Reunited with Ryker Thorne

My brain screams that this absolutely cannot be happening. Not right here. Not right now.

Not when I am finally breaking free from the suffocating, bloody chains Maddox kept me in for three agonizing years. Not when I am just now starting to remember what it feels like to draw a full breath of air into my lungs without the paralyzing fear of a fist following it.

Yet, there he stands, a towering, impossible anchor right in the dead center of the crowded, chaotic JFK terminal.

Ryker Thorne.

The exact man I have desperately spent the last two years trying to completely and permanently erase from my ruined memory. The man who taught me what heartbreak was long before Maddox ever taught me what physical agony was.

*Wow. He is still so incredibly, devastatingly hot,* a voice suddenly echoes in the deepest, darkest corner of my mind.

I nearly physically stumble at the sound. It is Nyxia, my inner wolf. She has been severely traumatized, beaten down, and utterly silent for so long that I genuinely thought Maddox had somehow killed her inside me. I hadn't heard a single peep from her in months. And yet, here she is, suddenly awakening from her trauma-induced coma just to vividly remark on the sheer physical presence of the man standing fifty feet away.

I immediately and violently shove her back down into the mental dark. *Shut up,* I snap at her, my panic spiking. *That is not what matters. We need to stay far, far away from him.*

I force my trembling legs to lock into place, desperately wanting to turn around, run into the nearest airport bathroom, and lock myself in a stall until he leaves. I want to text Kaelen and scream at him for not being here.

But I am completely frozen, my fingers gripping the plastic handle of my pathetic little suitcase so hard my knuckles turn bone-white. I let myself actually look at him. Really look at him.

He is actively scanning the moving crowd, his dark, intense eyes sweeping over the sea of exhausted travelers. He is taller than the memories I kept locked away, his shoulders significantly broader, radiating a heavy, commanding alpha presence that immediately makes the rushing humans unknowingly part around him. His dark hair is no longer the neat, sensible cut he used to wear; it is longer, wilder, falling slightly over his forehead in a way that screams of a man who no longer cares about strict rules.

Then, the inevitable happens. His head turns, and those dark eyes I once knew better than my own reflection lock directly onto mine.

The chaotic, deafening noise of the entire world abruptly stops.

The overlapping announcements over the PA system, the squeaking wheels of luggage carts, the loud chatter of reunited families—it all vanishes into a dead, ringing vacuum. For one single, suspended heartbeat, the last five years of absolute hell simply do not exist. We are twenty-five again, and he is looking at me like I am the center of his gravity.

But the illusion shatters as quickly as it forms. Reality comes crashing back down on my battered shoulders.

He immediately starts walking straight toward me. With every step he takes, I can physically feel his sharp gaze systematically cataloging every single thing that is wrong with me. He is a predator assessing a deeply wounded prey. His eyes flick to my sunken posture, the way my shoulders are instinctively hunched inward to protect my throat and chest. He tracks the new, visible, jagged scar cutting across my collarbone that my oversized sweater doesn't completely hide. He takes in the dark, bruised bags under my eyes and the hollowed-out, terrified ghost of the vibrant, overly optimistic woman I used to be.

He stops just three feet away. The sheer heat radiating off his large body makes me want to simultaneously step backward and collapse.

"Sienna."

The sound of my name falling off his lips sounds exactly like a reverent, disbelieving prayer. His deep, gravelly voice hits me square in the chest, vibrating through my ribs.

I swallow hard around the massive, dry lump of terror in my throat. I somehow manage to choke out a response, desperately striving for any semblance of steadiness in a body that feels like it’s vibrating apart. "Ryker. I wasn't expecting... Kaelen..."

"I told him to go with Brenna," Ryker replies smoothly. His dark eyes are incessantly searching my pale, drawn face, practically burning holes through my skin as he looks for the girl he left behind. "I was free, so I volunteered."

Of course he did. After five entire years of absolute, punishing radio silence, I find myself running straight back into the waiting arms of the very man who first broke my heart into jagged little pieces.

He pauses, the muscle in his tight jaw ticking violently. He shakes his head slightly, his brow furrowing in deep, unsettling concern. "You look... tired."

Calling me *tired* is the absolute understatement of the century. I look exactly like I've been dragged backward through a violent, bloody war. Because I have been. Maddox systematically and ruthlessly destroyed me piece by piece, breaking my bones, my spirit, and my mind until there was nothing left but this flinching, pathetic shell.

But I cannot tell him that. I am absolutely terrified of how easily Ryker used to be able to read my every single emotion. If he looks too closely, he will see the bruises fading on my ribs. He will see the absolute terror swimming in my pupils.

"It's been a long overseas flight," I lie, forcing the words through numb lips. I blame my ghastly, battered appearance on the travel because it is the only shield I have left.

Ryker’s jaw tightens further. He clearly doesn't believe a single word I just said, but mercifully, he doesn't push it here in the middle of the terminal. He steps forward, his large hand reaching out. "Let me take your bag. Let's get you home."

I violently flinch backward the absolute second his hand moves toward me.

It is a pure, unadulterated trauma response. Before my conscious brain can even process that it is just Ryker reaching for my suitcase, my battered nervous system screams *strike*. My shoulders jerk up to my ears, my eyes squeeze shut tight, and I brace my entire body for the agonizing impact of a heavy fist against my skull.

But the blow never comes.

When I peel my eyes open, my heart hammering a frantic, sickening rhythm against my ribs, Ryker is standing perfectly still. His hand is hovering in mid-air, frozen. The look in his dark eyes is one of pure, unadulterated horror. He saw the flinch. He saw the stark, unfiltered terror of a woman who fully expects to be beaten in the middle of a public airport.

A thick, suffocating silence stretches between us. I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

Slowly, carefully, moving with exaggerated slowness as if approaching a feral, cornered animal, he grips the handle of my tiny suitcase. He doesn't say a word about my reaction. He simply turns and begins navigating a path through the dense crowd, implicitly demanding that I follow.

As we walk side by side toward the airport exit, the journey feels like walking through an active minefield. I violently flinch at every single sudden movement in the loud terminal. A businessman rushes past, his shoulder brushing mine, and I nearly bite my tongue in half suppressing a panicked gasp. The sudden, screeching static of the intercom makes my knees buckle for a fraction of a second. I am hyper-aware of Ryker constantly stealing concerned, dark glances at my hunched, broken, highly defensive posture. I am practically trying to fold myself into absolute nothingness, making myself as small and invisible as physically possible. This is exactly how I survived Maddox. You survive by not taking up space. You survive by not drawing attention.

Upon finally reaching the massive concrete parking area, the chilly New York air hits my face, doing absolutely nothing to clear the suffocating panic rising in my throat.

Ryker suddenly stops walking. He turns to fully face me, abandoning the suitcase. He steps into my line of sight, forcing me to look at him.

"Sienna," he asks softly, his voice a low, demanding rumble. "What happened to you?"

The question feels like a physical knife twisting in my gut. I am utterly dreading the horrific truth, terrified that speaking the words out loud will absolutely make me fall apart right here on the dirty concrete. If I start talking, the dam will break, and I will be screaming about the blood, the locked doors, the suffocating white dress, and the heavy fists.

"Nothing," I lie straight to his face, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "I just... I needed to come home."

I can see the vicious war raging behind his dark eyes. Every instinct in his large, imposing frame is screaming at him to push the issue, to rip the truth out of me, to find out exactly who put this sheer terror into my eyes. But he looks at my violently shaking hands, and mercifully, he doesn't push.

Instead, he turns and stops right beside a sleek, incredibly dangerous-looking black motorcycle.

The sight is entirely, fundamentally jarring. I stand there blinking, my exhausted brain struggling to process the massive machine in front of me.

The sensible, clean-cut, utterly predictable Ryker I used to know is completely gone. The boy who drove a safe, reliable four-door sedan and wore pressed button-down shirts has been entirely replaced by a dangerous, rugged-looking man. He is wearing a worn, heavy black leather jacket that fits tight across his broad shoulders, hugging heavily muscled arms that look like they could snap a man's neck. Faded dark jeans mold to thick thighs, ending in scuffed, heavy black combat boots that look perfectly designed for kicking down doors.

He is nothing but sharp edges and dark, lethal shadows now. The air around him practically hums with a dark, rebellious violence.

I desperately want to ask exactly when he traded his safe, quiet life for this blatant, roaring rebellion. I want to know what the hell happened to him in the five years since he walked away from me. But asking any questions means opening heavy, terrifying doors I am absolutely not ready to walk through. If I ask about his life, he will demand answers about mine.

He reaches onto the back of the bike and picks up a heavy, solid black helmet. He steps close to me and holds it out.

"Here."

I reach up to take it. My hands are shaking so violently that I can barely coordinate my fingers. As I grasp the heavy plastic, our fingers briefly, accidentally brush against each other.

A sharp, electric jolt of pure panic shoots straight up my arm and directly into my chest. I jerk my hand back as if I’ve just been burned by a raw flame, nearly dropping the helmet onto the concrete.

I haven't been this physically close to any man in months without extreme, agonizing violence immediately following. My severely battered body has deeply, fundamentally learned that male closeness strictly and exclusively leads to blinding pain. Every single survival instinct in my damaged brain is screaming at me to drop the helmet, turn on my heel, and run sprinting back into the crowded terminal where it is safe.

I force myself to take a ragged, shallow breath. *This is Ryker,* I chant to myself, an absolute desperate mantra in the darkness of my mind. *He may have coldly walked away from me five years ago. He broke my heart. But he never, ever laid a hand on me to hurt me.*

I lift the heavy helmet and slide it over my head. The moment the visor snaps down, I let out a shuddering exhale. The helmet creates a much-needed, welcome physical barrier between me and the rest of the world. It effectively muffles the loud sounds of the parking garage, and more importantly, it perfectly hides the hot, humiliating tears I am desperately fighting to hold back.

Ryker swings his long leg over the narrow seat of the massive bike with practiced, fluid ease. He is completely in his element, handling the heavy machine like it is a natural extension of his own body. He turns the key, and smoothly starts the engine.

The loud, raw, guttural roar of the exhaust rips through the parking garage. The sheer power of the engine vibrates heavily through the soles of my boots. It is terrifying and alive.

He looks back over his leather-clad shoulder, his dark eyes meeting mine through my tinted visor. He raises a thick brow, silently asking if I'm okay to do this.

I nod silently, my throat entirely too tight to speak.

Forcing down the rising, suffocating panic of my severe trauma, I take a step toward the roaring beast. I clumsily lift my boot and swing my leg over the narrow, black leather seat.

The moment my weight settles onto the bike, my breath catches completely.

The seat is incredibly small. There is absolutely no physical way to sit safely behind him without making full, undeniable body contact. I am forced to slide forward. My thighs bracket his thick, muscular hips. My chest is forced to press completely flush against the broad, hard expanse of his back.

Every single muscle in my body locks up in rigid, absolute terror. I am pressed against a man. A large, powerful man. My brain flashes with terrifying images of heavy hands wrapping around my throat, of being slammed violently against a wall, of the metallic taste of my own blood. My breathing turns into shallow, frantic gasps inside the cramped space of the helmet.

"Hold on," Ryker says. His voice is muffled by his own helmet, but the deep, underlying lace of intense concern is unmistakable. He can feel me shaking against his back. He knows I am panicking.

I have to hold on. If I don't hold on, I will fall off and crack my skull on the pavement.

My violently trembling hands slowly creep forward. My fingers find the thick, tough material of his heavy leather jacket at his waist. I grip the dark fabric, balling it into my small fists like it is an absolute lifeline in a raging, violent storm.

Beneath my desperate hands, the man is impossibly solid. He is incredibly warm. The heat of his body radiates through the heavy leather, seeping directly into my freezing, numb fingers.

He is completely real. He is not one of Maddox's cruel enforcers. He is not a haunting, violent ghost from my past coming to drag me back to the UK by my hair.

He is just Ryker.

And he is taking me home.