006

ZARA

Ramsey blinks at me very slowly. Then one corner of his mouth lifts, and my heart bangs harder against my ribs. This is so wrong. I shouldn't find him sexy right now. I absolutely should not—

"Answer me!" I growl, and he tsks.

"That was adorable. Did you just growl at me, Redbird?" he practically purrs, and my knees weaken.

I have to physically force my knees to stay upright.

Fucking focus, Zara!

"Is this a joke to you?" I demand, and his eyelids lower, his face going blank.

"No."

He takes a step towards me, and I jab the gun at the air in his direction. My breath leaves me in short puffs as blood rushes into my face.

"You still haven't answered—"

"But I did. No."

I'm momentarily taken aback by his blunt response, my grip on the gun slackens for a second.

I want to believe him. I really do. But I can't get over the feeling that something is off.

"Put the gun down, sweetheart. Your hands are shaking," he says with a straight face. “Calm down.”

Fury rushes through my veins. I hate how gently he says those words.

"Stop talking to me like I’m a child," I snap. "You have a ledger full of names, you've admitted to killing people, and you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with my mother's death?"

Ramsey keeps his hands raised. His eyes flick briefly towards the gun before returning to my face.

"I understand why you're frightened. But I need you to take your finger off the trigger."

"I'm not frightened of you!"

"I know."

"You don't know anything!" My voice cracks.

I hate that too. Ramsey takes another step towards me, slowly enough that I see him move but not slowly enough for my nerves to settle.

"Stay there!" I shout, jerking the gun towards him.

Everything happens at once. My finger tightens. A deafening crack explodes through the bedroom.

The gun kicks in my hands.

Ramsey's body jerks.

For a second, I don't understand what I've done. There's a terrible ringing in my ears, and I can see a small hole appearing in his dark sweater, just below his collarbone. Then blood spreads across the fabric.

Oh, god.

The gun slips from my fingers and hits the carpet.

He looks down at his chest, and I stare at the blood.

"No." My voice comes out as a whisper. “No, no, no. Ramsey?"

Before I can move, something tears through my chest. The pain is so sudden and vicious that I scream.

It feels as though the bullet has gone through me instead. A burning pressure spreads beneath my collarbone, followed by a horrible twisting sensation deep inside my ribs.

I clutch my chest, my knees buckling. I hit the floor before he reaches me, gasping as another wave of pain rips through my body.

I can't fucking breathe.

"I'm sorry," I choke out. "Oh, no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

Ramsey drops to one knee in front of me. Blood stains his sweater, and I start crying harder when I see it.

His hands close around my shoulders. “I know. I need you to breathe."

But I can't. Every breath hurts. I look at his chest again, and my stomach turns.

A small metallic sound reaches my ears.

I watch in disbelief as the bullet pushes out of the wound, tears through the bloody fabric, and falls onto the carpet between us.

It bounces once. Then rolls beneath the desk. The hole in Ramsey's chest closes. Just like that. Skin draws together beneath the torn shirt, leaving nothing behind except blood.

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Ramsey follows my gaze briefly. Then his attention returns to me.

"It's healed."

I shake my head, my eyes wide. And that’s when the pain grows worse.

A horrible pressure builds beneath my ribs, spreading into my stomach and down my spine. My whole body starts trembling.

"Ramsey," I whimper.

He presses a hand against his own chest, frowning, then he looks at me sharply.

"Where does it hurt?"

I try to answer. Another wave of pain hits me, and I fold forward with a cry. Ramsey catches me before my forehead strikes the floor.

"Fuck." He pulls me against him, and I grab his shirt, desperate to get closer.

"Please," I gasp.

He slides one arm beneath my knees and lifts me from the floor. I cling to him, pressing my face against his neck.

Ramsey swears under his breath. He carries me the few steps to his desk and carefully settles me on its edge. Then he steps between my knees and gathers me against him. I wrap my arms around his shoulders immediately.

Even that isn't enough.

My body keeps trying to get closer, as though there's still some terrible distance between us despite the fact that I'm practically sitting in his arms. I bury my face in his throat, and his scent sinks into my nostrils, the pain fading.

He draws me closer, one arm firm around my waist while his other hand cups the back of my head. I feel his heartbeat beneath my cheek.

I shot him. And somehow, I'm the one falling apart.

Slowly, I lift my head. Ramsey is watching me. His face has lost every trace of amusement.

"Are you still hurting?" he asks.

I shake my head weakly and look down at the blood stain on his sweater.

His thumb moves across my back. “I know you didn't mean to.”

"I could have killed you."

"Not even in your wildest dreams, Redbird.”

I look at him helplessly. He doesn't explain. Instead, he studies my face, his gaze lingering on my eyes and the tears drying against my cheeks.

Then he brushes a damp strand of hair away from my forehead. His fingers are warm. I lean into the touch helplessly.

Ramsey's expression softens. For a while, neither of us speaks. The bedroom is painfully quiet. Somewhere outside, rain taps against the windows, and I can hear the faint ticking of the clock on his bedside table.

I don't think I'll ever forget the sound of that gun. Or the way his body jerked.

"Zara."

I look up. Ramsey brushes another strand of hair behind my ear.

"I didn’t want you to find out like this, but there’s something you need to know.”

My stomach tightens. “Know what?"

He watches me for a moment, and the grave look in his eyes makes me wish I hadn't asked.

"Your mother didn't die naturally."

My breath hitches. For several seconds, I simply stare at him.

"What?"

"Melissa was murdered."

My lips part. I hear him. I understand the words individually. But together, they don't make sense.

Mum was sick. That's what they told me. She collapsed at home. Someone found her. By the time help arrived, it was too late.

I remember standing beside her coffin, wondering whether she'd been frightened when she realized something was wrong. I remember wishing I'd called her back. And now Ramsey is telling me—

"No." It comes out quietly.

Ramsey's hand settles against my cheek.

"I'm sorry."

I shake my head. “No, she wasn't."

My mind goes strangely blank. For a moment, all I can think about is the last photograph Mum sent me. She was standing in her garden, holding an enormous tomato and grinning at the camera.

She'd written, ‘Look what your mother grew.'

"She was murdered?" I whisper.

"Yes."

I gape at him, barely breathing.

"Who?"

"We're still trying to establish that."

I barely hear him. My mother was murdered. Someone went into her house and killed her. Someone hurt her while I was hundreds of miles away, ignoring her calls and promising myself I'd speak to her tomorrow.

My eyes fill again, but the tears don't fall. Ramsey's fingers move gently against my cheek.

"There's something else."

I don't answer. He waits until my eyes return to his.

"Melissa wasn't the only one."

My chest starts heaving. “What do you mean?"

His expression tightens. “Seven women connected to Melissa have been murdered in the past week."

I don't know who he's talking about.

"What?" I croak.

His hand settles against the back of my neck.

"I believe you might be hunted next.”