Ryder

thirty eight

--right there. He's right there looking at you from a mirror you can't see. He's standing right there. He sees you. There's blood, so much blood, and you're trapped. Hands around your neck, gripping--gripping tight. And bruises. So, so many--

I gasped violently and sat upright, taking shallow breaths as my hands fluttered around my neck, and my skin, trying to push the wayward, haunting grip away. But there wasn't anything holding onto me in the dark. Nothing at all.

I was all alone here, in this room--in Ryder's guest room.

"Fuck," I panted, swallowed, and scurried back till my back hit the headboard. "F-Fuck."

The darkness around me was too overwhelming. It was going to kill me, I knew it was, so I reached out with flailing hands and switched on the side lamp after a few feeble and desperate attempts.

The faint glow was enough to convince me that there was no one else here in the room with me. Of course, there wasn't. That didn't mean I couldn't still feel the cold harsh fingers wrapping around my throat and squeezing with an intent so deadly--like someone wanted me dead.

Santiago. Micheal. The people in white coats who'd locked me in that underground cellar. One of them--all of them--wanted me gone.

It was too much, too fast, too sudden.

I inhaled fast and then inhaled again. I had fallen asleep somehow. I didn't know how I'd fallen asleep and I didn't know how I'd fallen asleep in the same pale pink dress that I'd worn to that diner--inside that restroom where Michael had touched it, placed his hands on it, grasped it in his clutches and tried to--

"Michael," I whispered, then whispered and whispered and whispered until that was the only name I could think of and make sense of. MichaelMichaelMichael. He was here.

I gripped onto my pulled-up knees, dug my nails into them, and pressed my face between them, a whimper escaping my lips because he was here,  wasn't he? He was here. And Alyssa had seen it all.

Alyssa was crying.

Alyssa had lost it all, all her happiness in just a handful of seconds. Without any warning, without anything; she'd just been there and then she'd lost everything.

When I could absolutely not stay in that bed a second longer, when it felt like even the soft bedding was scratching every bare inch of my skin, when it felt like I was going to bleed dry any second now, I scrambled up from the bed, taking in stuttering breaths, and headed for the closed bedroom door.

The hallway outside was cold and dark and empty. Where's Ryder? I frantically looked around as if I expected to see him right at the corner, near the grand staircase, anywhere. The only source of light was the sliver of moonlight peeking from the slightly ajar balcony doors, cascading across the hallway almost hauntingly.

I continued walking, wincing as bare feet met the cool floor, I didn't want to go downstairs but I wished desperately to find warmth--some warmth--or maybe just Ryder.

You can't tell him that, a sad, incredibly sad voice whispered in my ears, in my head--my own inner voice, you can't tell him how you feel anymore, can you? He hates you, Alice. You're exactly what he'd thought of you at first.

Stupid. A fool. And he'd said it--what had he said that night when I'd gotten drunk and vomited outside his car? You just need some goddamn alcohol and you'd do anything anyone says.

"Ryder," I whispered under my breath but I didn't look around searching for him this time. Maybe he wasn't even here in the penthouse anymore. I'd seen him walk away from me. I'd heard him slam one of the doors on me. I'd heard him unleashing all his trapped, restrained fury out in that room--I'd heard the loud thuds, shatters, glass breaking and I'd been scared but unable to move from that couch. And still, I thought he'd be here? For me?