Chapter 36 Julian
JULIAN
“Everyone clear on the plan?” Xavier’s voice cuts through the silence, his crimson mask catching what little moonlight filters through the tinted windows.
I nod, adjusting my leather gloves. “Jenson’s intel confirms three entry points. Main door likely alarmed, but the back entrance through the kitchen and basement window are vulnerable.”
Vane examines his knife, the blade disappearing and reappearing between his fingers. “The pastor lives on site. Second floor, east wing.”
“And Mother Dearest?” Knox asks, his blue mask hiding the lower half of his face but not the eager glint in his eyes. The youngest Blackwood always looks like he’s about to tell a joke, even before violence.
“Jenson’s surveillance confirms Margaret Chambers arrived six hours ago and hasn’t left,” I respond, my voice steady despite the rage coiling beneath my ribs.
“Elliot is likely in the basement. That area doesn’t appear on the church’s public renovation plans, but thermal imaging shows a heat signature consistent with a human body. ”
Xavier checks his weapon—a sleek, silenced pistol that costs more than most people earn in a year. “We’re not here for casualties, but we’re prepared for resistance.”
Vane’s green mask tilts slightly. “Speak for yourself. Some lessons require blood to stick.”
“Stay focused,” I remind them. “Elliot is our priority.”
We move like shadows across the church grounds. Knox disables the security system with a device Jenson provided, buying us eight minutes before the backup kicks in. The lock on the basement window yields to Xavier’s tools in seconds.
I slip through first, landing silently on the concrete floor. The others follow. The blueprint from Jenson projected in my mind, I orient myself—utility room, corridor, then the large open space where Elliot’s heat signature appeared on the scan.
Vane taps my shoulder, pointing to fresh scuff marks on the floor—evidence of something heavy being dragged.
“They moved him,” he whispers.
A muffled sound echoes from beyond the door. A voice raised in prayer—or perhaps in madness.
I signal the others to hold as I inch the door open. The sight that greets me freezes my blood.
Elliot is bound to a metal chair in the center of the room, his wrists raw and bleeding from the ropes cutting into them. His face is pale, but there’s still fire in his eyes—that stubborn defiance that drew me to him in the first place. His shirt is torn, revealing marks that make my jaw clench.
Margaret Chambers paces in front of him, her movements erratic and unhinged. Her normally perfect hair hangs in greasy strands, and her designer outfit is rumpled as though she’s been wearing it for days.
“The demon must come out!” she screams, her voice cracking. “I will not have my son possessed by this filth! This abomination!”
Pastor Williams stands several feet away, pressing himself against the wall. The man looks terrified, no longer the confident spiritual leader but someone who’s realized he’s in a room with a deranged patient.
“Mrs. Chambers, please,” he whispers. “This isn’t what we discussed. The Lord works through gentle correction, not—”
“Don’t tell me how the Lord works!” She whirls on him. “My son is infected! Corrupted! And if you won’t help me save him, I’ll do it myself!”
I silently retrieve my phone, start recording, and capture everything—the makeshift restraints, the propaganda videos still playing on a TV nearby, the bucket in the corner that reeks of urine, the bruises forming on Elliot’s face.
Margaret grabs Elliot’s face, her nails digging into his cheeks. “Tell me you reject him! Tell me you reject that man and your sinful ways!”
Elliot’s voice is hoarse but clear: “I reject you.”
Her hand flies back to strike him, and I’ve seen enough. Catching her wrist mid-air with enough force to make her gasp, I twist it downward.
“Touch him again, and I’ll break it,” I say, my voice deadly calm.
Her eyes widen in shock, then narrow with recognition. “You!” she spits. “The devil who corrupted my son!”
Xavier steps into the room behind me. His presence alone makes Pastor Williams shrink further against the wall.
“Pastor Williams,” Xavier says, his voice carrying the easy authority of a man who never needs to raise it. “You’ve become an accessory to kidnapping, false imprisonment, and assault. The sentence for those combined charges is quite substantial.”
The pastor’s face goes ashen. “Mrs. Chambers assured me this was a family intervention. I didn’t—”
“Save it,” Xavier cuts him off. “Your only option is full cooperation with the authorities. Statements, evidence, everything. Otherwise, the Blackwood family will take a personal interest in your church’s future in Ravenwood.”
Margaret lunges toward Elliot again, shrieking incoherently about demons. Knox intercepts her with gentleness, securing her arms behind her back.
“Whoa, easy there,” Knox says. “Let’s not add additional assault to your charges, shall we? The arson is already pretty spicy.”
On cue, the basement door opens. Dr. Amelia Larson enters, medical bag in hand, her professional composure unruffled by the scene before her.
“Dr. Larson, thank you for coming,” I say.
She nods, her eyes clinically assessing Margaret. “I’ve brought the emergency commitment paperwork. Based on what you’ve shared and what I’m observing, we have grounds for immediate psychiatric evaluation.”
As I work on Elliot’s restraints, my fingers tracing the raw wounds on his wrists, Margaret’s voice rises to a fevered pitch.
“You can’t do this to me! I’m saving my son’s soul! I’m his mother!”
Dr. Larson approaches her, voice calm but firm. “Mrs. Chambers, I’m a psychiatrist. I’m going to help you, but first we need to get you somewhere safe.”
I watch Margaret’s meltdown with cold satisfaction. This is exactly what I needed—a doctor witnessing the evidence of her complete mental breakdown. The recording captures everything: the restraints, the abuse, her religious delusions, and most importantly, her implicit confession to the arson.
“You burned down his gallery, and now you’ve kidnapped and tortured your own son,” I say, my voice clinical. “The prosecutor will have quite the case against you, Margaret.”
Her eyes bulge with rage as she struggles against Knox’s grip. “You have no power over me! God is on my side!”
“God won’t be your attorney,” I reply. The evidence is secure—I’ve already set it to upload automatically to my private server.
“First arson charges, then kidnapping. And after your conviction, I’ll personally ensure you’re committed to Ravenwood Psychiatric Hospital’s wing for the criminally insane. ”
Margaret screams something unintelligible as Dr. Larson administers a sedative.
I turn my attention to Elliot, whose eyes are half-closed with exhaustion. My chest tightens seeing him like this—dehydrated, wounded, barely conscious. I slice through the remaining restraints with my pocket knife and gently lift him from the chair.
“Julian,” he whispers, his voice cracking.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, gathering him against my chest. His body feels lighter than it should, and I can feel him trembling. “You’re safe now.”
He collapses against me, his head finding the hollow of my shoulder like it belongs there. I carry him carefully up the basement stairs, shielding his face against my chest as we pass the police officers Xavier called in advance.
Outside, the night air is cool and clean compared to the stifling basement. Our SUV waits at the curb, engine running. I slide into the backseat with Elliot still cradled in my arms, unwilling to release him even for a moment.
“Hold on,” I whisper, pulling him closer as Vane closes the door behind us. “I’ve got you now.”
The SUV pulls away from the church, carrying us into the night. Elliot trembles against me, his body far too light in my arms. His skin is cool to the touch, his breathing shallow. I wrap my jacket around his shoulders and pull him closer.
“Water,” I say, and Knox passes a bottle from the front seat without comment.
I hold it to Elliot’s cracked lips, supporting his head as he drinks in desperate gulps. When he finally pulls away, his eyes find mine in the darkness.
“You saved me,” he whispers, his voice raw. His fingers clutch weakly at my shirt as if afraid I might disappear.
Something breaks open inside my chest—a feeling I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding. I press my forehead against his, breathing him in.
“Always,” I promise, my voice unsteady. “I will always save you, Elliot. Always protect you.”
My hand cups his face, thumb gently brushing over the bruise forming on his cheekbone. In the dim light of passing streetlamps, I can see every mark they’ve left on him, every hour of suffering etched into his expression.
“When I came home and found the door forced open...” My voice catches. “Your blood on the carpet. I’ve never been so terrified in my life.”
I close my eyes, the memory still raw. “I thought I might lose you before I ever had the chance to tell you what you mean to me.”
Elliot’s hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining. “Tell me now,” he whispers.
The words I’ve fought against rise to my lips, no longer something to fear but a truth I can’t deny.
“I love you.” The admission leaves me both vulnerable and strangely powerful. “I love your stubbornness. Your courage. Even your infuriating denial. I love how you fight for your art, for your artists. I love who I am when I’m with you.”
A tear slides down his cheek, and I catch it with my thumb.
“I didn’t know how much I needed you until I thought you were gone,” I confess. “And I swear, nothing and no one will ever hurt you again.”