by Rose, Callie
Sweet Retribution
Ruthless Games #2
Callie Rose
Copyright © 2020 by Callie Rose
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
* * *
For updates on my upcoming releases and promotions, sign up for my reader newsletter! I promise not to bite (or spam you).
CALLIE ROSE NEWSLETTER
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Books by Callie Rose
Chapter 1
Dead eyes.
Wide open and lifeless, staring endlessly without seeing anything.
That’s the first thing I see when I blink my own eyes open. The sunlight seems too bright, and my eyelids scratch against my eyes as if there are a million grains of sand trapped behind them. A dull, throbbing ache fills my head, and I can’t keep my lids open for more than a second.
Blackness tugs at me, and part of me wants to sink back down into its depths.
It’s peaceful there.
Quiet.
Nothing hurts.
But I can’t, and there’s a reason I can’t. Something I need to see or do. Something important.
I can’t remember what it is. I don’t know where I am, or why dead eyes stare at me from just a few inches in front of my face.
Blink.
The scratch of my eyelids makes me wince, and I try to keep my eyes open longer this time, but a heavy weight tugs them closed.
Blink.
The eyes in front of me never blink. I can’t keep my eyes open, and those will never close again.
Blink.
The blackness in my head is fading away, consciousness slowly returning. Memories start to filter through my head, and with each flashing image that plays in my mind’s eye, my heartbeat begins to pound harder and harder.
My abduction. My rescue. Marcus, Theo, and Ryland explaining to me that they’re part of a deadly game.
We left the safe house. We were going to go somewhere else. And then…
A car collided with ours. They boxed us in, shooting at us—Dominic Roth and Carson Purcell. We split up, Theo and Ryland staying behind and Marcus pulling me through the network of warehouses at a dead sprint.
Marcus.
Oh god. Marcus.
We were cornered by Carson. He hunted us down and had a gun trained on Marcus. I tried to move, tried to stop it, to do something… but Marcus didn’t let me.
My body jerks as if it can still feel the impact of the three bullets as they hit his body. His arms were wrapped so tightly around me that I could feel each one hit him.
Then we fell.
Blood. There was so much blood.
Fear floods me like a shot of adrenaline, forcing my mind fully awake before it’s ready. My eyelids fly open again, and it feels like shards of glass prick my eyeballs as too much light fills my vision. I don’t let them close though, sucking in a gasping breath as I refocus on the dead eyes in front of me, forcing myself to really look at them.
Blue.
Just blue.
A sort of slate blue, darkened by death.
No brown anywhere. Both irises are the same color, unlike the earth and air of Marcus’s right eye.
It’s not him.
Relief makes my limbs feel cool and tingly, and I draw in another shaking breath. Now that I’ve been shocked awake, I feel like I might vomit at any second. My head hurts so bad that it’s hard to see—a strange halo of light seems to surround everything I look at, and when I roll over onto my side, the world spins around me.
The man lying beside me has short ash-brown hair. His slightly parted lips reveal a small gap between his front teeth, which are stained red with blood.
Carson.
He’s… dead?
I force myself to sit up, but the second I’m upright, my body rebels. I shift onto my hand and knees, balanced precariously as I retch painfully. I’m covered in blood, and the smell of it is overtaking my senses, coppery and sharp. I’ve been lying in a pool of it, and it soaks my clothes and sticks to my skin, matting my hair as it thickens and dries.
“Marcus…”
My voice is a low rasp, and speaking brings on another bout of retching. I almost collapse face-first on the ground as my left arm threatens to give out. The stump on my right arm aches, as if the trauma to the rest of my body has exacerbated old wounds.
Where is Marcus? The last thing I remember is his arms around me, the two of us going down together, the heavy weight of his body on top of mine.
The relief that flooded me when I realized the body in front of me wasn’t Marcus’s is beginning to ebb, replaced by a growing panic. Where is he?
“Marcus.”
It’s meant to be a shout, but it’s barely more than a whisper. I cast my gaze around, trying to ignore the way streaks of light fill my vision. My muscles are shaking, and despite the warmth of the sunlight streaming down on me, my body is cold.
Carson is sprawled on the ground beside me. He’s lying on his stomach, one hand still clutching the gun he aimed at us earlier. His limbs are spread out awkwardly, reminding me of the picture he showed me when he and Dominic had me tied to a chair in that abandoned house they brought me to.
The picture of Devin Brooks. The man Marcus killed the night I was shot two and a half years ago.
“Marcus!”
This time, the word bursts out of me on a harsh cry, and I surge to my feet, stumbling several steps like I’m drunk. I wrap my arm around my stomach, which is pitching and heaving again. If there was anything inside it, I would’ve barfed it all up already.
My knees shake—my entire body shakes—but I stay upright, turning to look down at the place where I was just lying.
There’s so much fucking blood. It’s spread over the ground like some kind of macabre painting, dark red and shiny. I can see the spot where my body fell, where the blood couldn’t pool as deeply.
But I don’t see Marcus.
A thick red smear leads away from the bloody patch of ground, and my gaze follows it, tracing its path as it disappears around the corner of a building.
Oh, fuck.
Did he crawl away?
I want to run, to race around the corner of the building, but all I can manage is a slow, uneven shuffle. I catch the side of the large warehouse with my hand, steadying myself as I round the corner.
The trail of blood continues for several yards, growing a little more faint as it goes. Then it disappears.
“Marcus!”
My yell nearly splits my head open, but I don’t care. I don’t care that I’m not sure what time it is, that the game might not be over yet, that Dominic could
still be out there, hunting us. I don’t care that I’m so lightheaded I feel dizzy, or that my legs feel like they might give out at any moment.
All I care about is finding Marcus.
Fixing him.
Helping him.
He got shot three times; I’m sure of it. I felt the impact of every single one, and I felt his blood, warm and wet on my back. Some of the blood pooling on the ground behind me might be Carson’s, but a lot of it is Marcus’s.
And if he’s lost that much blood…
Goddammit. Where the fuck is he?
Worry chews at my stomach like a dog with a bone as I stagger past the place where the trail of blood dies out. I reach another wide cement pathway between buildings and look left and right. But there’s nothing.
No sign of Marcus. No sign of anyone.
My heart lurches in my chest. Using the wall for support, I turn around and retrace my steps, heading back to the place where Carson’s body lies. My footsteps grow a little smoother, my muscles gaining strength as adrenaline overrides all the other signals flowing through my body.
When I round the corner and take in the scene before me, the gruesomeness of it hits me all over again. My entire body rebels at the sight and smell of the blood, but I force myself to walk over to Carson and kneel beside him.
He’s been shot in the head.
I missed the bullet wound at first because it’s just behind his temple, hidden in his hair. But I can see it now, the dark round hole where the bullet entered. He probably died instantly.
Did Marcus shoot him? How? When? And where the fuck did he go after he did it?
My fingers tremble as I extend a hand toward the corpse in front of me.
I fucking hated Carson Purcell. He abducted me and tried to use me as bait to lure out three men I care about, to use me like a pawn in this dangerous game. I’m not all that sorry he’s gone, but right now, I wish I could bring him back to life for just a minute so he could tell me what happened.
What happened between the moment when blackness overtook me and now?
I hit my head when I went down. I remember the sharp pain in my temple, the impact of my skull smacking against the ground. The spot where it hit still hurts like a son of a bitch, pounding out a heavy rhythm like it’s got its own heartbeat.
But I can’t remember any of the shit that happened after we fell. Not even vague flashes.
I brush my fingertips over Carson’s face, cringing at the unnaturally lax feel of his skin. He’s cool to the touch, which makes me think he must’ve been shot a while ago. More than an hour maybe? Fuck, I don’t know. I’m not a forensics expert.
Pulling my hand away, I dig into my back pocket for my phone. It’s streaked with blood, and I grimace as I press a button on the side to illuminate the screen.
Eleven thirty-three.
The game ends in thirty minutes. It’s not over yet.
A fresh wave of fear surges through me, and I stumble to my feet again. If the game isn’t done, that means Marcus is still vulnerable. If he’s out there somewhere, hurt and bleeding, he’ll be an easy target for Dominic or any one of the other players to take down.
And what about Theo and Ryland? Where are they? Are they alive?
I have Theo’s number in my phone. He gave it to me the night he drove me home from Marcus’s house. With my stomach twisting itself into knots, I pull up his contact, but my thumb hovers over the screen.
Should I call him? What if he and Ryland are hiding out somewhere, and the noise of his phone draws attention to them? Even if he’s got it on silent, the vibration could be enough to put a spotlight on him.
Should I text? Is that better?
Before my throbbing brain has time to sort through the random panicked thoughts flitting through my head, a voice calls out from behind me.
“Ayla!”
My heart jumps in my chest, crashing against my ribs as I shove the phone back in my pocket and whirl around. The move is too fast, my muscles too uncoordinated, and I almost just keep twirling like a ballerina doing a pirouette. But then my gaze locks on the face of the man who called my name, and for the first time since I woke up, everything seems to settle around me.
The world stops spinning as I stare into a pair of blue-green eyes.
Theo.
Ryland is behind him, and the two of them break into a run as soon as our eyes meet, sprinting toward me as I stagger toward them.
Theo’s body hits mine so hard it makes stars dance in my vision and fresh pain explode in my head, but I hardly even notice. My arm goes around him, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back as I cling to him like a fucking life preserver.
His heart beats against my cheek as he crushes me to him in a fierce hug, and it occurs to me vaguely that I’m getting blood all over him. But I don’t fucking care, and apparently, neither does he.
“Fuck, Rose. Jesus, Fuck.” His voice is rough. “What happened to you?”
“Carson.”
The word scrapes over my vocal chords. Anger burns in my belly, I’m filled with a sudden wild impulse to run back to his body and kick his corpse until his ribs break. He might be dead, but that doesn’t undo what he did when he was alive. And I want to kill him all over again for it.
“Cars—” Theo’s voice breaks off as his body stiffens in my hold. I have a feeling he just looked over my shoulder and caught sight of the dead man on the ground. “Oh, fuck.”
“Ayla, what happened?”
Ryland’s voice is hard, and when Theo releases me from his hold, the man with dark hair and hazel eyes takes hold of my shoulders, lowering his head to meet my gaze. The tattoos creeping up his neck look more vivid than usual with the strange halo effect that still colors my vision.
I swallow. “Carson chased me and Marcus down. I thought we lost him, but he found us. We stopped for a second, just a second, and when we stepped out, he was there with a gun. He…” The words stick in my throat, mixing with the bile that’s rising into my mouth. “He shot Marcus.”
Ryland’s eyes widen, his tan skin paling. His head turns quickly as he looks at the corpse lying a few yards away, like he’s afraid he might’ve been wrong about who it belongs to. His nostrils flare, and he turns back to me, his grip on my shoulders tightening.
“Ayla, where’s Marcus?” he demands gruffly.
A hollow pit opens up in my stomach, making me feel empty and insubstantial. I reach up to grip his forearm as I shake my head.
“I… I don’t know.”
Chapter 2
My answer hangs in the air between us for a long moment, seeming to grow heavier with every second that passes.
“Is he with you? Did he find you?” I ask desperately when neither of the men speak, even though I’m sure I already know the answer. I didn’t see Marcus standing with them when they walked up, and if he’d somehow managed to make his way to them, why would they be asking me if I know where he is?
Ryland shakes his head, his eyes shuttering as his jaw sets. “No. He didn’t.”
Something about the change in his expression and the tense lines of his face makes fear creep through my veins. It’s like he’s bracing himself. Hardening himself. Putting a layer of armor around his heart so that pain can’t penetrate it.
I squeeze his forearm tighter, looking from him to Theo and back. “Then where is he? I woke up and he was gone. He was just… gone. I can’t find him, and I don’t know who killed Carson, and—”
My tongue feels like it’s growing thicker. It’s too slow and unwieldy, making it hard to form all the words that want to spew out of my mouth. But it hardly matters anyway. It won’t make any difference if I convince Ryland that Marcus should be here. He’s not, and that won’t change no matter what any of us believe. I can’t argue my way out of this awful, basic fact.
I stop talking and drag in a breath, trying to refocus my thoughts. When I speak again, I force the words to come out slowly and evenly.
“I hit my head and b
lacked out. When I woke up, Carson was lying next to me, dead. And Marcus was gone. He was shot three times before we both went down. He was bleeding. A lot.” My throat tightens. “Maybe he could’ve regained consciousness and shot Carson somehow. But I don’t think he could’ve walked away. I don’t see how.”
Ryland’s face is still that same taut mask, as if he’s shoving down every emotion he’s ever had so he can process all of this rationally.
I wish I could do that. I wish I could fucking think straight, but the only thought that keeps running through my head is, where is he? Where is he? Where is he?
“Fuck,” Theo mutters, and I try not to let myself hear the heartbreak in his voice.
I glance between the two of them again, my stomach knotting itself into a hard lump. “What? Where do you think he is?”
“It’s not the first time someone has gone missing in the game.” Theo shakes his head. “When Xavier and Jack were killed, their bodies were never found. It makes cleanup easier and keeps evidence from leading back to any of us, or to Luca. There’s no rule that says you have to leave a body where it falls.”
Leave a body where it falls.
His words tear through my heart like a rusty knife, and I step back, shrugging out of Ryland’s grip. I want him to wrap his arms around me the way Theo did, to envelop me in his embrace and block out the world—but I don’t think I can handle being touched right now.
My skin hurts, as if it’s shrinking around my bones. As if I’m about to collapse down into nothingness like a black hole.
“You think he’s dead.”
