Chapter Sixteen
Rowen
Adrenaline scorches through my veins, burning away the last fog of liquor clinging to my brain.
I was drunk when we got home—sloppy, reckless—but the second I saw Ronan bleeding out on that bed, everything sobered.
Now, every sense is razor-sharp, locked in on the girl in front of me. Cupcake. The fighter.
I shove her into the metal chair and secure the restraints with more force than necessary. She barely flinches. That alone pisses me off.
My chest tightens as I step back, heart hammering against my ribs. It should be fear—Ronan’s still not out of the woods—but there’s another current running beneath it. Darker. Hotter. My blood’s pumping for more than survival now.
Up close, she’s not the fearless firebrand I saw in the ring.
She’s small. Almost too small, like her tiny figure was never meant to hold that kind of rage.
There’s something jarring about it—the way her sweat-slick hair clings to her bloody face, how the bruises darken across her skin—and yet she acts like I’m the one at a disadvantage.
It messes with me.
She reminds me of someone I’ve spent years trying to forget. No, someone I’ve tried to hate.
Berkley.
My jaw locks as her name cuts through me like a blade. No, this girl isn’t her. Can’t be. Berk is dead. That chapter ended in fire and betrayal. Still, something about Cupcake burrows under my skin, taunting the part of me that still aches for the past I lost.
I clench my fists and force myself to stay grounded. Ronan’s bleeding in a bed somewhere, and this woman was found in the same room with a gun on the floor at her feet. I don’t have time for ghosts or stupid memories that never should’ve survived.
I crouch to her eye level, narrowing my gaze. “You’re going to tell me why you’re here,” I growl, my voice low and cold. “You’re going to explain who you are, who sent you, and why the hell you were in my brother’s room trying to kill him.”
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t twitch. Just stares down at the floor like she’s already survived worse—and I’m nothing she hasn’t handled before.
I rise slowly, chest tight with a tension I can’t name.
Fine. Play silent. But I’ll get the truth out of her.
She’s not getting water. No food. No bathroom breaks. Nothing.
Not until she gives me what I need.
~~~~~
It’s been twenty-seven hours, and the silence is eating at me.
I’ve delivered a couple of slaps, sharp and calculated, each one a test. But I pulled back at the last second, redirecting the worst of my weight.
Not because I’m merciful. No—because every time my hand connects with her skin, something inside me tears.
This is the first time I’ve had to go this far against a woman, and it’s tearing me apart.
She tried to kill my brother. That much isn’t up for debate. She was in his room. There was a gun. Blood. Chaos. Her silence speaks volumes, and every second she holds it is another reason to break her down.
But every time I look at her—really look—I falter. Not visibly. Not enough for her to see. But inside, it’s like dragging barbed wire through my chest.
She’s small—fragile in appearance—and somehow still sitting there with more strength in her silence than most men have with a weapon in hand.
There’s something in the way she watches the floor—eyes dark, defiant—that chip away at the armor I’ve built around myself.
I should hate her. I need to hate her. But even now, her presence feels too familiar.
It doesn’t matter.
I remind myself of that with every breath I take, every command I issue. My soul? That shriveled thing died a long time ago, buried in the same grave we dug for the life we lost. There’s no coming back from what I’ve done—what I continue to do. Redemption was never an option.
She still won’t look at me.
Even now—hours in, skin damp with sweat, blood dried on her face—her chin’s tilted just enough that her eyes won’t meet mine. It’s not defiance. I know defiance. This is something else. Something quieter. Surrender, maybe. Or shame.
Or worse—guilt.
I drag a chair across the floor again just to hear the scrape.
Just to break the silence that’s pressing in too tight around my chest. She flinches at the noise, a barely there twitch of her jaw, but she doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t move. Her hands, zip-tied to the metal arms of the chair, have long since gone pale.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. Close, but not close enough to touch her.
“Who are you?” My voice is low and rough. I clear my throat. “Who sent you?”
No answer. Not even a glance.
“Why were you following Ronan?” I ask again, softer this time. “Was he the target?”
Silence.
A drop of sweat traces her temple. She blinks it away like it’s the only thing that matters right now. Not me or the dried bloody nose she’s sporting. Not the question that’s burned into my brain from the second I dragged her into this room. Why him?
I stand and start pacing. Not because I need the movement, but because I can’t sit still while she plays mute. It’s not just stubbornness. She’s too careful. Too methodical. She’s not scared enough for someone caught. Not angry enough for someone innocent.
That leaves one possibility.
“You knew what you were doing,” I say, more to the walls than to her. “Planned it. Followed him for weeks—hell, maybe months. What was it? A setup? A message? Was it about me?”
My fingers twitch at my sides.
I hate this part. Always have. The waiting. The not knowing. I’m good at the rest—getting answers, making people talk. But this? This limbo of half-truths and half-broken girls who won’t meet your eyes.
It gets to me.
I cross the room again and crouch in front of her. There’s a bruise blooming along her cheekbone, a line of red near her eye. My hand rises before I think it through, fingertips brushing her chin to tilt her face up.
She jerks away. Not violent. Just enough to say no more.
The movement shouldn’t feel like a slap—but it does.
I should’ve hit her harder.
Should’ve made her break.
Instead… I’m the one unraveling.
My jaw locks. “You don’t get to look away. Not when Ronan could’ve—” I cut myself off, my voice breaking on his name before I can finish.
She hears it too. Something flickers in her expression. Brief. A shadow of grief or regret. But it’s gone before I can pin it down.
I straighten, stepping back.
“Was Ronan the target?” I ask again, quieter this time. “Did you come here for him?”
Still nothing.
I can’t do this.
My hand comes up, palm open, and for a split second I mean to strike.
Just enough to snap her out of it. Just enough to make her listen.
But when it lands, it’s barely more than a touch—a backhand meant to punctuate, not punish.
Her head turns with the motion, a loose strand of hair slipping across her cheek.
The second comes quicker. A little harder. Still restrained.
The third finally draws blood.
And that’s when it happens.
That’s when something inside me gives way.
Blood wells at the corner of her mouth, bright and sharp against her skin—and I stagger back like I’ve been shot. My stomach twists. My throat burns.
Because I’ve done worse. Far worse.
But never like this.
Never with someone who reminds me of her.
I press my hands to my face, fingers digging into my scalp, trying to force the guilt out of me. It doesn’t work.
She still hasn’t made a sound.
“You were supposed to talk,” I whisper. “That’s the deal. You take a few hits, you give me a name, and this ends. That’s how it works.”
But she doesn’t play by the rules.
Neither do I—not anymore.
I look at her again. Her lip trembles. Not in fear. In pain. In something I don’t want to name.
She’s not the monster here.
God help me—I think she might be the victim.
And I just became her executioner.
“Just talk,” I snap, voice rougher than I mean it to be. My patience is hanging by a thread. “Give me a name. Tell us what the hell you’re doing here, and this ends. This doesn’t have to get worse.”
I hear him before he comes into view—soft steps against concrete, a measured cadence only someone like me would notice from this far out.
My brother moves with intent, not caution.
Not hesitation. It’s respect that slows him, an understanding of what this place demands and what it costs to step into it.
He knows what happens down here, underneath the blood and quiet.
He knows some truths don’t surface without leaving scars.
Ronan and I—we’ve always been the ones to get our hands dirty. The muscle. The enforcers. And most of the time? We don’t mind. We don’t flinch when things get messy, because the people we deal with are usually bottom feeders. Liars. Threats. Scum that makes the world worse by waking up in it.
But this girl?
This girl is different, and I hate that I feel that. Hate that she’s burrowing into my thoughts even as I try to break her. She’s bleeding, trembling, but still silent. Still unflinching, like she knows something I don’t.
And that’s what eats at me most—not knowing.
I sense Emerson move closer, hear the soft shift in his breathing as he steps into the hall just beyond the room. He stays silent at first. Just lingers, taking in the scene, watching me like he’s trying to figure out how far gone I am.
The girl—Cupcake, I’ve started calling her in my head, if only to soften the fact that I’ve bruised her face—doesn’t react to him.
She keeps her eyes low; her chin angled like she’s daring me to try again.
She’s a mess, but even the shadows can’t hide the fire still burning in her expression.
That same goddamn spark that keeps her from breaking.
And me?
I’m unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. But it’s happening.
My shoulders are locked, my fists tight, jaw clenched so hard it aches. The blood on my knuckles is dry now, but I still feel the sting beneath it—reminders that I crossed a line somewhere in the last hours. And I don’t know if I can uncross it.
Then I hear Emerson’s voice—low and cautious.
“Ro?”
The sound of it cuts deep, deeper than I expect. He doesn’t use that tone with me often. He doesn’t have to. But right now, there’s something in it that sounds a lot like worry, and it lands harder than any blow I’ve taken in this room.
He steps closer, slowly, like I’m a wounded animal that might lash out. Maybe I am.
I don’t look at him. I keep my focus on her, as if I just stare long enough, she’ll crack open and spill everything she knows. But nothing happens. Just more silence. More time slipping through my fingers while everything inside me screams that we’re missing something.
“Take a break, Ro,” he says gently, like he’s asking instead of ordering. “Just… breathe for a minute.”
For a second, I want to snap at him. Tell him I don’t need a break, that I’m fine. That I’m close.
But I’m not.
And he knows it.
I let my eyes linger on her one last time. Her face is battered, bloody, but there’s still that edge in her. A dare. A challenge. She’s hanging on by a thread, but somehow, I think it’s stronger than mine.
My jaw tightens as I reach for the rag at the edge of the table, wiping my hands with slow, methodical movements. The blood doesn’t come off. It’s dried in the lines of my skin, embedded like guilt I can’t scrub away.
I give Em a single nod. It’s stiff. Tired. But it’s all I’ve got.
Then I turn and head for the stairs, my boots heavy on the steps. Each one feels slower than the last, like the weight of what we’re doing down here is finally sinking into my bones. It’s not just her bruises I’m leaving behind—but a piece of my soul, too.
I don’t look back, because if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk away.