It was the only thing I felt when I woke up, dragging me from the void of unconsciousness into a reality that was even worse.
The first thing I noticed was the sharp, throbbing ache in my scalp where they had yanked my hair so brutally.
My head pounded in rhythm with my heartbeat, the pain radiating down my neck, making every small movement feel like a trial.
I tried to swallow, but my throat was so dry it felt like sandpaper. Even my saliva seemed to have dried up.
Thirst gnawed at me.
A primal need that I couldn’t satisfy.
Was this how it would end for me?
Dying of thirst, my body slowly giving out in this filthy, dark place?
It wasn’t as though I hadn’t considered dying before.
In my darkest moments, the idea of ending it all had crossed my mind.
But back then, he had saved me.
Maybe not this time.
I moved slowly, trying to sit up despite the pain shooting through my head.
My vision was blurry, my eyes struggling to focus.
Everything felt heavy, as though the weight of my fear and exhaustion was pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.
My dress was wet, clinging to my skin, filthy and uncomfortable. I could feel the grime on my skin, the dirt that seemed to seep into my very soul.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to calm the panic rising in my chest.
Slow, deep breaths. In. Out.
But even as I tried to steady myself, the memory of why I was here surged back, making my heart sink all over again.
Isaac.
He had hidden a tiny camera in the pen holder—an innocent-looking thing that had led to utter disaster.
The guards had been furious when they found it, their anger erupting in violence.
And I was the one they blamed.
Because of that camera, lives had been lost.
Men had been killed.
Fortunes destroyed.
And Hudson—he had barely escaped a car accident with his life.
All because of that damned camera.
Because of Isaac.
But I wouldn’t tell them.
I couldn’t tell them.
I wouldn’t give them Isaac’s name, no matter what they did to me.
I knew what he had done was unforgivable, knew that I might pay for it with my life.
But I couldn’t lose him again.
I couldn’t bring myself to betray my brother—the one person who had once meant everything to me.
I released a shaky breath, leaning back against the cold, unforgiving wall.
The chill seeped through my torn dress, into my bruised skin, sending a shudder through my battered body.
I had to keep myself together.
But my chest felt tight—like a vice was squeezing my heart, crushing it inch by inch.
I tried to take a deeper breath, but the air was thick with dampness, reeking of sweat and blood. My blood.
Tears blurred my vision, hot and unwelcome.
I bit my lip, trying to force them back, but they spilled over anyway, carving warm, wet trails down my filthy cheeks.
A sob threatened to escape, but I swallowed it down, choking on the agony that had taken root inside me.
How had it come to this?
How did I end up here?
A cruel twist of fate had dragged me back to the one person I had spent years running from.
My first boyfriend is going to kill me.
"I don’t want your money, just be with me every day, Mini."
Ace’s voice echoed in my mind, dark and honeyed, a ghost of a promise that had once felt safe. Once.
But now, that same voice—his voice—was a death sentence.
I had stayed away. I had fought to keep myself out of his world.
But fate… fate was merciless. It had dragged me back into his grasp, unknowingly, inevitably.
All I had ever wanted was for my brother to live happily. For us to be safe.
But fate had betrayed me. Again.
THUD.
I stopped breathing.
The sound echoed through the cell like a war drum, deep and ominous.
My pulse spiked, my body locking up with instinctive terror.
Every muscle coiled tight, my lungs frozen, my fingers digging into the stone floor as if I could somehow disappear into it.
Don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Maybe if I stayed small enough, quiet enough, they would pass by.
My heart pounded violently, a deafening rhythm against my ribs.
Please, God… help me.
I curled in on myself, trembling, my body screaming in pain from the abuse it had already endured.
I couldn’t take another hit.
I couldn’t handle another slap, another kick, another moment of degradation that stripped away the last fragments of my dignity.
I had nothing left to give.
Then—
"Iris."
A voice cut through the fog of panic. Familiar. Male.
I gasped, my eyes flying open, searching desperately.
Aiden.
He stood at the door, his silhouette blurred in the dim light, but I would know him anywhere.
Relief crashed into me, so strong it almost made me dizzy.
My lips parted, but I couldn’t form words. Couldn’t even sob properly.
I didn’t resist when he moved toward me, didn’t flinch when he squatted down beside me.
"It’s okay, it’s okay," he murmured, his voice low, coaxing, like he was trying not to spook a wounded animal.
His fingers brushed against my face, carefully pushing the matted strands of hair away. His touch was delicate, but I still winced.
His jaw clenched.
He was angry. Not at me—for me.
His arms slid under me, and the moment he lifted me off the cold ground, white-hot pain shot through my body.
I groaned.
A short, strangled sound tore from my throat, my body arching in agony.
"I’m sorry." Aiden’s voice was thick, rough with regret. "Just hold on a little longer."
Hold on?
I had been holding on for so long, and I didn’t even know if I could anymore.
The light in the hallway was blinding after so long in the darkness.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the sharp sting, turning my face into Aiden’s shoulder.
Too bright. Too harsh. Too much.
I forced myself to focus on the steady rhythm of his footsteps instead.
One. Two. Three.
Every step took me further away from the hell I had been trapped in.
Then—
"AIDEN!"
The air turned razor-sharp.
My body froze.
The furious shout echoed down the hall like a gunshot, raw and seething with rage.
My stomach twisted violently, and I clung to Aiden’s collar with trembling fingers.
"Please, no," I whispered, my voice barely a breath, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
I knew that voice.
Susan.
She was angry.
At me.
Aiden’s grip tightened around me as he came to a stop, his body tense.
I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t.
But I could feel the weight of her fury, pressing down on me, suffocating.
"What the fuck are you doing?" she spat, and even without seeing her, I knew she was glaring at him with those sharp, calculating eyes.
Aiden didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was cold. Unreadable.
"Mind your tongue, Susan."
His tone was low, warning. Deadly.
She scoffed, disbelief bleeding into her words. "I will not! When you’re helping this fucking bit—”
"Call her that again, and see what happens next."
Aiden’s voice was like a blade, slicing through the air, through Susan’s venom, through the suffocating dread that had wrapped itself around me.
For the first time in my life, I heard Susan stumble.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t retaliate.
For a brief, breathless moment, she was stunned.
I had never seen—or imagined—Aiden standing up for me like this.
I buried my face deeper into his chest, gripping onto him like a lifeline as he turned and walked away.
Leaving Susan behind.
The room was different from the suffocating darkness of the cell.
The air was softer, warmer, the scent of whiskey and resin & leather replacing the stench of blood and sweat.
Ace’s room.
Aiden laid me on the bed gently, but the moment my body hit the mattress, I flinched.
My body remembered.
The softness of a bed. The contrast to the cold, hard ground I had been curled up on.
The difference was so stark it almost made me sick.
My breath hitched, and Aiden pulled back, watching me carefully.
"You’re safe."
"I—I’m sorry," I whispered, guilt gnawing at me from the inside out.
I didn’t even know what I was apologizing for.
For existing?
For being selfish?
For becoming someone’s problem again?
Aiden shook his head, brushing it off like it didn’t matter.
"It’s okay. Susan’s just hot-tempered. She cares a lot about the guys, that’s why she’s mad. But you didn’t do anything wrong," he said, his voice calm, attempting to ease the tension.
I bit my lip, trying to swallow the lump forming in my throat.
Didn’t do anything wrong?
Then why did I feel like the weight of everything—their anger, their violence, their hatred—was pressing down on me, smothering me until I couldn’t breathe?
I exhaled shakily.
Liar.
"Aiden," I murmured, barely able to get the words out. "Is Ace… is he going to kill me?"
The room fell silent. The kind of silence that stretched, that made time feel slower, heavier.
Aiden sighed, long and deep, the sound weighed down with something unspoken.
He sat beside me on the bed, his arm slipping around my shoulders in a way that felt almost comforting—almost.
"Ace doesn’t let anyone get away with hurting what’s his," he said finally, his tone unreadable.
I let out a hollow, breathy laugh, one that scraped against my raw throat.
It wasn’t even a laugh—more like a strangled exhale of disbelief.
His brows furrowed slightly. "Iris..." His voice was careful now, cautious.
I turned my head to meet his gaze, searching for something in his expression—maybe an answer, maybe reassurance.
But I found nothing.
"Will it be painful?" I asked, my voice steady in a way that surprised even me.
Aiden stiffened beside me.
For a long moment, he just stared. Then, suddenly, he pulled me into his arms, crushing me against his chest.
"You’re not going to die," Aiden whispered fiercely, his palm warm against my cold skin.
I didn’t react.
Because he was wrong.
I was already dying.
Piece by piece.
A slow, agonizing kind of death—the kind that didn’t come from a gunshot or a blade, but from the unbearable weight of existing.
"I am not afraid to die," I murmured, my voice eerily calm, "but if Ace is going to do it, I want to confess some things to him."
Aiden stiffened, his expression darkening.
"What things?" His voice was careful, calculated, "Have you… tried to die before?"
I smiled. A nostalgic one.
The kind of smile that carried ghosts with it.
Aiden didn’t press further.
He just stayed silent, but the tension in the air thickened like smoke.
"No one is going to hurt you. I won’t let them."
His words were a fragile promise, so delicate that it felt like it would shatter if I reached out to hold it.
"Go freshen up," he said, his tone softer now, almost hesitant. "I’ll be here the whole time. If you need anything, just call me."
I nodded, numb, my body moving on autopilot as I walked into the bathroom.
The bathroom was quiet. Too quiet.
The cool water from the sink was like a shock against my bruised and battered skin.
I scrubbed at my arms, my neck, my face—trying to rid myself of the filth, the dried blood, the hands that had touched me.
But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t wash away the fear or the deep, aching despair.
Standing in front of the mirror, wrapped in just a towel, I slowly raised my head.
The girl in the mirror wasn’t me.
Fingerprint bruises stained her throat like a collar, dark and sickly.
Her lip was split, swollen—evidence of the countless times a hand had struck her.
Her eyes—bloodshot, rimmed red, hollow.
The reflection that stared back at me didn’t even look like me anymore.
She looked like she was already dead.
And maybe… she would be soon.
"Maybe when I’m dead, I’ll finally get to see Mama and Papa again."
The thought didn’t scare me.
It comforted me.
A strange, quiet relief settled in my chest.
Maybe soon, I wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore.
I wiped away the last of my tears, as if it even mattered, and pulled on an old oversized shirt and leggings.
Just enough to cover my body.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, Aiden was sitting on the edge of the bed, eating fried rice from a porcelain bowl.
He froze the moment he saw me, his mouth full, his eyes widening like he’d just been caught doing something illegal.
He quickly swallowed, cleared his throat, and shot me a guilty look.
"I was just testing the food," he said, his voice full of sincerity. "It's safe. You can eat it."
For some reason, that made me want to laugh. A real laugh.
But I didn’t.
I just forced a small smile—one that didn’t quite reach my eyes—and sat down on the other side of the bed.
Everything around me felt muted. The colors, the sounds, the world itself.
Like I was watching everything through a layer of thick glass.
Like I wasn’t even really here.
Aiden hesitated, then set his bowl down. His expression had changed—more serious now, tense.
"I heard Ace is coming today."
My body went rigid.
"So, I will drop you at the airport, and my man will take you away from all this… mess."
I stared at him.
He was offering me an escape. A way out.
And yet, all I could say was—
"It's okay, Aiden."
His brows furrowed. Frustration. Confusion. Sympathy.
"Why?" His voice was almost pleading. "When you know anyone in this house could kill you at any moment?"
I looked up at him, forcing another smile.
"Maybe I want to die."
Silence.
Aiden’s expression faltered, his sharp features softening.
For a split second, I saw something flicker in his eyes—something like amusement, like sad understanding.
Then, he exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair before standing up.
He wanted to say something. I could tell.
But in the end, he just sighed.
Gave me one last look.
And left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And the silence that followed was deafening.
I stared at the door for a long time.
Long enough for the emptiness to settle deep into my bones.
Slowly, I reached for the food tray, placing it on the table. The scent of fried rice curled into the air, warm and rich.
My stomach churned.
I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t anything.
I walked to the couch, curling in on myself, my arms wrapping around my body as if that would somehow hold me together.
Isaac had done this.
And yet… I was the one taking the blame.
I had spent my whole life believing in Isaac—believing that he was my protector, my family, the one person in this world who would never turn his back on me.
I had clung to that belief like a lifeline, refusing to see the cracks that had always been there.
And now, I was drowning in the consequences.
A hollow, bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat, escaping into the silence of the dimly lit room.
My head tilted back against the cushions, and I let my eyes flutter shut.
Maybe if I stayed here, still and quiet, the weight crushing my chest would ease.
It didn’t.
I knew I should hate him.
That I should be furious. That I should want to expose him for what he had done.
But I didn’t.
Because no matter how much he had hurt me, no matter how much he had betrayed me, I couldn’t bring myself to destroy him.
He was my brother.
And I had already lost too much.
If I turned my back on Isaac, I would lose him forever.
If I told the truth, Ace would kill him– And I don’t want that.
And then I would lose him too.
A sharp pain twisted in my chest at the thought.
The idea of Ace looking at me with that cold detachment, the way he did when someone had outlived their usefulness, made my stomach churn.
I didn’t know which terrified me more— his rage or his indifference.
I closed my eyes tighter.
I would rather he hurt me than cast me aside.
So I had taken the blame.
I had stood there, silent, as everything fell apart around me.
I had accepted the accusations, the weight of the consequences, without protest.
Because no matter what happened next—no matter what Ace did to me—I could survive it.
I wasn’t sure I could survive losing them both.
My thoughts blurred, exhaustion settling over me like a heavy fog, and I allowed myself to slip into restless sleep.
The gunshots ripped through the silence, jolting me awake.
My heart pounded against my ribs, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
The room was dark, the shadows stretching long across the floor, and for a brief, disoriented moment, I wasn’t sure where I was.
The echoes of the gunfire still rang in my ears, but as I blinked rapidly, forcing myself to focus, I realized the truth.
I sat up, pressing a trembling hand against my chest, willing my heartbeat to slow.
My throat was dry, my skin clammy with cold sweat.
I stumbled to my feet, my legs unsteady as I made my way to the bathroom.
My reflection in the mirror looked as hollow as I felt—dark circles under my eyes, lips pressed into a tight line, skin pale and drawn.
I turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto my face.
THUD. THUD.
The knock on the door made my stomach drop.
I turned, my breath catching in my throat.
My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out the silence that followed.
THUD. THUD.
Harder this time. More insistent.
I forced myself to move, my steps slow and hesitant as I reached for the handle.
My fingers were ice-cold, my grip weak, but I twisted the knob and pulled the door open.
A guard stood there, his face expressionless, his voice flat.
“Ma’am, Boss wants to meet you.”
My mouth went dry. My hands curled into fists at my sides, the trembling growing worse.
I didn’t ask why. I didn’t need to.
I just nodded and stepped out into the hallway, falling into step behind the guard.
The walk was long, the silence suffocating.
My stomach churned with unease, my breath coming in shallow bursts.
I kept my eyes fixed on the floor, counting my steps.
But then I reached the living room, and I stopped counting.
Because he was there.
Ace sat on the sofa, his posture deceptively relaxed, but I wasn’t fooled.
His dark hazel eyes burned with a storm of emotions—anger, betrayal, something deeper, something I couldn’t name.
It was like watching dark clouds take over a once-bright sky, blotting out any hope of warmth.
I quickly looked away, my head lowering, my teeth sinking into the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.
Aiden shifted beside me as if he was about to stand, but before he could move, Ace’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Sit. Down." His command was sharp, laced with unrelenting fury.
The authority in his voice sent a chill through the room, making the air thick with suffocating silence.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my lips trembling.
He hates me now. He despises me.
The thought hit me like a physical blow, a pain far worse than any bruise or wound.
I could feel the tears welling up despite my best efforts to hold them back.
My throat bobbed painfully as I tried to swallow the lump of emotion threatening to choke me.
I couldn’t look at him.
I couldn’t bear to see the hatred in his eyes.
"Mini, come here."
My breath hitched.
His voice had softened, a stark contrast to the venom he had just spat moments ago.
Mini.
He was still calling me that.
My mind screamed at me to move, to tell him it wasn’t my fault, to beg him not to look at me like I had shattered everything between us.
But I couldn’t. I had made my choice.
I took a hesitant step forward, my limbs trembling as if they weren’t my own.
"Ace," Alex started, his voice laced with unease.
Ace didn’t even look at him. "I heard every single thing you all said. Now shut your fucking mouths before I rip your tongues out."
His tone was deathly quiet, yet it held the weight of a thousand threats.
The room tensed, the men around us stiffening in place.
My feet carried me forward, slow, hesitant steps until I stood right in front of him.
I could feel the stares of the others piercing into me—filled with accusation, disgust, judgment.
It clawed at my skin, suffocating me. I wanted to disappear.
To melt into the floor, to never have to face what was coming next.
Then I felt it.
His fingers curled around my waist, a stark contrast to the fury I had seen in his eyes just moments ago.
His touch was warm—too warm.
It sent a shiver up my spine as he guided me forward, pulling me onto his lap with an ease that left me breathless.
I stiffened.
He was too close.
Too gentle.
I didn’t understand.
Ace’s arm wrapped around me, securing me in place, as if he was afraid I’d slip away if he let go.
His hand trailed up my side, slow, deliberate, until his fingers brushed over my neck.
Over the bruise.
I flinched.
His fingers tensed against my skin.
I braced myself for his anger, for the eruption of fury that was sure to follow. But it didn’t come.
Instead, he touched each mark—my shoulders, my arms, my wrists—inspecting every bruise, every wound.
His movements were controlled, but I could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles coiled beneath his shirt like a predator ready to strike.
He was checking for injuries.
Checking to see if I was hurt.
Or maybe…
Maybe he was making sure I wasn’t wounded enough to die quickly.
Maybe he wanted to take his time killing me.
I sucked in a sharp breath, my body trembling against him.
But then— He leaned in.
His head rested against my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin.
His grip tightened around me, like he was holding onto something fragile.
The room remained silent, suffocating, as if no one dared to breathe.
And then—
“Forgive me, Mini.”
His whisper was so soft, so raw, that for a second, I thought I had imagined it.
“I should have protected you.”
I felt my heart stutter.
What?
I lifted my head slightly, just enough to see his face.
There was no fury in his eyes now.
No rage, no hatred. Just something else—something I couldn’t name.
His voice… it wasn’t the usual steel-edged command I was used to. It wasn’t cold or detached.
There was something else there, something raw and unguarded.
Concern. Anger.
My throat tightened.
The others were staring too, confusion and disbelief written all over their faces.
Maybe they weren’t used to seeing Ace like this.
No one was.
He exhaled deeply, his jaw clenching before his gaze dropped to my neck again.
Slowly, his fingers traced the bruise, featherlight.
I shivered.
But not from fear.
His touch was careful, almost reverent, as if he thought he could erase the pain with just his fingertips.
And then, before I could process it, before I could react—
He leaned in further.
And kissed it.
My breath caught.
The warmth of his lips against my bruised skin was firm yet delicate.
A contradiction, just like him.
A whisper of something dangerous passed through my veins.
And then, his voice, low and steady, filled the silence between us.
“I killed them, Mini,” he confessed, his voice low but steady, as if he needed me to understand.
Ace lifted his head, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.
“Whoever touched you… they’re gone.”
His voice didn’t waver.
“And I swear, I will kill anyone who dares lay a hand on you again.”
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t think.
Why?
Why would he do that?
Why wasn’t he the one punishing me?
Did he know the truth?
No.
He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.
Because if he did…
If he knew the truth about Isaac—
Then Ace wouldn't be holding me like this.
He wouldn’t be whispering apologies.
He would be killing me.
Before I could even process Ace’s words, Alex’s voice cut through the air like a knife, sharp and laced with fury.
“Can you just stop this bullshit?”
His chair scraped against the floor as he shot to his feet. “Because of her, Hudson could have been killed!”
The accusation hit me like a slap.
My breath caught, and my body stiffened against Ace’s.
Because of me.
I lowered my head, my nails digging into my palms as shame crashed over me like a cold, merciless wave.
If I hadn’t accepted that gift from Isaac—if I had just not trusted Isaac— none of this would have happened.
Hudson wouldn’t have been in danger.
The room felt suffocating, the weight of their stares pressing down on me, squeezing my ribs until it hurt to breathe.
I could feel the disgust radiating from Alex, from the others. I didn’t dare look up.
Ace’s grip on my waist tightened slightly.
His body went still.
Dangerously still.
I felt it before I saw it—that shift in energy, the moment the air turned razor-sharp, crackling with something dark and volatile.
When Ace spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm.
I forced myself to look up.
Ace wasn’t looking at Alex.
He had turned his attention to Ares.
But it wasn’t Italian that left his lips.
The words were unfamiliar, fluid yet guttural, carrying an edge of something ancient, something lethal.
The syllables slithered through the air like a command wrapped in steel.
A language I had never heard before.
Ares, who had been standing silently by the door, stiffened slightly.
His expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of understanding in his dark eyes.
He gave a sharp nod—once, firm—before he turned and left the room without a word.
Ace POV:
“Ace.”
Alex’s voice dragged me back from the abyss, sharp and commanding, like a chain tightening around my throat.
He had always been the rational one, the voice of reason in a world drowning in chaos.
But I wasn’t interested in reason.
Not when my Mini sat in my lap, trembling like a wounded bird caught in a hunter’s trap.
Not when she looked at me with those wide, tear-streaked eyes—full of fear.
Fear of me?
The thought sent a vicious thrill through my veins.
A twisted ache bloomed deep inside my chest, coiling through my ribs like barbed wire.
She should be afraid.
Because I wasn’t sure I could control myself anymore.
Not after what they had done to her.
I stroked her cheek, dragging my thumb across the swollen skin, relishing the way she flinched under my touch.
She was so fragile beneath my hands.
A breakable thing.
My breakable thing.
The bruise on her neck stood out like a brand—violet and raw, a violent mark against her pale skin.
The sight of it made something inside me snap.
I wanted to carve the flesh from the hands that had dared to touch her.
I wanted to hear their screams, to watch the light fade from their eyes as I made them suffer in ways that would have them begging for death.
I could still hear their dying gasps, their pitiful whimpers—like rats caught in a trap, writhing and bleeding out at my feet.
But it wasn’t enough.
It would never be enough.
“It’s okay, Μικρό κορίτσι (Little girl),” I whispered against her temple, inhaling the scent of her—sweet and ruined, laced with the faintest trace of salt from her tears.
I pulled her closer, rocking her in my arms like a lullaby, like something gentle.
But there was nothing gentle about me.
I could feel the sharp edges of her bones pressing against me, her body too light, too delicate— like she had been slowly wasting away, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.
Had she eaten today? Had she slept?
She had no right to destroy herself like this.
That was my privilege.
Her tiny hands clutched at my shirt, desperate and weak, as if she thought I might disappear if she let go.
A cruel smile ghosted my lips.
She was afraid to lose me.
Just as I was afraid to lose her.
And yet… she had betrayed me.
Hadn’t she?
The thought slithered into my mind, dark and insidious, poisoning what little remained of my restraint.
Had she really choose it?
Had she really chosen him over me?
A sharp, twisted part of me wanted her to confess—to fall to her knees, to weep and beg for my forgiveness while I traced the column of her throat with my knife, savoring the way her pulse fluttered beneath the blade.
Not to hurt her.
No, never that.
But just to remind her.
Remind her that I could.
Mine to love.
Mine to ruin.
“God! Fuck you, Ace! Why the hell are you smiling?” Susan’s voice sliced through the moment like a blade against bone.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t even acknowledge her.
She wouldn’t understand.
None of them would.
"Boss," Ares’s voice cut through the haze, steady and certain.
He placed the tray of food on the table beside me, his movements careful, calculated.
I nodded in acknowledgment, but my focus never left her.
She looked so small in my arms, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeves, gripping the cloth like it might shield her from whatever nightmare she thought she was living in.
As if I would ever let anything happen to her.
I reached for the bowl of soup, lifting it carefully before placing it on her lap.
She didn’t look at me.
The refusal—so subtle, so seemingly insignificant—dug under my skin like a splinter.
I exhaled slowly, fighting the itch in my fingers, the urge to tilt her chin up, to make her meet my gaze, to remind her that she doesn’t get to look away from me.
But not yet.
Instead, I picked up the spoon, scooping up the warm broth, and brought it to her lips.
"Come on, Mini," I coaxed, my voice softer now, soothing.
She hesitated, her lashes trembling against her cheeks, before finally parting her lips.
A slow sip.
Small. Meek.
She still trusts me.
But the fear is there, lingering beneath the surface like a whisper in the dark.
And I will tear apart whoever put it there.
I turned my gaze back to the so-called “friends” sitting in front of me, my lips curling into something sharp, something cruel.
They doubt her.
They think she’s a traitor. A threat.
They are nitwits.
"If she wanted to kill me, she would have done it long before any of this."
I let out a slow, deliberate snicker.
They don’t know her like I do. They never will.
"She could have killed me at night while I slept," I mused, swirling the spoon absently in the bowl. "Poisoned me when she cooked for me. Slit my throat while I was unaware."
I turned my gaze to her then, tilting my head just slightly.
"But she didn’t."
I offered her a small smile, something reassuring—something meant to soften her, lull her deeper into me.
She met my gaze, hesitant, uncertain. But the fear was fading.
Good.
She was remembering.
She is mine. My little girl.
And I will be damned if I let them convince me otherwise.
I shifted my grip on her, keeping her against my chest as I murmured, "It's someone else, Mini. And I want you to tell me who it is."
My voice was low, steady. Deceptively calm.
Because if she told me a name—just one— I would make sure that person’s screams would haunt the walls of this house for weeks.
She didn’t hesitate.
"It's me," she whispered.
The words were barely audible, but they slammed into me with the force of a gunshot.
For a moment, the world sharpened, went razor-thin.
I stared at her.
I had expected denial. Tears. Maybe even a plea.
But she was taking the blame.
Such a naive girl.
I scooped another spoonful of soup and pressed it to her lips, watching as she swallowed obediently. Good girl.
But my mind was elsewhere.
I thought about that basement.
I thought about her down there, shackled in the dark, surrounded by men who weren’t me.
I imagined their hands on her. The bruises they left. The fear they forced into her veins.
What if they had done more?
The thought nearly sent me over the edge.
The five guards who touched her?
Gone.
They had died screaming.
One by one, I had ripped them apart—torn muscle from bone, shattered teeth against cement, painted the floors with their insides.
By the time I had finished, the only thing left was the wet, broken remains of men who had made the grave mistake of touching what belonged to me.
I dragged my thumb across the fading bruise on her neck.
Always mine.
If the seven people sitting around me weren’t my so-called friends, I wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to them.
I would slide my knife into their chests and drag it up, slow and deep, splitting them open from sternum to skull.
I placed the bowl back on the table and shifted her carefully in my lap, holding her tighter, pulling her closer.
She needed to feel safe.
She needed to know she was safe.
And there was only one absolute truth in this world—
The safest place she would ever be was in my arms.
"Bambina, who gave you the pen holder?"
My voice was soft, patient. The kind of gentleness that didn’t match the darkness curled in my chest.
She whimpered, burying herself deeper into the crook of my neck, her small body trembling against mine.
"It's me," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Liar.
I hummed, low and thoughtful, my fingers threading through her hair.
She was shaking, like a cornered animal, fragile and desperate.
Slowly, I pried her away from my neck, tilting her chin up so I could see her eyes—those wide, golden-brown eyes that never could lie properly.
"Let's try again," I murmured, shifting her effortlessly so she straddled my lap. There.
Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
She whimpered softly at the sudden shift, her hands pressing against my chest as if she could put distance between us.
She couldn't.
I grabbed both of her wrists with one hand, tightening my grip just enough to make her fingers twitch.
Just enough to remind her that I could shatter her so easily, yet I didn’t.
"Who was it, bambi?" I whispered, leaning in, letting my breath ghost over her lips.
She was shaking so much now. Her breathing was uneven, hitched. I could feel it, the way her chest rose and fell against mine, the way her pulse pounded wildly beneath my fingertips.
I kissed her—soft, coaxing, a contradiction in itself.
She turned her head away, her silence loud, her resistance weak.
I sighed, pressing another slow kiss to the corner of her lips.
Patience. I could afford patience.
Aiden, still nursing his beer, let out a low chuckle. "I’ve never seen such a cute, touchy interrogation in this house."
Despite the tension, I allowed myself a small smirk. He wasn’t wrong. It was almost endearing.
Almost.
He was the only one defending her here, the only one who seemed to understand this whole fucking drama.
"Bambi," I whispered again, my forehead pressing against hers, noses brushing.
She was breathing too fast. Too shallow.
Good.
But I wanted more.
“What’s bothering you? Tell me.”
She trembled harder, her fingers weakly curling against my chest as if she wanted to push me away but didn’t dare to.
Then, her voice broke.
"It's me. I did everything... kill me."
I stilled.
She was protecting someone.
The realization sent a slow, burning heat through my chest—rage and jealousy tangled together in something nearly intoxicating.
A small smile tugged at my lips.
Stupid girl.
I released her wrists, watching the confusion flicker across her face as I let her go.
She didn’t understand.
She never would.
"It’s your brother. Isn’t it?"
The moment the words left my lips, I saw everything shift in her expression.
Her face went blank—so empty, so carefully void of emotion that it only confirmed my suspicions.
Hudson raised an eyebrow. "His brother?"
I barely acknowledged him. I was too busy watching her.
Abruptly, she shoved herself off my lap, her voice rising in frustration.
"I told you it’s me!" she yelled, wiping at the tears brimming in her eyes, as if she could erase the evidence of her weakness.
I shook my head at her, amused by her defiance.
Pointless.
Slowly, I rose to my feet, closing the distance between us in a few measured steps.
She didn’t run. She never did when she had to.
I cupped her face, my thumbs brushing away the lingering wetness at the corner of her eyes.
I leaned in, kissing her softly, almost reverently.
“Such a perfect girl,” I murmured against her lips.
Because she was.
Even when she lied to me.
Without warning, I pulled out my pistol—fully loaded, sleek, and cold as death itself.
Before she could even process the movement, I thrust it into her hand.
I watched her.
Her wide eyes, dilated pupils swallowing the gold in her irises.
Her lips parted slightly in a silent gasp, trembling fingers hesitating against the weight of the metal.
"Shoot me."
My voice was flat, empty.
Not a challenge. Not a dare. A command.
"You want to kill me, right?"
She jolted back a step. A useless attempt at escape.
I grabbed her wrist, forcing the gun against the center of my chest, right over my heart.
"Go on, Mini bear."
The smile that curved my lips felt foreign, something grotesque stretching across my face.
The air shifted.
The men around us tensed—hands twitching toward their guns, their trained reflexes screaming at them to intervene.
But they wouldn’t.
Because this was between her and me.
"NO!" Her voice cracked, a jagged sob clawing at the edges of her words. "W-What? No, no!"
She was trembling now, breath shallow, a rabbit caught in the jaws of a panther.
I ripped the gun from her shaking grasp, flipping it in my palm with slow, deliberate precision.
Her relief was short-lived.
Because the next second, I pressed the cold steel to her temple.
A sharp inhale.
I leaned in, close enough to smell her fear.
She froze beneath the weight of my touch, but—this time, she didn’t flinch.
Her lashes fluttered closed, lips parting in silent acceptance.
That stillness… that resignation.
It should have pleased me.
Instead, it soured in my chest, something twisting and blackened inside me.
Slowly, I dragged the barrel from her temple, down to the fragile column of her throat, and then lower—over the frantic beating of her heart.
Still, she didn’t move. Didn’t beg.
Didn’t even try to convince me otherwise.
She was ready.
Ready to die.
For him.
The rage in me turned molten, violent, twisting into something I couldn’t contain.
I pressed the gun harder against her chest, feeling her heartbeat hammer against the barrel.
"I can't kill you, Mini," I murmured.
I let the gun slip from my fingers, letting it drop to the floor with a dull clatter.
Instead, I grabbed her.
Dragged her into me.
Our foreheads collided, our breaths mixing—hers uneven, shaky, mine burning with something I didn’t want to name.
Her hands curled into the fabric of my suit, clutching, desperate.
"Please," she whispered, her voice raw. "Please, don't kill him."
Ah. Ah.
There it is.
My fingers tightened around her waist, nails digging in—not enough to bruise, but enough to remind her.
I was right.
It was her brother.
The confirmation should have satisfied me. It didn’t.
Because I hated the way she looked at me now.
Like I was her last hope and her worst nightmare all at once.
The ache in my chest was foreign, unwelcome. A disease.
I tore myself away from her, jaw clenched so tight I could hear the creak of my teeth grinding together.
Before I could take more than a few steps, something latched onto my ankle.
Weak fingers—shaking, desperate.
I looked down.
Iris.
Her tear-streaked face ruined with anguish, her cheeks wet, her lips trembling, her breath ragged as she clung to me like I was the last thing keeping her tethered to this world.
"Please…"
Her voice cracked, a fractured thing.
"Please, kill me."
I stilled.
She didn’t beg for her life.
She begged for his.
"I-I'm sorry," she choked out, voice thick with sobs. "Please, Ace, please… I will do anything. Beat me, hurt me, I’ll do everything in this house, whatever you say, but leave him."
Her words punched through me.
Anything.
For him.
Not for herself. Not for me.
My jaw locked. My grip on control slipping.
Her arms wrapped around my leg, fingers digging into my slacks.
A physical chain. A restraint.
A leash.
I knelt in front of her, slow and deliberate.
With a featherlight touch, I brushed aside the strands of hair sticking to her damp cheeks. Ruined. Fragile.
Her eyes, hell, her eyes.
Even now, they were filled with unshakable devotion—but not for me.
I clicked my tongue, and a wicked smile ghosted over my lips.
Such an idiot.
"Please, Ace…"
She was barely audible over her sobs. A drowned whisper.
Her body shook, her fingers gripping my thumb.
As if holding onto it meant something.
As if I were something to be held.
Her touch was feverish, trembling—but sincere.
And that infuriated me.
I exhaled slowly, restraining the urge to crush her. To pull her so deep into me that there’d be no more room for anyone else.
"You know he used you." My voice was almost gentle. Cruelly soft. "He doesn't love you, Mini."
A shuddering breath left her lips.
"But he's the only family I have left."
Her grip on my thumb tightened.
Desperate. Unyielding.
My vision blurred red.
It wasn’t me she clung to.
Not because she wanted to.
But because she had no one else.
And I hated that.
"He doesn’t deserve your love or forgiveness," I murmured, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze. "He’s a selfish bastard who has never loved you."
Her lashes flickered, but the stubborn glimmer in her eyes only made the burning inside me worse.
She was still fighting.
Still defending him.
"Why do you want him that much?" I snickered, my grip tightening.
She swallowed hard.
"He’s my only family," she whispered, voice small, shattering me with every syllable.
Her fingers curled around my thumb again, so gently it made my stomach churn.
So reverent. So loving.
And not for me.
My teeth ground together.
Not for me.
Not for me.
"For me, Ace… please. Kill me. Spare him."
For me.
The words settled in my chest like a slow-spreading poison.
A simple phrase, yet it twisted its claws into something long buried.
I stared into her eyes, that desperate, pleading gaze. Just like before.
I nodded—barely. A mistake.
The moment I did, something splintered inside me. My past and present collapsed into each other, bleeding together like a cruel joke.
A ghost’s voice whispered through the cracks in my mind.
"For me, Ace. Please."
Not Iris’s voice. Hers.
The air turned thick. My lungs refused to pull in enough oxygen.
I could smell it—gunpowder and iron, the phantom scent of old blood staining my hands.
I turned stiffly toward my room, but each step felt like walking through a graveyard of my own making.
The silence followed me—not empty, but heavy, suffocating.
For me.
That phrase had ruined me once.
A little girl’s trembling fingers had once curled around my fingers, gripping it like I was her last breath of air.
Begging. Not for herself—but for him. For her brother
And I had listened.
I had let him live.
A mistake.
A mistake that cost me more than I was willing to admit.
And now—Iris.
With those same eyes, that same self-sacrificing foolishness.
I reached my door, gripping the handle so hard my knuckles turned white.
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