Chapter 50 #2
Why is it that instead of recoiling from the violence stitched into his veins, I ache for him to pull me closer, to crush me against that same chest that carried so much brutality? It makes no sense, and yet it feels inevitable.
The words slip out before I can stop them.
“How old were you… When you had your first kill?”
The question makes him pause. His brows lift slightly, as if he hadn’t expected me to go there.
Then he shrugs, almost too casually, though his fingers keep drawing idle lines down my spine, slow and steady, and I have to bite my tongue to suppress the moan that threatens to escape. Not the time, Lucas. Not the time.
“I was eleven,” he says finally.
My jaw drops, eyes widening, and before I can react further, his hand is at my chin, closing my mouth with a teasing little smirk.
Eleven?? What the actual hell—
“I started training for the bratva when I was ten,” he says, tone hardening.
“It wasn’t a choice. In families like mine, you don’t ask why—you obey.
As long as you are born in the Petrov family, you are taught violence.
We learn to fight, shoot, and survive. Doesn’t matter if you’re destined for business or blood. It’s bred into us. Expected.”
“My father walked away from the bratva when he was twenty-five to build his empire. But walking away doesn’t erase blood ties. The Petrov name doesn’t fade, it anchors you whether you want it to or not. He still owed loyalty. Which meant his children did, too.”
My chest tightens as he goes on, his tone dropping lower, quieter.
“At eleven, I was made to pull the trigger on one of my grandfather’s men.
Someone I…” He swallows, pausing. For the first time, his hand stills on my back.
“Someone I was close to. He taught me things, even at that age. But he betrayed my grandfather. Betrayed our family. And in our world, betrayal is a death sentence. No exceptions”
The weight of it presses against my chest, and my heart sinks. I can’t imagine being able to kill someone you trusted at that age. To take a life before you even really understood your own.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, the words slipping out hesitantly, unsure if I should even be saying them.
But he only smiles faintly, and—God help me—he boops my nose with his finger like we’re talking about something far lighter. The tenderness of the gesture made me all warm.
“Is that why you have the armband tattoo?” I ask quietly, studying the ink circling his strong arm. “I heard… sometimes people get them to honor lost loved ones. Is that true?”
He glances down at it, expression unreadable for a moment, then nods.
“It’s true. But this one wasn’t for him.”
I tilt my head. “No?”
His eyes soften, sadness flickering there like a candle flame.
“It’s for my grandmother. She died two years ago.”
“Ah.” My voice drops with sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss. You were close to her then?”
“Yes.” The word comes out tight, stripped of all his usual calm. His gaze drifts past me, and I know he’s somewhere else—back with her, in a memory that still aches. Then, after a pause, he looks at me again. His lips curve, faint but certain.
“She would have loved you.”
My heart stutters, fluttering against my ribs, and a small, uncertain smile curves my lips.
“She would?” I ask, my voice soft, fragile.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation, then leans in and brushes a kiss against my forehead. The warmth lingers there like a blessing. “She would.”
I bite down on my lower lip because I know what’s coming, I can feel him steering us back to me, and I don’t know if I’m ready.
“Now,” he murmurs, his tone shifting, grounding, “let’s talk about you.”
He understands. Of course he does—his hand trails up my spine, not possessive this time but soothing, steadying.
“They wouldn’t stop screaming in pain,” he says, his tone casual. Almost cold, “And apologizing. To you.”
A sharp grimace cuts across my face. “I don’t want their apology.”
I part my mouth, ready to speak, but the words die on my tongue. My chest tightens, a pressure building that feels like it could break me from the inside out.
His eyes sharpen instantly. “What is it?” His voice drips with concern, heavy with worry.
“Nate,” I whisper, my eyes dropping to his chest. “He’s… still alive.”
The way the words leave me—soft, bitter, disappointed—it sounds like a confession. Like I resent the fact that he’s still out there, breathing, living, when I’m the one left haunted.
“He is.” Alex says flatly, “But trust me, right now he’s praying for death to find him.”
My gaze jerks up to his. “What… what do you mean?”
He lets out a short, dark laugh. Then he leans forward, his hand sliding up to curve around the back of my neck. Firm. Unyielding. My breath catches.
“I have him locked up,” he says, each word deliberate, weighted. His eyes burn into mine, merciless and steady.
“And when I’m done with him…” His voice drops to a near-growl, grounding, terrifying, and intoxicating all at once. “He’ll become food for the vultures.”
I blink at him, stunned. My mouth opens, then closes, but nothing comes out. No argument. No plea for mercy. Because the truth is, I don’t feel a single shred of pity for Nate. Not one.
Because instead of fear, instead of disgust, something stirs low in my stomach.
Something sharp and hungry that’s been simmering all evening but now claws its way forward, unstoppable.
I should be horrified. I should be ashamed.
But crap, there’s something wrong with me, so wrong, because the way he says it, the way his hand grips the back of my neck, makes me feel alive in the most dangerous way.
This shouldn’t be turning me on. Not his words, not his violence, not the iron grip of his hand on my neck. But it is. fuck, it is.
He must see it—whatever’s burning in my eyes—because his jaw tightens, the muscle clenching hard.
My tongue swipes over my lips, trying to wet the sudden dryness there. His gaze follows the motion, lingering on my mouth, then dragging back up to my eyes with devastating slowness.
“Alex…” The word slips out of me, broken, breathless, already surrender. I know. I know we’re done for. Nothing on this earth can stop what’s coiling between us. Not the storm inside my head.
Not the blood on his hands.
Not even the fact that I am deeply in love and obsessed with a man like him.
“Fuck,” he growls.
And then his mouth crashes onto mine.
The moan that tears out of me is raw and unguarded, a sound of relief, of surrender, and he swallows it whole.
***
I let out a shaky breath, my eyes locked on the heavy metal door in front of me.
Beyond it waits the boy who ruined me. The boy who tore apart my childhood, who left pieces of me scattered so far I thought I’d never gather back, who left scars on me, deeper ones buried in my soul.
My chest feels too tight, like something is caged inside me and thrashing to get out.
Just the thought of his face is enough to drag me under.
It’s been a week since I came back to Alex.
A week of him holding me together when I thought I was falling apart.
A week of endless tears spilling into his chest, my voice breaking as I finally told him everything I’d buried for years.
Every word I let out was jagged, painful—but Alex stayed.
He held me through it all, his arms an anchor when the storm in my head grew too loud.
He listened to me talk about that day, about the endless nights of depression after, about how impossible it’s been to live with the weight of it.
Each day I opened with every confession, every broken whisper, I felt something loosen in my chest, just slightly.
A chain unfastening. It’s not freedom, not yet, but it’s the closest I’ve ever been.
I still have a long road ahead. Alex knows it too. He suggested therapy; he was gentle but firm about it, telling me how much I needed it, how much it could help me heal. I know he’s right. But today… Today I asked him for something else. I told him I wanted to see Nate.
When I said it two days ago, Alex had given me one of those long, quiet looks of his, like he could see through me, like he was weighing whether I was ready.
Then he just nodded, saying nothing more.
And now here I am, standing in this underground prison of locked doors and suffocating air, facing the one room that makes my body tremble.
My heart pounds like it wants to tear out of my chest. My palms are clammy, my stomach a knot of dread. I know Nate can’t hurt me here, not behind thick steel, not with Alex beside me. But fear doesn’t listen to reason. Fear lives in my bones. It remembers.
A warm hand suddenly seizes mine, steady, grounding.
I blink, dragging myself out of the spiral, and look up.
Alex is there, watching me with that unshakable focus of his.
Concern etches his face, but not pity—never pity.
His grip tightens, lacing our fingers together like he’s stitching me back into myself.
“Baby,” he says, voice low, steady, like he’s trying to pour calm into my veins. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes,” I blurt too quickly, nodding fast. “Yes, Alex, I am. I just…” My throat closes up, words crumbling, and I shut my eyes tight. My chest heaves like it’s forgetting how to breathe.
“Hey,” Alex murmurs, thumb brushing over my knuckles. “It’s okay. Take your time. Count if you need to.”
So I do. Inside my head, I start from one. My lips press together, and I hold onto the numbers like a lifeline. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. My grip on Alex’s hand is desperate, maybe too tight, but he doesn’t flinch. He just stays there, still as stone, letting me draw strength from him.
By the time I reach sixty, my pulse has steadied enough to open my eyes, wetness stinging the corners, but I force myself to look at the door. The door to my past. To my nightmare.
“I’m ready,” I whisper, though my voice trembles.