Chapter Forty
Ryker
There it was. A small cabin, not much better than a lean-to. No smoke coming from the sorry excuse for a chimney though and no sound of a generator, no lights on. Fuck. Was this even where he’d taken her? Had to be, though. Had to be.
Ryker hadn’t slogged through these fucking woods for hours on end, getting soaked to his skin and freezing his ass off to not find her. She had to be there.
And she had to be alive.
It would be worse, certainly, to not find her ever, but he couldn’t imagine bringing a dead body back to Ian and Hudson. They might not survive it. He would, because that’s what he did—persevere through loss and heartbreak. Maybe come out the other side more peculiar and closed off than he already was but he’d be alive. Barely.
They’d called Vance Yardley to see if they could use his place as a base camp and he’d quickly agreed, asked if he could do anything and warned the roads would be shit right now because it was snowing and out of season.
He’d also said there would be gear that should fit him and Ian, but Hudson could never borrow jackshit so they’d sent him to get supplies while Ryker and Ian went straight to the cabin to gear up and then head out into the snow.
Ryker’d done some geocaching but neither of them were fucking Eagle Scouts or anything. He’d had to send Ian back to Vance’s cabin an hour ago because his legs were cramping and he kept stumbling—no way he could haul that lanky motherfucker around these woods and still find Cosima.
It wasn’t so much that he minded the solitude of being out in the deathly silent woods—he didn’t—but he hated having this weight on his shoulders. But what other choice did they have? They had to find her, and soon. She’d been missing for five days.
As he tromped through the deep-drifted snow toward the little building, he thought of her. Cosima. Small and sweet and charming, tough as iron and gorgeously submissive. So sensitive but so hardy at the same time. He could beat her bloody with his belt and she’d barely make a peep, but if her daddy scolded her with a spanking she’d be in tears within a few swats.
He’d give her anything, everything if he could just hold her again.
His footsteps were muffled as he jogged up the steps in the snow. If the door was locked he’d happily break a window but there was no need—it was open. And when he burst into the structure, bringing a gust of snow with him, he wasn’t letting the cold in as well. No, it was just as cold within the cabin as it had been without and he saw her.
White as a sheet, lips blue, covered with filth and bruises, blood crusting at her wrists and ankles where she’d tried to escape from the shackles that fucker had used to restrain her. Cosima, so pale, so very naked, looking wasted and exposed while there was a pile of supplies only a couple feet away.
Ryker knew he was a sadist. Wasn’t ashamed of it. He’d had too many partners be too grateful for what he was willing, able, and, frankly, delighted to do to them to be sorry about it.
He’d talked more than one sadist through their guilt over wanting to hurt people, had teamed with Gideon and/or Eric to really hammer it home in some cases. But never would he ever have done this to someone. Murder them slowly by starving them to death or hoping they’d succumb to the cold, with life-saving supplies just out of reach.
Sadistic wasn’t the right word for the asshole who had tortured her in ten thousand ways and made this cruel exercise as his last play. Keep her barely alive to extend her suffering. If she was still alive. But she had to be. No way had they come out here, no way had he trudged through miles of thigh-high snow, no fucking way had he actually managed to find her and she was gone.
He ripped off his gloves, tried to warm his hands by cupping them in front of his mouth and blowing on them. Which was foolish. What was she, going to flinch at the chill of his fingers? No, she looked too far gone for that.
Dropping to his knees next to her, Ryker put a hand first to her forehead and then to her cheek, to her neck to look for a pulse.
“Cosima? Cosima!”
His voice was commanding, an order because this little girl had followed every order he’d ever given her without question and without fail. Until now. She didn’t rouse, her dark lashes didn’t even flutter. But—he found it. In her bony wrist, slow and weak but definitely still there, her pulse beat. And fuck all, it would keep beating.
He could cry with relief but there wasn’t time for that. He had to get her out of here and back to the cabin, now.
What she really needed was an emergency room or wilderness medics but what she had was him and he would have to be, for once in his goddamn life, good enough. Please let him be good enough.
He covered her with some blankets before he started digging through the supplies. Found the keys to her bonds and quickly undid the metal cuffs before wrapping her limp and cold body up like a burrito.
Would it be better to stay here? Start a fire, try to get her warm and conscious? Get some food and water into her before trudging back out into the wilderness?
Except he didn’t know when Damon might be back. He obviously hadn’t just left her for dead—she’d be gone by now without water. How often was he coming? When had he last been here?
It would be one thing to fight that asshole by himself—Ryker was fairly confident he could kill that motherfucker even if he had to sacrifice himself to do it. But he couldn’t leave Cosima alone again, especially not out here. She was tough as hell but he didn’t think of her as outdoorsy. He wouldn’t strand her to fend for herself out here, not a chance.
It may not be the smartest decision, but he was going to get her out of here. If given the choice, he was dead certain she would choose to head back to Hudson and Ian as soon as humanly possible so that’s what he’d go with too.
Ryker rifled through the stash but aside from filling up his water supply didn’t take much. They had a better chance of making it if he kept his load light—he could make it back to the cabin in a few hours. If it took him longer than that then a few extra granola bars weren’t going to help. They’d be just as dead, just with more snacks.
He did dress Cosima in layers of long underwear, thick wool socks, a down jacket, hat and mittens he found in the pile before re-wrapping her in a blanket, broke open and tucked a few of those hand-warmers into his own boots and mittens and between her socks, over the layer of long underwear on her abdomen and chest, and into her gloves. For all the fucking good those would do but it made him feel better to try.