Chapter 38 #3
“Don’t waste my time, Oliver.”
Alex takes a step forward slow and deliberate. Power humming in every inch of him.
I see Oliver tense, the gun shaking slightly in his grip. I don’t know what startles him more—that Alex just used his name, or that he’s still advancing, not afraid of the barrel aimed at his chest.
“I said don’t fucking move!” Oliver barks. “How the fuck do you know my name?”
Alex shrugs with infuriating calm.
“I learned everything about you in ten minutes. Just like you learned a little about me.”
Silence.
A heavy beat of it.
Then Oliver’s jaw clicks. He squares his stance, pretending to still have control.
“He owes me two hundred thousand.” A cruel smirk twists his face. “And I’m not backing down.”
My mouth falls open.
That’s a lie. That’s insane.
“That’s it?” Alex asks his tone unbothered.
“That’s not true!” I snap before I can stop myself. “It’s not! I paid off—”
“Shut up, boy toy,” Oliver cuts in, snapping his attention to me. “No one asked you to speak.”
I barely flinch, but I feel Alex’s eyes flick toward me—sharp, calculating. He drags his gaze down, his expression unreadable. Like he’s seeing me and assessing me at the same time.
But then… his focus shifts.
Back to Oliver.
And that’s when everything changes.
“Did you just call him a boy toy?” Alex’s voice is deceptively calm, but there’s something in it—a tremor of rage so deep and quiet, it makes my stomach knot.
Oliver scoffs, but I can see it now.
The hesitation.
He realizes he’s crossed a line.
But it’s too late.
Because Alex moves.
It’s like a blink.
A blur of motion, too fast for my eyes to catch. One second, Oliver’s holding the gun. Next, Alex’s hand is on his wrist, twisting. There’s a sickening crunch as bones grind, and the weapon is yanked free with brutal efficiency.
Click. Clack.
In one clean, practiced motion, Alex ejects the magazine, racks the slide to clear the chamber, catches the loose round mid-air, and tosses both pieces onto the couch like trash.
My breath catches.
The room is dead silent except for my mother’s soft gasp. Oliver stares at Alex, stunned, like the reality hasn’t caught up with him yet.
Then he snarls, taking a step closer, “You motherfucker—”
Alex’s fist slams into his jaw cutting him off, and the sound is something I’ll never forget.
A second hit comes just as fast, this time to the ribs, and Oliver crumbles like a building giving out from the foundation. He crashes to the ground, groaning, blood pouring from his mouth and nose, curling in on himself like a kicked dog.
Alex stands over him, shoulders rising and falling. He exhales, tilting his head back as if silently begging the ceiling for patience. Then he lowers his gaze, and it’s like the air in the trailer goes still.
“Get up,” Alex says, his voice low, jagged, like it’s dragging over broken glass. There’s no scream, no threat in his tone. Just deadly certainty.
Then he moves.
From beneath his jacket, he draws a matte black pistol, smooth and heavy in his hand. then he pulls something else from the inside pocket—a long, narrow tube of metal. It takes me a second to realize what it is.
A silencer.
He threads it onto the barrel with mechanical ease, each turn of his wrist measured and calm. Click. Click. A soft lock as the suppressor slides into place.
My mother gasps and wraps her arms tightly around me, a small whimper escaping her lips. I go stiff beneath her touch. Part of me wants to shove her away, but another part, the broken part of me I rarely acknowledge, clings to the comfort. I let her hold me, just for now.
“You’ve got five seconds to get up,” Alex says, raising the now-silenced gun and pointing it straight at Oliver’s head. “Or I’ll feed your brains to this floor.”
Oliver’s eyes widen in panic. He tries to move, legs fumbling beneath him like they’ve forgotten how to work.
Alex lets out a disappointed exhale.
Then he steps forward, grabs Oliver by the hair, and yanks him up with a brutal twist of his hand. Oliver grunts, his legs scrambling as Alex shoves him forward until he’s on his knees right in front of me, the wooden coffee table the only thing separating us.
“On your knees,” Alex growls again, pressing the pistol to the back of Oliver’s skull. “Right in front of him. Let’s see how brave you are now.”
Oliver shoots me a hateful glare across the table. That familiar sneer still clings to his bloodied face—but his shoulders are tight with fear. He’s not in control anymore. And he knows it.
“You know what I’m capable of,” Alex says, his voice like thunder rumbling beneath a storm. “And still, you thought you could mess with what’s mine?”
Oliver swallows hard. “I didn’t know he meant that much to you.”
“Then you’re dumber than you look.”
Alex leans in just slightly.
“He’s not a boy toy,” he says, the words coming through gritted teeth. “And he never was. He’s mine. And I sure as fuck don’t forgive whoever it is that messes with him.”
My heart stutters, making the heat behind my eyes almost burn. I can’t explain the feeling flooding through me—it’s not just relief, or safety. It’s not even pride. It’s something deeper. Something raw. Something I never thought I’d ever feel.
Wanted. Protected. Chosen.
“Tell me what you want, Lucas.”
Alex’s voice cuts through the thick silence, and my eyes lift to meet his.
There’s fire in his stare, an undeniable consuming rage, but beneath that, I see it. That softness. That quiet tenderness that only ever surfaces when it’s about me. Something that says I will destroy the world if it means keeping you safe.
“I could finish him off right here,” he adds, voice almost too casual, like he’s offering to take out the trash. “If that’s what it takes to make you feel safe.”
My breath catches.
I glance back at Oliver, still kneeling on the floor, the gun muzzle kissing the back of his skull. His expression has shifted—no longer cocky. His jaw is tight, and I see it in his eyes: fear… but also something pitifully human—a flicker of pride clashing with the urge to beg.
My mother’s grip on me tightens. She’s shaking now, her arms coiled around me like she’s trying to keep me together.
I close my eyes, then pull away from her slowly, needing space to breathe. To think. I glance back at Alex, not knowing what I want at this moment.
And somehow… he understands. Just from my eyes, just from the tight line of my lips. He gives me a slight nod and gently lowers the gun from Oliver’s head.
Oliver exhales sharply like he’s been holding his breath underwater.
“You can’t kill me,” he says, some shaky edge trying to pretend it’s strength. “My men will come for me. You’re making a mistake.”
Alex chuckles, but there’s no humor in it.
“Your men?” he repeats, voice sharp and low, the kind that could make glass crack. “They’re being taken care of right now—at your warehouse. Probably zip-tied and begging like dogs.”
Oliver stiffens.
“Your accounts? Being drained as we speak. Your little empire of threats and blood money will be gone soon, too.” Alex says, voice steady and serious, “And your two accountants—the ones you trusted? They’re crying in a basement deep inside the woods. Right where you’re headed.”
I see it happen in slow motion.
Oliver’s face contorts with fear, his pupils dilating as Alex’s words sink in like knives. His lips part as if to protest.
“Tell me you’re joking,” he says shakily
Alex’s answer is cold.
“Do I look like a clown to you?”
Then, without warning, he grabs Oliver by the hair again and slams his head against the wooden table.
Hard.
The crack of bone against wood echoes through the trailer like a gunshot.
The table splits violently beneath the force.
I flinch. My mother lets out a muffled scream, covering her mouth as she recoils beside me.
Oliver collapses to the floor, blood painting the side of his face, his nose mangled and broken.
He’s not dead. But he’s not moving either.
Alex doesn’t even glance down at him. His attention shifts to my mother. She’s trembling, still trying to suppress her sobs with both hands pressed to her lips. Her wide, terrified eyes meet his.
He tilts his head slowly; the look on his face is not one of sympathy but of disgust and disinterest.
“Why the hell are you so noisy?” he mutters, voice rough, gravel scraping over steel.
She shrinks toward me, clinging, seeking comfort from the same son she spent years tearing apart.
I want to laugh. I really do. Instead, I bite my lip until I taste blood.
Good, I am glad he doesn’t like her.
Alex rolls his eyes like she’s nothing but an annoying background noise.
“He’s not dead, woman. Calm down.”
His gaze snaps to Mike, who’s still holding one of Oliver’s men hostage with practiced, deadly stillness.
“Signal them to come in.”
Mike nods, pressing two fingers to the small earpiece tucked in his ear. Professional and efficient, like they’ve done this a hundred times.
And I know they have.
But all I can do is stare at Alex.
He looks down at Oliver’s bleeding body like it’s garbage on the floor. Then his gaze lifts—and it’s on me again.
Those eyes. Cold steel wrapped in blue flame.
But beneath the fury… there’s something softer now, more tender.
I don’t move. I want to. I want to throw myself into his arms, bury my face in his chest, and say thank you, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.
I want to beg for forgiveness for not telling him I came here.
I want to scream out how much I need him, and just seeing him, feeling him, is what’s kept me sane through all of this.
But the intensity in his gaze, so raw and unflinching, pins me in place.
Then he moves.
One slow, deliberate step at a time until he’s in front of me. My breath catches as he reaches out and lifts my chin gently with his fingers. His touch is warm. Reverent. I can feel the tension in his body, like he’s holding back the urge to crush me against him just to make sure I’m real.
His voice is quiet. Rough. But filled with something I can’t name.
“I swear, one day you’re going to give me a goddamn heart attack.”
I blink at him, lips parting. My chest aches from everything I’m holding in.
He studies my face for a second longer, his thumb brushing my jaw.
“You okay, krasivy?”
His voice cracks on the edge of the question, and that name, the name he always calls me, the intensity of it, and how much he means it, flood through me like a wave.
It makes me dizzy how much I love this man, even though I haven’t told him yet. How much I trust him. How much I want to stay beside him, no matter the wreckage around us.
I swallow thickly. “How… how did you know something was wrong?” I whisper.
“Tyler called me,” Alex replies, his voice low, thumb still brushing along my jaw with a gentleness that steals the air from my lungs.
I barely have time to process the words before the trailer door swings open again, and my body tenses, panic rushing in like a second wind as I see more men, this time dressed in suits, enter.
I brace for another threat.
But then I see him.
Tyler.
He’s the last to enter.
His eyes scan the room in a wild frenzy, and the moment they land on me, I watch the tension drop from his shoulders like a weight being lifted. His breath catches, and then he’s moving—fast, unfiltered, desperate.
“You—” he starts, voice tight with emotion, “you absolute ass—” But his words catch as Alex turns toward him with that signature cold stare. Tyler falters, huffs, folds his arms like he’s collecting himself, then exhales hard.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters instead.
And then he’s in front of me, grabbing me and pulling me into a crushing hug that knocks the last of my fear out of me. I bury my face into his shoulder, my fingers gripping his shirt. The moment stretches, my body finally registering safety. His warmth. His scent.
God, it makes my chest ache.
Alex silently steps away, speaking in low tones to one of the men who came in. Behind them, I see two others lifting Oliver’s limp body off the ground, dragging him out like the trash he is.
Tyler finally pulls back, both hands cradling my face like he’s making sure I’m real.
“My mom called me,” he says, voice trembling with adrenaline. “Said the loan sharks had cornered you. I almost ignored the call—hell, I ignore most of them, but something told me to pick up.”
His eyes flick to Alex briefly. “And I didn’t know who else could help. He was the only one I could think of and who I know has the power to help, after all, he is your Man.”
A tight knot coils in my throat. My voice is shaky when I whisper,
“You did well, Ty. Thank you so much.”
He smiles gently, but I see the storm behind his eyes as they drift past me. His gaze hardens.
I follow it—my mother.
She’s sitting silently, head bowed, hair falling over her face like a veil of shame. For a flicker of a second—just a sliver—I feel something. Maybe guilt. Maybe pity. I don’t know. But it burns out fast, replaced by every scar she left on me.
I gently squeeze Tyler’s wrist.
“It’s okay, Ty,” I murmur, pulling his attention back to me with a small smile. “I’m okay.”
He doesn’t believe me. I see it in his eyes. But he nods, pulls me into one more quiet embrace. This one is Softer. The kind of hug that doesn’t try to fix anything—just says I’m here.
And in the background, I feel Alex’s presence like a wall, solid and unmoving. Watching me and holding me all together.