Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty- Six
Zayden
Speechless….
That’s what I am after, hearing Thiago’s plan.
I blink, hard. Two times. My gaze falls back on Safra, who leans into his balcony, cigarette dangling between his lips.
I’m sure my mouth hangs open, and I’m not sure if I have the power to close it.
Not when his words continue to cycle through every crevice of my mind.
The look on his face is enough to chip at the armor, shaking something loose inside my chest…
making this unbearable… and I look away.
“Zayden…” he murmurs. His hand lands on my knee, my gaze dropping to where it lies, and I swallow down the lump lodged inside my throat. I blink, letting out an exhale, and opening my mouth to speak, only for the words to never come.
“Talk to me, Ruas.” He says it like he’s begging, and it makes my heart clench.
I shrug, unsure of what to say…
What he’s planning to do is dangerous… deadly…
and I’m not sure if I can stomach the weight of it.
We spent hours talking about his plan, and I almost spilled the beans about Fernanda, and knowing what I know…
that mistake would’ve cost us both. Looking at Thiago, I can see the stress, the fear that he carefully tucks away.
I clear my throat, hating the silence that stretches between us.
Looking up at the night sky, I admire the soft twinkle of the stars.
What a fucking view…
“How’s your dad?” I ask, and I can tell by the way his hazel eyes bulge that my question takes him by surprise. “Is he going to like…”
“Recover?” he intercepts, offering me a nonchalant shrug and smug smile. “Who knows?”
Digging into my pocket, I grab my pack of smokes and join him. Thiago exhales, watching the grey clouds curl into the night.
“It’s strange,” he murmurs after a beat. “It feels the same. He wasn’t much of a father to me. I was more of an extension of him. Nothing else.”
The words hang heavy between us. I nod, because I understand that kind of inheritance. That kind of abandonment —Safra only got a golden cage.
He offers a lopsided grin.
I exhale through my nose before taking another drag. “I know how it feels.”
“I guess you would,” he quietly replies, and the silence that follows isn’t awkward.
It’s familiar. Comfortable in a way I don’t think I ever felt with Nico.
Sure, he’s my brother, but there’s something about understanding someone’s pain.
Nico always had love in his life, while I had abuse.
And when your body only knows abuse, it’s hard to understand love.
It’s hard to walk around and not have your walls up.
Maybe that’s why I feel this way towards Safra… He doesn’t pretend to be good, and neither do I.
Thiago’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You ever think about how we end up becoming the things we hate?” His fingers move to my arm, where the circular scars remain hidden beneath the ink. The soft pads trail light paths around them, making my skin break out in small bumps.
I swallow hard, scared to meet his gaze, so I focus on the sky instead—not the heat of his stare that burns the side of my face.
“You’re talking about our fathers?” I manage to ask, hating how nervous I sound.
“Mmm,” he coos, his finger trailing higher up the centipede crawling up my arm. “Maybe it’s inevitable. You spend your whole life trying not to be them, and one day you wake up realizing you’ve been walking their path the entire time.”
I scoff… The words fly out of my mouth. “Not me… I’m not a drunk… Or a junkie…”
“Yet violence controls you,” he adds, and I turn to study him.
The way his jaw tightens, the faint tremor in his hand as he discards the cigarette into the ceramic ashtray sitting on the railing. The words sting because he’s not wrong. A chuckle rips from Thiago, the kind that masked his grief—a sound I know all too well.
“My father would always say, control was love,” he grumbles, absentmindedly.
“That breaking something was the only way to make sure it belonged to you.” My brows knit, unsure if he’s talking to himself or me.
“He would hit me,” Thiago continues, his voice low and mechanical.
“Not because I disobeyed. Because he could. My stepmother would try to help, but he would beat her, too. Our house became the kind that you don’t see, speak, or hear. ”
I don’t know what to say, even though his words resonate with my soul. I only know that I can recognize the look in his hazel orbs—there’s a hollow understanding of pain that, over the years, becomes a habit. He clears his throat, snapping out of his trance.
“That’s what my old man taught me,” Safra mutters. “How to hurt and call it love.”
I swallow hard at the way he dragged out the word love, as if tasting it for the first time. As if unsure of the meaning… I look away, letting the tension grow thicker with silence—so much it chokes.
“You’re not him,” I whisper, lifting my gaze towards him.
He smiles and weakly counters. “Am I not? I hurt you?”
The truth is damning for us both. And once again, words fail me.
I feel myself inching closer, drawn to the pull of him.
The way the night folds around us, the way the light from the balcony turns his outline into something half-divine and half-damned.
He doesn’t say anything else, only pinches my cheek between his fingers.
To which I scowl, swiping his hand away, trying to ignore the flash of heat coursing through my body.
He steps closer, invading the small space between us. The night presses in, thick and electric. For a moment, I think he might walk away—but instead, he leans in and, without warning, crashes his lips into mine.
I’m stunned.
And Thiago is a man who demands. Who takes.
The kiss isn’t gentle; it’s a collision of everything we’ve been avoiding—anger, grief, and, most of all, need.
A confession disguised as a kiss. He tastes like scotch and smoke.
His hand grips my wrist, holding it down so he can devour me.
His tongue, wet and warm, swipes at the seams of my lips.
They part to give him access, and all restraint drops.
My fingers tangle into his curls, dragging him into me and deepening the kiss.
Our tongues clash, a battle of control and surrender.
We groan together, our bodies grinding, creating enough friction to create a fire.
Then, just as suddenly, he pulls back. Thiago’s voice is rough when he speaks, his eyes move back down to my swollen lips, and I bite down on the edge of my piercing.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “That I’m no better than the man who raised me.”
With that, he turns, walking inside, and I follow behind.
The sound of glass clinking follows. His room is big enough to be its own apartment.
Black marbled floor, high ceiling, open windows, and a large four-poster bed smack in the middle.
A throne fit for a king. I watch as he grabs a glass bottle and pours two drinks.
Heat continues to build inside me, making my blood boil with need…
So, I do the only rational thing and look away, pretending that I’m interested more in the lack of personality in this room.
I can hear him stride towards me, his footsteps soft and purposeful.
Something is different in the way it sounds.
It’s minimal, but I pick it up either way.
It’s like he’s trudging in mud, but quickly recovers.
“Scotch,” he says, handing me a glass, which I take, the amber liquid catching the light.
“You know I expected more of this room,” I tease, which is new to me.
Thiago chuckles, the sound low and tired. “You expected more?” he echoes, swirling his ice with his finger. “I don’t keep much that isn’t useful. To me, this isn’t home. It’s a prison.”
My eyes move to the grand piano—black lacquer, polished to a mirror, sitting comfortably in the corner in direct view of the large window. He strides toward it, his finger trailing over the smooth surface, before hovering over the keys. Slowly, he presses one down. Eyes on me.
The key is high and bouncing off the walls.
“Want me to play for you?” he asks, his voice dark and husky. I suck in breath before downing the drink in one swallow. My voice matches the same intensity when I say, “Please.”
He inhales sharply, his orbs dilating until all that is left is black. Safra places two fingers in the air and hooks them. A silent order. Come here.
I obey.
“Sit…” He pats the top of the piano for me to sit. My head shifts, unsure if it’s sturdy enough to hold me. “Sit, Ruas.”
And I do, muttering curses under my breath, only to come to a stop when he takes a seat at the bench, and using his hand, He spreads my legs apart, his eyes on me.
“Pull out your cock, Zayden.” The command has my body thrumming with need, and my hands moving of their own accord.
“Touch yourself for me…” he rasps, his eyes focused on me as the first notes spill out—low and vibrating through the wood beneath me.
It crawls up my spine, making me feel like I’m flying.
My eyes close, only for the soft melody to come to a forceful stop. “Eyes on me, Ruas.”
My lashes flutter open to find him already staring.
Heat licks my neck, working its way up my cheeks and to my ears.
My hand moves slowly over my length, my thumb rolling off the tip with each long stroke.
My toes curl inside my shoes. The feeling is intoxicating.
If I’m high, then I never want to come down…
not from this. Safra’s gaze never leaves mine, and the music becomes something else entirely, building until it shifts.
My pulse and hand sync with the rhythm. My vision swims, my eyes growing heavier, and I swear it feels like my head is detached from my body and I’m fucking floating. My movements grow sluggish and maybe a little clumsy.
I sit up, trying to fight through the fog pulling me under.
Thiago isn’t looking this time. His brown curls fall around him like curtains shielding him from his cruelty.
The truth hits like a slap. He drugged me.
The realization has me slipping off the piano, the music fading into nothing but my beating heart. The room spins and spins.
And I fall and fall.
Coming to a stop in a cloud of lies.
My arms fall open beside me, my eyes fixed on the ceiling that spins and spins.
Through the blur, I see movement—Thiago rises from the bench, his outline fractured by the bright light.
He closes in, creating an eclipse… much like him and I.
He’s saying something, lips moving slowly.
I’m sure he is telling the truth… I’m not ready to hear whatever it is.
The sound doesn’t reach me. Only the shape of his mouth, the quiver of his chin, and the way his eyes flicker between guilt and resolve.
I blink, fighting to stay awake, but the fog thickens. His voice becomes a hum, distant and underwater. One word—maybe my name—breaks through, then dissolves.
Before everything goes black.
He’s dead.
He’s dead. He’s dead.
I recite the words over and over. My legs pump harder with each step, the trees blurring in my vision, and my lungs burn.
I don’t stop. I dodge. Jump. Not stopping until I break out of the clearing, filling my lungs with air, trying to steady my racing pulse.
When headlights come into view, cutting through the dark.
The black car races down the curve, my gaze follows its path, and I notice it heading straight towards… Shiloh.
I run harder than I ever have in my life, cursing and shouting, putting myself in harm's way for a girl I barely tolerated. The horn blares, cutting too close to Shiloh, who’s on her knees, crying, staring down at her screen.
My arms instinctively wrap around the blonde as the car continues on its path.
He’s dead.
He’s dead. He’s dead.
The words continue to plague my mind, even as I whisper to her. “Shh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
I gasp…
Bright light floods the darkness, making my eyes burn.
My lungs expand with the inhale. Is it daytime already?
What the fuck happened? Breathing in and out until my pulse steadies.
The sound of the shower hums through the walls, dragging me back to consciousness, to the ache behind my eyes and the taste of scotch that still clings to my tongue.
I take in the room, and instantly jerk out of bed.
Fucking Safra…
I should really storm in there and beat his ass for whatever he did last night.
But it’s pointless, when it’s not the first time, and I’m sure it’s not the last. Whatever soothes his conscience.
My chest burns, my lungs still fighting for air.
The shower keeps running, and I move quietly, careful not to make a sound.
It’s odd.
Usually, I wake up naked to the sound of him gagging, but right now, I’m fully clothed, and my body is untouched.
I waste no time walking out the door, being careful when I shut it behind me.
The house feels too big and so suffocating at the same time.
I practically ran down the stairs, heading straight to the front door.
When it suddenly opens. Thiago’s stepmother freezes in the doorway, pale and trembling. Her eyes are red like she’s been crying. There’s a quiver in her chin that makes her hand fly to her mouth.
I don’t know why I stand here. Eyes glued to her… There’s something about her. A small tear slides down her cheek. The urge to comfort her makes me wonder how I would feel with my own mother. Why can't I move?
“Good morning,” she manages to say. “Is Thiago upstairs? I’ve been calling him.”
I nod.
Not trusting my voice. Not trusting this strange emotion that strangles my throat.
Why? She brushes past me, her perfume trailing behind her.
The floral scent lingering in the air long after she’s gone, and something inside me twists.
The silence is deafening, only to be interrupted by the loud buzz in my pocket. I dig into it, pulling out the device.
Greyson:
We need to meet. ASAP.
I stare at the message, the letters blurring. My gaze drifts back to the stairs, and whatever it is—whatever I’m sure Safra has done—it’s already in motion.