Chapter 26 RAFE
RAFE
Iwake up to the sound of him breaking. It’s not a scream, not this time.
It’s quieter—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, shredded on the inhale, half-swallowed like he’s choking on something in the dream.
The kind of sound that slices through a dark room like wire and knots itself around your spine before your body even knows it’s awake.
I sit up instantly, breath held, heart locked in that space between fury and instinct.
The sheets are twisted beside me. The air tastes like sweat and cold metal.
And Julian—fuck. He’s not crying. He’s shaking.
His body twitches once, then again, harder this time—legs tangled, one arm flung across the mattress, fingers twitching against the sheets like he’s trying to find something that isn’t there.
His face is locked in a grimace, mouth open just enough for the breath to rasp out, jaw tight, lashes fluttering like he’s trying to force himself awake but can’t claw his way to the surface.
He always runs hot when he dreams—sweat slicking his neck, the scar on his lip redder, rawer, like his past burns brighter in sleep.
I’ve seen the nightmares before. Not like this. Not this deep. Not this far gone.
“Julian,” I murmur, already leaning over, hand sliding up his back slow and firm, the way he likes, the way that usually brings him back to me. “Wake up, little halo. You’re dreaming. It’s not real.”
He flinches under my touch like I’m made of fire.
His breath stutters, eyes snapping open—but he doesn’t see me.
He doesn’t see anything. His gaze is glassed over, hollow, not blank or dazed, just utterly gone, as if the person behind it has been pulled out and replaced with something mechanical and wrong.
He moves like a puppet jerked by unfamiliar strings—limbs twitching in directions that don’t belong to him, movements sharp and purposeless yet driven by an intent that isn’t his own.
I freeze, breath trapped in my throat, watching as he stumbles forward barefoot and shirtless, bruises dark and blooming across his thighs like fresh ink. He heads straight for the nightstand.
Straight for my gun.
“Julian,” I say again, lower now, already moving.
He doesn’t stop. He grabs the gun with shaking hands, but he’s not wild, not flailing.
His grip is precise. His thumb brushes the grip like he’s calming it down.
Then he turns, walks across the room like he’s sleepwalking through a ritual he’s already memorized.
He stops in front of the mounted screen, taps it on, and for a second the room is dark again, quiet. The air stills. My body goes cold.
Then the screen lights up with the tape—the same fucking tape. The hotel room flickers into view, but the sound—his sound—starts playing before the image even fully fades in. And Julian, my Julian, my ruined, radiant, blood-slicked boy, lifts the gun and slides the barrel into his mouth.
“JULIAN.”
I’m across the room in an instant—no hesitation, no breath, just raw fucking movement.
I’m behind him before the panic can fully root in my chest, one arm banding around his waist so tight I feel every fragile bone beneath his skin, the other hand clamping over his where it grips the gun.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t jerk. His body simply leans back into mine like this is where it was always meant to go, like muscle memory knows safety even when his mind is lost.
The safety is on. Thank fuck. But I don’t pull the gun away. I don’t rip it from his mouth like it’s poison. Because I know exactly what he’s doing.
Yesterday, the panic stopped when the gun was there.
Yesterday, it grounded him—not in fear, but in control.
In mine. The barrel wasn’t a threat then; it was a tether, a silencer for the storm raging inside him.
And now, even asleep, even cracked open and hollowed out, he’s reaching for that same feeling again—trying to drown out the tape with something stronger, something that burns just right.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Replace it…” he mumbles around the barrel, voice muffled by steel and saliva, breath ghosting down the metal and fogging it faintly.
“Replace what, Jules?” I ask, voice low and steady, not moving except to press his back tighter against my chest. My hand curls over his on the grip—slow, firm—taking control without taking it away. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Just tell me.”
His fingers twitch against mine, then tighten—hard—so hard I feel bone grind beneath skin. He’s holding on like this is the only thing anchoring him to the floor, like if I pull away he’ll shatter into a thousand unfixable pieces.
“Replace it…” he says again, softer this time, voice cracking around the metal still filling his mouth. His eyes stay locked on the screen, wide and glassy, as if it’s killing him in slow, deliberate motion. “This one hurts…”
Oh. Oh, fuck.
He’s watching himself get ruined—listening to his own moans, haunted and hollow and violated—and he wants something else. Something louder. Something better. Something mine.
I press my forehead to the back of his neck, breath catching in my throat. My voice drops to the barest whisper, meant only for him. “Okay, little halo. I’ve got you. Let me replace it.”
My fingers tighten around the grip—slow, steady.
I don’t take the gun from him; I control it with him.
His other hand is still clamped around my forearm, nails digging in so deep I know there’ll be crescent marks tomorrow.
He’s shaking all over—not violently, just constant, like a wire strung too tight, every nerve coiled and waiting to snap.
The tape keeps playing. But it doesn’t matter now.
“You want me to give you something else to feel, Jules?” I ask, voice low and heavy, mouth brushing the shell of his ear as I tighten my arm around his waist, pulling him flush against me. “Something better?”
The words land somewhere deep inside him—under his ribs, past the panic—and I feel the impact the second they hit.
His spine arches just slightly, thighs tensing, and then his hand moves on my arm.
It pushes. Slow. Intentional. No stutter, no hesitation—just steady pressure guiding my palm downward like he’s carving a path out of his own torment, like this is the only way to crawl free of the noise.
Down his stomach, past the waistband of his boxers, until my fingers close around the heat of him—already hard, already leaking, already begging without words.
“Jesus, Jules…” I breathe into the hollow of his throat, voice catching on the heat crawling up my spine. But I don’t stop. I don’t fucking hesitate.
He’s still got the gun in his mouth, still got my other hand wrapped tight around the barrel with his, still locked to the screen like breaking eye contact would let the ghosts crawl out and drag him under again.
So I give him something stronger. I wrap my fingers around his cock and squeeze once—firm, brutal, grounding.
Julian jerks hard in my arms. A broken moan punches out around the steel—high, garbled, raw—and I swear the sound could gut a lesser man. His knees buckle just slightly; my arm locks tighter around his waist to hold him upright.
“That’s it, pretty boy,” I whisper, dragging my hand up his length slow and rough and perfect. “Let it drown everything else out. Just me now. Only me.”
His whole body convulses when I say it.
And I know—I fucking know—I’ve already started replacing it.
The tape still plays, but Julian’s shaking because of me now—because of my voice, my grip, my breath hot against his neck.
The gun remains in his mouth, but it’s no longer panic holding it there.
It’s purpose. It’s ritual. It’s the only thing loud enough to match what I’m doing to him, the only anchor strong enough to keep him present while I pull him apart and put him back together.
I stroke him again—slow, deep—hand locked between his hips while he moans into the muzzle like it’s holy, the sound vibrating through steel and straight into my bones.
I can feel him begging now—not with words, but with every inch of his body: the twitch of his thighs, the helpless pulse of his cock in my palm, the way his hands clench around my arm like he wants to be burned alive by touch alone.
He doesn’t want silence anymore. He wants me—raw, overwhelming, louder than the ghosts still whispering from the screen.
He moans again around the steel—high, wet, wrecked—and my hand keeps moving, slow and filthy, grip tight enough to bruise.
I feel every desperate twitch as he tries to hold on, tries to be good, tries to take it, tries to let me burn every last echo of the tape out of him until there’s nothing left but this.
Then, suddenly—he lets the gun fall from his mouth.
It doesn’t drop. He lowers it carefully, shaking fingers still wrapped around the handle, breath coming in broken, spit-slick gasps. I freeze behind him—arm still banded around his waist, cock grinding hard against the small of his back, mouth pressed hot to his neck.
He doesn’t turn to face me. Doesn’t look up at the screen either. He simply lifts the gun, tilts his head back until his cheek brushes my throat, and whispers—just two words, barely a breath—“Put it…” A tremble. A pause. Another fractured inhale. “…somewhere else.”
My whole fucking spine lights up. “Julian,” I growl into his ear, already breathless, already drowning in the heat rolling off him. “You know what you’re asking me?”
He nods—a broken, vicious little jerk of his head, like he’s begging to be erased and rebuilt from the inside out.