Page 37 of Ruthless Savior
A part of myself that I didn’t know existed until now.
"You tortured him."
"Yes." No hesitation. No attempt to soften it. "Until he gave me the answers I wanted, and then for a little while after. So he could understand the pain and fear he inflicted on others. So he could experience it, too."
I sink into one of the leather chairs facing the fireplace, my legs suddenly unable to hold me. "And then you killed him."
"Yes." Again, there’s no hesitation in his voice. He’s telling me what I said I wanted to hear now, whether I like it or not.
"Why are you telling me this?" My voice sounds strange, distant. "You obviously didn't want me to know."
He raises an eyebrow and tosses the rest of his whiskey back. "Because you followed me. Because you pushed." He shrugs, and his eyes are still hard. “You thought you could handle it. You said you wanted to know. So I told you. Neil Sawyer is no longer a problem for anyone.”
I swallow hard, unable to speak. Ronan pours himself another glass of whiskey and looks at me appraisingly.
“The look on your face right now tells me you're having some very complicated feelings about what I've just told you."
He's right, and I hate that he can read me so easily. I should be disgusted. I should be terrified. Instead, I'm thinking about Neil Sawyer's hands on me, the way he looked at me like I wasnothing more than merchandise. And now he's dead, killed by the man in front of me because he dared to touch me. Because he hurt me and manipulated me.
"You did it for me," I whisper, and it comes out more breathless than I intended.
Something flickers in Ronan's eyes. "I did it because men like him don't get to destroy women like you and walk away from it."
"But you did it for me."
"Leila—" He takes another drink. “Drop it. You should go to bed.”
"You tortured and killed a man because he hurt me." My voice sounds far away. “You?—”
"Yes," he says, and his voice is rough now, strained. "And if you have any sense at all, you'll be terrified by that fact."
But I'm not terrified. I should be, but I'm not. Instead, I'm looking at this dangerous, beautiful man who got blood on his hands to make sure the man who violated me paid for it, and I feel something dark and warm unfurling in my chest.
"I should be," I admit. "But I'm not."
He stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. Then he straightens abruptly, putting distance between us as he walks to the shelves on the other side of the room.
“This isn’t a conversation we should be having. You should go to bed.”
My jaw tightens. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
"Go to bed, Leila. We'll pretend this conversation never happened."
I want to argue, want to push him further, but something in his posture tells me I've gotten all I'm going to get from him tonight. So I stand, finally, on shaky legs and head for the door, pausing only when I reach it.
"Thank you," I say quietly, my heart still beating too fast, loudly enough that I think he ought to be able to hear it in the quiet of the room.
He doesn't turn around. "For what?"
"For making him pay."
Ronan says nothing else. I step out of the study, into the hallway, and let out a long breath.
I should feel horror, fear, shock. But instead, all I feel is relief that the man who hurt me is gone. That he won’t take advantage of or hurt anyone else.
And I feel something else, too—something that makes me want to step back into that room, cross the distance between Ronan and me, and show him just how unafraid I am of what he did, how glad I am that he did it.
But instead, I go upstairs.
