Stranger At My Door

21. Marked

Ridge's touch was gentle as he stroked my palm, but his eyes held a storm.

"Before I became a private investigator, I had a stint with the Met Police in London," he began, shifting to lie back, his face shadowed by memories.

I could feel his body tense, the weight of whatever he was about to share pressing down between us. My breath caught in my throat, anticipation coiling tightly in my chest.

"I was fresh, green yet eager, which made me the perfect candidate for undercover work. They embedded me with a gang involved in drugs and sex trafficking—deeply embedded." His voice dropped to a murmur, "It was supposed to dismantle one of the most sinister networks from within."

I could hear the faint tremor in his voice now, an undercurrent of emotion barely masked by his calm exterior. He paused, his gaze locking onto mine, as if he were searching for something, gauging my reaction. A shiver ran through me, though I wasn't entirely sure if it was from the story or the way his eyes seemed to hold me in place.

"But we were compromised. There was a mole in our unit. Our plans leaked, leading to an ambush that should have been my end." His fingers grazed the scar just under his eye, and I could almost feel the heat from the burn he described, the sharp, visceral pain. His next words were low, his tone colder. "They knew I was police. I was ambushed, one of them pressed a BBQ fork to my face, threatening to gouge my eye out. Well, really, he was about to gouge my eye out."

My throat tightened, and my stomach twisted at the image, more vivid than I would have liked. I hadn't even realised I was holding my breath. He continued, the haunted look in his eyes deepening as he traced the scar.

"The police arrived just in time to prevent that, but not before I was permanently marked." His fingers lingered on the scar, and I couldn't help but wonder if he was still feeling the pain, as if the memory lived just beneath the surface of his skin.

A heavy silence hung between us. I wanted to say something, offer some comfort, but the words caught in my throat. How could I possibly respond to a story like that? My fear of him, the man I'd once thought capable of something terrible, was slowly being replaced by something else—pity, perhaps? Or was it empathy?

I tried to swallow the conflicting emotions swirling within me. He had been so guarded, so closed off, but now I could see the scars ran deeper than just skin. A man haunted by betrayal. And yet... I still didn't know if I could trust him fully. Not after everything.

"After that, I didn't feel right working amongst the police anymore. The betrayal... it was not just physical but mental. The very people who were supposed to have my back had sold me out." His voice was bitter now, a simmering anger just beneath the surface. "I couldn't stay, not knowing how deep the rot went within the force. They never found the mole either, which just made it that little bit worse."

I swallowed hard, my mind spinning. The image of him, broken and betrayed, conflicted with the hardened man I'd met just hours ago. He seemed... different now. Less of the threat I had perceived him to be and more—human.

"Leaving the Met was my only escape. As a private investigator, I operate on my own terms, trusting no one but myself. It's isolating, yes, but it's also purifying. No more looking over my shoulder, no more lies, just the pursuit of justice for those who have nowhere else to turn."

His words lingered in the air, settling around us like a shadow. I found myself grappling with emotions I hadn't anticipated. My heart ached for him, the man who had suffered so much—yet, there was something unnerving about him too, something I couldn't quite shake. I didn't fully trust him, not yet. His world was darker than mine, and it was creeping in around me.