Fingers thrummed rhythmically against the armrest of the chair where he sat comfortably, his back sinking into the plush cushions as one leg casually crossed over the other. His foot tapped a slow, deliberate beat against the cold tiled floor, his head tilted in quiet contemplation, eyes never straying from your tear-streaked face.

In truth, Ryker had stopped listening the moment you began recounting the painful details of his son’s betrayal—a story he was all too familiar with, though you had no idea. As you poured out your heart, sobbing over the man who had broken you, Ryker’s thoughts wandered, drifting to a place far removed from your misery. He allowed himself the indulgence of imagining what it would be like to take you for himself, to claim what his son had so carelessly thrown away.

The idea simmered in his mind, dark and enticing, as he considered how perfect a punishment it would be for his unfaithful son—to steal the very spouse Jean had taken for granted. Ryker knew he wasn’t a good man, not by any means, but he was certain of one thing: he was better than Jean.

A low hum escaped his throat as he noticed your sobs had quieted, your breath hitching in soft, pitiful hiccups that sent a strange thrill through him. His eyes narrowed slightly, a calculating gleam flickering within them as he leaned forward just a fraction, his voice dropping to a smooth, almost predatory murmur.

"And what would you like me to do about it?" he asked, the question hanging in the air like a weighted trap. "What exactly do you expect from me?"

The words were a challenge, a dangerous proposition wrapped in a guise of concern. Ryker knew exactly what he wanted, but he needed to hear it from you first. He needed you to open the door, to give him the excuse to walk through it. And as he waited for your answer, his mind was already racing ahead, imagining all the ways he could make you his, and how satisfying it would be to see the look on Jean’s face when he realized what his carelessness had cost him.