“Good.” He smiles. It’s not something he does as often as Theo, and it transforms his whole face, easing the tight lines of his features. “I told you not to worry about technique, but you still kept really good form. Those hits were solid. That’s great. It means you’re absorbing this all well enough to start doing it unconsciously.” He slips off one mitt and shakes out his hand. “That, combined with your natural fighting abilities, will definitely give you a leg up in a confrontation.”
I smirk. “By ‘natural fighting abilities,’ you mean ‘uncontrollable rage,’ right?”
He chuckles, walking over to shove the mitts back into the cubby. “Hey, whatever gets the job done.”
I follow him, and he turns around to help me with my wrap, unwinding it from my wrist and knuckles before setting it aside. Then he pulls a gun from the waistband of his pants.
“Okay, time to work on disarming.” He removes the magazine and clears the chamber, then gestures for me to return to the middle of the room. “This shit isn’t easy, and comes with risks of its own, so only try this if you have no other options, all right?”
I nod, my stomach twisting a little as he raises the weapon. I just saw him get rid of all the bullets, but it’s still slightly terrifying to stare down the barrel of a gun.
Breaking it down into small steps, he shows me how to dart my hand out and deflect the weapon, then twist the barrel to break his grip. He has to make several modifications because I can only do it one-handed, but he’s patient with me, stopping to show me a new technique when something doesn’t work.
Once we work out the best way to disarm someone one-handed, he makes me drill it over and over.
“Can I ask you something?” I glance up at him as he resets his position, raising the gun and pointing it at me.
“Sure.”
My stomach tightens. “That thing back there with Marcus’s parents. You told me you’re glad I said something. That they needed to hear it. But I don’t understand why they haven’t heard it before. After the shit they’ve put you through, the shit they signed you up for, why do any of you still have anything to do with your parents?”
Ryland sighs, lowering the gun a little. “I don’t know. Well, with Theo, I think he sticks around because he’s worried about his mom. With his dad gone, his uncle manipulates her and intimidates her, trying to get his hooks into every aspect of their business. Theo does what he can to help her stand up to that.”
I nod, remembering how Theo had to go deal with his uncle once. I also remember him telling me that he didn’t want to be part of the family business, and I wonder if the only reason he hasn’t cut ties entirely is because of fear of what would happen to his mother if he did. If he wasn’t around to look out for her, what might his uncle try to do?
“And for you and Marcus?” I prod, catching Ryland’s gaze.
His jaw clenches. “It probably sounds fucking stupid to someone like you. But in this life? In this world? Kids are taught from a young age that they’re conduits for their parents, part of a family line that must be honored. Sacrifices have to be made to protect the family name, and to grow its power and standing.”
I frown. “That’s so fucked up though. That makes it sound like they’re doing all of this for you, for the next generation. But if it’s for you, then you should be able to choose what you want to do, not be forced into things.”
I glance down at the gun, realizing we’ve gotten distracted from our training. Lightning fast, my hand whips out, catching the weapon and shoving it to one side, twisting the barrel to break his grip at the same time I step forward and mimic head-butting him.
Ryland’s head jerks backward, and he lets go of the gun. He grins as I hand it back to him, seeming pleased rather than annoyed that I took advantage of his distraction.
“It is fucked up,” he says, returning to our conversation. “I dunno about Marcus, but I always used to tell myself my parents acted like this because they love me. That they wanted me to have more than they had, better than they had.”
He lifts the gun to point it toward me again, but I can see in his eyes that he’s still distracted. There’s something hovering in their hazel depths, something a lot like what I saw in Marcus’s eyes earlier.
Pain.
My heart aches, my chest constricting. These men have all been betrayed by their families, and I’m not sure there’s a deeper kind of hurt than that.
“My mom is dying,” Ryland says quietly.
I blink at him, completely forgetting about the weapon still pointed at me. “She is?”
He nods, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Yeah. Cancer. She’s been fighting it, but nothing has really worked—slowed it down maybe, given her a few extra months, but not more than that.” His lips press together. “My dad… he won’t even talk about it. He can barely be in the same room with my mom anymore, and he hates any sign of her weakness. She wears wigs to cover up her hair loss, and a ton of makeup to keep herself from looking pale or exhausted.”
He goes quiet for a moment, and I let the silence hang in the air.
I don’t know what kind of relationship he’s had with his mom, and I’m guessing it’s pretty fucking complicated. I’ve gotten the impression both of his parents signed him up for Luca’s game. Still, it must hurt to see her dying.
“I used to think that was love,” he says finally. “Or at least, the only kind of love my father was capable of expressing. Like it hurt too much to think of losing her, so he chose not to face seeing her fade away. He was always a cold, distant son of a bitch toward me, but I told myself he loved me underneath all of that.”
“Maybe he did,” I offer softly. I hate standing up for his father in any way, but I hate the heartbreak I hear in Ryland’s voice.
Ryland’s gaze sharpens, as if he’s pulling himself out of old memories that play inside his head. “No. He didn’t.” He looks at me, his hazel eyes burning. “Because if you love someone, you don’t keep them at arm’s length. You don’t push them away. I tried that for so fucking long with you, and it only hurt us both. If you were sick, if you were dying, I would be there with you, no matter how much it broke my heart. I would want to, because every fucking second is precious.”
I hold his gaze as something expands in my chest, filling up every inch of space until I can barely breathe. I think we’ve both forgotten the training, the gun resting loosely in his grip as we stare at each other.
I remember all those days when Ryland held himself back, stiff and cold as a block of ice. I remember the first time he kissed me—how even then, he was trying to hold himself at a distance.
If life circumstances hadn’t forced him to see things differently, would Ryland have ended up like his father? A man who doesn’t know how to express love except through coldness and control?
The man standing in front of me now is so different than that. It’s hard to imagine him being so closed off now.
Reaching out, I catch Ryland’s wrist. But instead of grabbing the gun, I just move his arm out of the way as I step toward him.
“You are nothing like your father,” I say. “I don’t even have to know him to know that.”