27. Arson
Arson
C onsciousness returns in fragments—first, pain that radiates through my skull with nauseating waves. Followed by sound—water dripping, an alarm system that’s finally silenced itself. Last come the memories—Aries attacking me, Lilian in my arms, chaos ensuing.
I force my eyes open, and my vision blurs. After a moment, I blink, and everything returns to focus. The first thing I notice is the red-tinged water pooling around me.
Blood. Mine, mostly I think.
It’s clear that I underestimated the lengths he would go to break free and claim her. That won’t happen again. Movement at the far end of the corridor catches my attention.
Aries—he’s still naked, hair dripping, blood smeared across his back, a barrage of scratches littering his flesh.
He’s walking away, his steps purposeful despite the drugs in his system.
Where the fuck does he think he’s going?
My first instinct is to stop him, but then I catch sight of Lilian. Her tiny body is curled in on itself, and my desire to kill Aries only grows. Even from a distance, I can see how pale she is against the gray concrete, her creamy flesh marked with bruises that are only beginning to form—fingerprints on her hips, a bite mark on her shoulder that’s bleeding.
He fucking used her.
Like an animal, he took what he wanted, and now he’s walking away. Leaving her discarded on the cold floor like she’s nothing. Like she’s a tool, a means to wound me, and not a living, breathing person. I can’t explain, can’t put into words what seeing her so helpless and hurt does to me. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. She wasn’t supposed to end up hurt.
But she did, and it’s your fault.
Rage ignites in my blood, different from the calculated violence I’ve nursed for years, and not the cold revenge I built my life around. This is something hotter, sharper, more immediate.
How dare he? How fucking dare he?
Even as I think about it, about how much I despise him for this, I know I’m not any better. If I hadn’t toyed with him, pushed him, it wouldn’t have happened. I have more self-control than him. I should’ve known better, yet I still taunted him.
I push myself up off the floor, ignoring the stabbing pain in my head and the warm blood that trickles down my neck. Nothing matters except ensuring she’s okay and locking him back up in that cell. I look back at where Lilian lies, her lips slightly parted, her breath shallow.
Without the chemical amplification, the security system sedatives are still taking effect, pulling her deeper into the darkness. Slowly, I walk toward her, my legs heavy. I’ve experienced the sedatives so many times that they no longer affect me.
Guilt punches me in the gut when I get close enough to touch her.
You did this to her, too.
I caress her cheek. The gesture is so careful and gentle that it surprises even me. Her skin is cool, most likely from the water, but the chemicals can have a negative effect on those with medical conditions. I’ll need to get her warmed up soon. If her body temp drops too low, then we’ll have another issue on our hands. My gaze shifts back to Aries’s retreating form. He hasn’t noticed I’m conscious.
Fucking asshole, thinking he’s won, thinking he can just walk away after doing what he did. She deserves better, more. The mistake will cost him everything. I thought he cared.
That he cared enough about one thing, more than he cares about himself. I’m a piece of shit for letting it get this far. Ignoring the protest of bruised muscles and cracked ribs, I move slowly at first, then faster. Pain is a part of life, the same as breathing.
Get Aries into the cell, then take care of Lilian.
I follow Aries silently, bare feet making no sound on the wet concrete. Every step sends a fresh wave of pain into my ribs, but I push it aside, compartmentalizing it into the same box where I’ve stored every hurt for the past decade. He’s heading toward the security exit, his movements too confident for a man who just broke out of captivity. Except there’s something off about his gait—there’s a slight sway, a momentary hesitation when he turns a corner.
The drugs I pumped into his cell are still circulating in his bloodstream. Working as a sedative now that adrenaline isn’t pumping through his veins, they’re finally slowing his reactions and dulling his senses.
Advantage: mine.
I walk a little faster, keeping to the shadows. Water still drips from the overhead pipes, masking any sound I might make. He pauses at a junction, head tilting as if listening, but he doesn’t turn. Doesn’t see me closing the distance between us.
Ten years in an institution taught me that patience is key. Taught me to wait for the perfect moment rather than rush in. I could take him now, but it would be a fight. Even drugged, he’s dangerous. Better to wait until he’s fully exposed and vulnerable.
The corridor opens into the main warehouse space, the moonlight that filters through high windows casting everything in silver. Aries pauses, scanning the area, likely looking for clothes, maybe a weapon…anything to aid his escape.
His back is a map of violence—Lilian’s nail marks crisscrossing over older scars that were left from our previous fights. The sight of those scratches renews my rage.
She marked him. Despite the chemicals, despite his brutal taking, she fought back even as she wanted it.
He moves toward a storage cabinet, his attention focused on one singular thing. Perfect.
I close the last bit of distance between us in three silent strides, timing my attack with the distant rumble of thunder outside. When I reach for him, I’m prepared and lock my arms around his throat in a practiced chokehold, the move perfected through years of institutional survival. As predicted, he reacts instantly, muscle memory overriding the drugs in his system.
He drives his elbow into my injured ribs, and pain ripples through my chest. Thankfully, his movements are sluggish and predictable, so I’m able to shift at the last moment, and his second blow lands against my hip rather than my rib.
“Should’ve made sure I was dead, Brother,” I hiss against his ear, tightening my grip as he continues to struggle.
He tries to speak, but my forearm pressed against his windpipe cuts off both his air supply and the opportunity to speak. Meaty fingers claw at my arms, but I’m not worried. His strength is slowly fading from the lack of oxygen. In a last-ditch effort, he slams us into a support column. Pain zips up my spine, but I ride out the impact and maintain my grip.
“The drugs make it worse, don’t they?” I observe clinically, feeling his movements grow more desperate but less coordinated. “Fighting just pushes them through your system faster.”
He’s no longer struggling, his body finally giving in, going slack in increments until finally, his knees buckle. I follow him down, maintaining pressure until I’m certain he’s unconscious.
When I release him, I roll him onto his back and check his pulse—strong despite the chokehold. Good. I don’t want him dead. Death is too simple, too clean. I want him awake, aware, forced to watch as I reclaim what he tried to take from me.
I’ll admit that I fucked up—that bringing Lilian into this made things worse—but there’s no changing what happened. All I can do is ensure he doesn’t get his hands on her ever again.
His face in unconsciousness looks younger, the hatred and rage smoothed away. We could almost be mirrors again, like when we were children.
Before the boathouse. Before I lost my brother. Before everything shattered.
My mind flashes back to me stepping up to my father’s angry demands.
“Its my fault. I did it.”
Anger reclaims me back in the present, and I slap him, my palm stinging, reminding me that this is reality, that he did this to us. His head lolls with the impact, but he doesn’t wake.
The combination of drugs and oxygen deprivation will keep him under long enough for me to get him back in that cell.
“You never did know when to stop, when to let go,” I tell his unconscious form, hauling him up by his arms.
His dead weight is substantial, but rage and determination give me the strength I need to drag him across the warehouse and into his cell. His heels leave trails in the water still pooled on the concrete, marking our path like bread crumbs.
I’ll need to clean that up. Secure everything again.
Fix what he broke.
Like always.
The cell door stands open, water still dripping from the sprinklers inside. I haul him over the threshold, dropping him with less care than I might show a sack of garbage. His head thunks against the concrete, adding another injury he’ll feel when he wakes up.
He deserves it. He deserves everything he’s going to get.
I move efficiently, muscle memory taking over as I secure him—ankle cuffs first, then wrists, connected by chains to the reinforced bolt I installed in the floor months ago. More restraints than before. No chance for escape this time.
I register the change in his breathing as I work, consciousness returning by degrees. I increase my pace, finishing the restraints before retrieving a syringe from the hidden compartment in the corridor. The clear liquid inside will keep him docile for hours—long enough for me to repair the security breach and to attend to Lilian and any injuries she might have.
The needle slides into his neck with practiced ease. His eyelids flutter as the sedative enters his bloodstream, a flicker of rage visible before the drugs pull him under again.
“Sleep well, Brother,” I murmur, checking the restraints one final time. “We’ll continue our discussion when you wake up.”
I step back, surveying my work with satisfaction. He’s secured more thoroughly than before, the chains allowing only minimal movement. Just enough to prevent muscle atrophy, but not enough to work on another escape.
Contained. Controlled. Mine once more.
The damage is easy to spot once I know what to look for—a ragged hole in the wall behind where the bed had been positioned, wires exposed and crossed to trigger the alarm system. Clever, if desperate. I underestimated his engineering knowledge, a mistake I won’t repeat. Water still pools on the floor, making repair work messier but not impossible.
I retrieve tools from my workshop upstairs, returning with a reinforced metal panel, screws, and an electric drill. The repair needs to be thorough and impossible to breach again without heavy equipment.
I position the panel over the hole, noting the blood on the concrete edges where his fingers tore at the surface. Another layer to our matched determination—his to escape, mine to contain. The drill whines as I secure the panel with heavy-duty screws, driving them deep into the concrete until the metal sits flush against the wall.
Once satisfied with the repair, I run my fingers along the edges, testing for any weakness. Nothing. Even knowing exactly where the breach was, I can barely detect it now.
I step back, surveying the cell one final time. Aries remains unconscious, chest rising and falling in the rhythm of drug-induced sleep. The chains glint in the harsh fluorescent light, a visual reminder of who holds the power now.
Satisfied, I close and lock the door, resetting all security protocols before heading back to where I left Lilian. She hasn’t moved, still curled into herself on the wet floor, vulnerable in her unconsciousness. The sight hits differently now, triggering something protective rather than possessive. Something that feels dangerously close to caring.
I kneel beside her, gently brushing strands of wet hair from her face. Blood has dried on her inner thighs, mixed with other fluids I don’t want to think about. Her skin bears the marks of our battle for possession—finger-shaped bruises, bite marks, and abrasions from the rough concrete.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, though she can’t hear me.
As gently as possible, I slide one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. I cradle her against my chest, and this strange rage consumes me at the lightness of her body. Her head falls naturally against my shoulder, breath warm against my neck. So light, so fragile in my arms. How could either of us have treated her with such brutality?
The question brings unwelcome self-reflection that I’m not ready to examine.
Instead, I focus on the immediate need—caring for her, cleaning her, ensuring she suffers no lasting physical damage from our violent claims.
The emotional trauma is beyond my capacity to address. Perhaps beyond anyone’s. Physically I can stitch her up, stop any bleeding, and make sure she is okay.
I carry her toward the stairs, movements careful to avoid jostling her. With each step, I feel something shifting inside me—priorities realigning, focus changing. Revenge suddenly seems less important than her well-being. A dangerous thought I can’t afford to entertain.
The master bathroom connects directly to my bedroom, designed with the same clinical efficiency as everything else in my space. I nudge the door open with my shoulder, careful not to bump Lilian’s head against the frame.
Steam fills the room as I turn on the shower with one hand, still cradling her against my chest. The water heats quickly, mist rising to fog the mirrors. I step under the spray with her still in my arms, ignoring the sting as hot water hits my own cuts and abrasions.
Her skin, pale and marked with evidence of our struggle, glistens as water cascades over us both. I lower her carefully until she’s sitting on the built-in bench, her head lolling against the tile wall. She looks smaller somehow, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen her.
I retrieve shower gel—something expensive with hints of cedar I barely notice most days. The scent seems important now, a counterpoint to the metallic tang of blood and sex still clinging to her skin.
Starting with her shoulders, I work the lather across her body gently.
My hands, instruments of violence for so long, now move with careful precision, washing away the evidence of what we did to her.
Blood and other fluids swirl down the drain as I clean between her thighs, my touch clinical rather than sexual despite our nakedness. My own the tenderness surprises me, this unfamiliar urge to care rather than possess foreign.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure for what, exactly.
For using her against Aries? For the rough claiming? Or for something deeper—dragging her into this war between brothers that was never hers to fight?
Her eyelids flutter as consciousness begins returning, the drugs finally wearing off. I continue my ministrations, working shampoo through her hair, fingers massaging her scalp.
“Mmm,” she murmurs, leaning into my touch unconsciously.
I rinse the suds away, watching them disappear down the drain like the evidence of our violence. Clean. Reset. As if it never happened.
Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they land on my face.
“Aries?” she whispers, confusion evident in her voice.
The single word slices through me, deeper than any knife could reach. Of course she would think I’m him. Of course her first thought would be for my despicable brother.
“No,” I say, voice rougher than intended. “It’s Arson.”
Disappointment flickers across her features before she can mask it.
Another wound, this one to something I didn’t know could hurt. Something dangerous and fragile taking root where only vengeance used to live.
“Where is he?” she asks, her voice small and uncertain.
“Back where he belongs,” I answer, unable to keep the edge from my tone. “Where he can’t hurt you.”
Her hands reach for me, hesitant at first, then more certain as they slide up my chest. Confusion clouds her expression, yet her body seems to know what it wants—touch, connection, comfort.
“The chemicals,” I explain, catching her wrists gently. “They’re used to calm a person, and they lower your inhibitions. You’re still feeling the effects.”
“No,” she says, her voice stronger than I expected. “It’s not just that.”
She pulls her hands free, surprising me with her determination as she slides them up to cup my face. Water streams between us, warm and cleansing, as she studies my features.
“You came back for me,” she whispers. “You didn’t leave me there.”
The simple observation shouldn’t affect me, but it does. Another crack in the armor I’ve built over years of institutional survival.
Her lips find mine, tentative at first, then more insistent.
I need to stop this. It’s wrong. She’s vulnerable, still influenced by the security system’s chemicals. Every rational thought escapes when her body presses against mine, wet skin sliding against wet skin. My resistance crumbles, and I let go, deepening the kiss.
Unlike our earlier encounter, this kiss holds no violence, no punishment. Her mouth opens under mine, her tongue seeking entrance that I willingly grant. My hands settle at her waist, holding rather than restraining.
“Please,” she murmurs against my lips. “I need to feel something else. Something that isn’t...”
She doesn’t finish, but doesn’t need to. I understand perfectly. She needs to replace the memory of our brutal taking with something gentler. Something chosen rather than forced.
Who am I to deny her that healing?
I lift her carefully, her legs wrapping around my waist as I press her back against the shower wall. Her breasts, perfect and water-slicked, brush against my chest, nipples hardening at the contact. My cock hardens instantly, pressing against her center where she’s still swollen and sensitive.
“Tell me to stop,” I offer, one last chance to retreat from this precipice.
“Don’t stop,” she answers, rocking against me, seeking friction. “Please, Arson.”
My name on her lips is the final permission I need. Positioned at her entrance, I can feel the warmth of her cunt calling to me. Unlike before, I enter her with excruciating slowness, giving her body time to adjust, to accept. She gasps as I fill her, her inner walls still tender from the earlier abuse yet welcoming me with silken heat. I grit my teeth against the desire to rut into her and pause when fully seated. With our foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air, I can feel every shudder and quiver of her body.
“Okay?” I ask, searching her face for any signs of pain or regret.
“Yes,” she breathes, rolling her hips. “Move. Please.”
I establish a gentle rhythm, nothing like the punishing pace of our previous encounter. Each thrust is measured, deliberate, angled to brush that spot inside that makes her gasp. Her arms twine around my neck, holding rather than clawing, as we move together in the steam.
I’ve had sex countless times since escaping the institution. Used it as just another tool for manipulation, for release, for punishing those who deserved it.
This is something else entirely. This is... connection .
After she comes apart in my arms, crying out my name—my name, not his—I carry her still trembling body to my bed. Water droplets glisten on her skin; I haven’t bothered to dry either of us completely. I lay her down, watching as her eyes grow heavy. The chemicals, the trauma, the release—all combine to pull her toward much-needed sleep. Her legs part slightly as she shifts, revealing the evidence of our joining—my cum leaking from her still swollen pussy, marking her in the most primal way possible.
The sight should trigger possessiveness, satisfaction at claiming what Aries tried to take. Instead, it prompts an unfamiliar protective surge. I pull the sheet over her, covering her nakedness as if suddenly conscious of her vulnerability.
“Rest,” I tell her, voice rougher than intended.
She catches my hand as I move to stand, fingers curling weakly around mine. “Stay,” she murmurs, already half asleep. “Please.”
I hesitate, then settle beside her on the bed, above the covers while she’s beneath them. A boundary I’ve never bothered with before. Her fingers remain laced with mine as her breathing deepens, her body surrendering to exhaustion.
In sleep, her face relaxes completely. The wariness she carries even in her most unguarded moments with me fades away, leaving something younger, more innocent. It’s difficult to reconcile this peaceful expression with the sounds she made moments ago—her gasps as I moved inside her, the way she moaned when my fingers circled her clit, the broken cry of completion when she tightened around my cock.
I study her features, committing them to memory.
The subtle architecture of her face, so different from that of the Hayes family despite years in their world. The dark sweep of eyelashes against her cheeks. The slight part of her lips as she breathes. There’s a tightening in my chest, unfamiliar and dangerous.
This was never part of the plan. I trace the line of her cheekbone with my free hand, touch feather-light to avoid waking her. The tenderness of the gesture startles me, foreign to everything I’ve become since the institution.
Dangerous, this softness. Dangerous, this care. Every attachment is vulnerability. Every vulnerability, a potential weapon to be used against me.
Yet I can’t bring myself to pull away. I can’t force myself to reestablish the emotional distance that has kept me alive and focused all these years.
Somewhere in the building below us, Aries lies chained and unconscious. The revenge I’ve planned for years is finally within reach. I should be savoring this victory, planning the next phase, ensuring nothing interferes with what I’ve worked toward for so long.
Instead, I’m watching a girl sleep, wondering what it would be like to be someone worthy of her trust. Someone capable of more than destruction.