone. “Monica is a good friend of mine. We worked together at The Grove when I was in high school, and Monica was in college. This is a good family. I mean, their dad’s a deadbeat, but he’s out of the picture. And Monica’s a very loving, attentive mother. She’d do anything for her kids.”

Rylan pressed his lips into a thin line as he processed this information, trying to ignore the dull throb of pain still pulsing through his knee and the roiling in his stomach. “So let me get this straight. Your college friend let her two kids drive up here alone to a remote cabin, and now they’re missing. And you want my team to drop everything and go look for them, even though it’s not even clear yet if they’re actually in any danger.”

“You don’t understand. Grace and Noah... they’re good kids. Responsible. Grace basically raised Noah on her own while Monica worked two jobs to keep a roof over their heads. There’s no way they would have just taken off without telling anyone or left the cabin wide open like that. Something is wrong. Monica is terrified.”

“Then why hasn’t she called the police?”

Izzy exhaled sharply, frustration bleeding into her tone. “She refused to. And, no, before you ask, I don’t know why.”

Rylan rubbed a hand over his face. “You need to take this to Ash.”

She winced at the mention of her former boss. “Sheriff Rawlings won’t listen to me. Just like you’re not.” She stood, her shoulders back, chin held high as she turned for the door. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”

Rylan’s hand shot out before he could think better of it, his fingers wrapping around her wrist to halt her retreat. Her pulse jumped beneath his fingertips, and he felt an answering tug low in his gut.

Damn. He shouldn’t be touching her.

He released her abruptly. “You’re not a cop anymore, Izzy.”

She turned back to face him, her eyes flashing with a quick flame of temper. “No, I’m not a cop, but I know what I’m doing, and Monica trusts me.”

“Trusts you?” Rylan let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because you’ve proven yourself so damn trustworthy.”

That hit its mark. Her expression faltered for the briefest moment, but she quickly recovered, her gaze hardening again. “Look, I know I messed up?—”

“Messed up? You didn’t just fucking ‘mess up.’ You betrayed us. You betrayed me and put my sister’s life in danger.” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “You put all of us in danger. The team isn’t going to be champing at the bit to help you.”

Izzy flinched, but she didn’t back down. The woman didn’t know how to. It was one of the things he liked?—

But he didn’t like her. Not anymore.

“Which is why I need you to talk to them about it,” she said. “It will go over better coming from you.”

When he didn’t respond, she pressed on.

“Ry, please. I know what I did. And I know what it cost. But this isn’t about us. It’s about Grace and Noah. They’re out there somewhere, maybe lost, possibly in danger, and they need all the help they can get. You think I’m happy about standing here, begging for your help right now? I wouldn’t be here if I had any other options.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything more. The old attraction simmered beneath the surface, just as hot and dangerous as the anger. He hated that it was still there. Hated that she could still get to him. Everything in him wanted to tell her to go to hell, that she’d burned this bridge and had no right to ask him for a damn thing.

But she wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t about them.

Rylan clenched his jaw, staring at her, searching her face for any sign that she was the woman he used to think she was. The woman who, at one point, he thought he could have something real with. The woman he’d once wanted to explore a future with.

He saw too much of that woman now. More than he wanted to. It would be easier to keep her at a distance if he could just see her as the manipulative liar he had convinced himself she was. But the Izzy he’d started falling for— the fierce, determined woman who cared too much—was still there. He saw nothing but sincerity and desperation in her eyes now, the same eyes that used to look at him with such warmth and affection. The same eyes that had once made his heart race and his blood heat. Now, they just made his chest ache with the echo of what could have been.

Goddammit. He was going to regret this.

With a muttered curse, he relented. “I’ll talk to the team. See if they’re willing to help.”

They would be. Despite his words to the contrary, there was no way Zak and the others wouldn’t turn the mountain upside down for a pair of lost kids.

Izzy blinked at him, her expression cycling through surprise, relief, and then landing on gratitude. She opened her mouth as if to thank him, but he cut her off with a sharp gesture.

“Don’t. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for those kids.” He pushed himself to his feet, unable to entirely hide the grimace of pain as he put weight on his bad knee. “Give me an hour to get myself together and talk to the guys. I’ll meet you at Whispering Pines.”