Chapter 20 Dorian
Dorian
Ronan’s hand shot out, grabbing the front of Lane’s shirt and yanking him sideways, hard enough that Lane stumbled into me. The motion pulled Lane clean out of the bullet’s path, but brought Ro into it.
I saw it happen in a blink—fabric tearing, a sharp jerk of his shoulder, and a thin line of red appearing along his sleeve.
And that was it.
There was no shout, no wince of pain.
Nothing.
Ro didn’t even look at the injury. His gun was already up. He fired two shots back-to-back like they were one motion instead of two.
The first hit Jackson’s hand.
The impact tore through his grip, and I saw—actually saw—his fingers explode apart as the gun was ripped from his hold, clattering uselessly across the floor.
Jackson screamed.
The second shot came barely a fraction of a second later, straight into his knee.
The sound that followed was worse than the gunshot. There was a wet, cracking collapse as his leg gave out under him, dropping him hard to the ground.
Jackson curled in on himself, wailing, clutching what was left of his hand, with his leg twisted wrong beneath him.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t think I could.
Because it had happened so fast that my brain hadn’t caught up yet.
Ro stepped forward without a sound, kicking the fallen gun further out of reach, then grabbed Jackson by the back of the shirt and forced him flat onto his stomach. Jackson tried to fight—tried to twist, to push up—but it was useless.
Jackson choked on a sob, the sound breaking into something raw and animal as Ro wrenched his arms behind his back and secured them with zip ties.
I realized, distantly, that I was staring.
Lane was too.
He stood next to me, completely still for once, eyes wide in a way I’d never seen on him before.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
Yeah.
That felt about right.
Ro then stretched his arm out like he was working out a strained muscle rather than a bullet wound. Blood was starting to soak through his sleeve.
The blood seemed to snap Lane out of whatever stupor he’d been in. “Oh my god, Ro,” he said, stepping forward quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I should’ve—”
Ro cut him off with a look. “It’s fine.”
Lane shook his head immediately, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch, where to help. “No, it’s not, you got shot because of me—”
“I got grazed,” Ro corrected, voice steady. “Because he fired a gun, not because of you.”
Lane’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked down at the blood again, jaw tightening. “I should’ve moved faster,” he mumbled. “You’re hurt.”
Ro exhaled, quieter this time, then, after a second, he reached out and tapped Lane lightly under the chin, pushing his gaze back up. “I thought of the difference. You don’t normally have people shooting at you.”
Lane stilled, then smacked Ronan’s hand away with a pout. “Really?!”
Ro smiled at him, looking as if he were trying to soothe Lane even in a situation like this. “Hey, it’s just a little burn. I’m seriously okay.”
“But you’re bleeding…”
“It’s barely bleeding. If you’re worried, go search the bathrooms. Maybe he has some bandages or something.”
Lane nodded at Ronan, then rushed to the master bathroom in search of supplies, leaving Ro and me alone with the idiot writhing on the floor.
Ro glanced up at me briefly. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’m good.” I mentally shook off the stress of the last few minutes and took a centering breath, locking back in.
Ro turned his attention back to the man at his feet, all business again. “Get something to tie his legs,” he instructed.
I knelt beside him, grabbing the nearest corded blind tie I’d found on a shelf and handing it over. “Here,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
Ro didn’t acknowledge me beyond a single nod. He leaned over Jackson, looping the tie around his legs and cinching it tight. Jackson’s screams had turned into wheezing gasps, a mixture of shock and pain that filled the room like a physical weight.
Lane came back then, hands full of rolled-up towels and some bandages, moving fast. “Here, here—this will help,” he said, kneeling beside Ro and quickly pressing the towels to the wound on Ro’s arm. He hesitated, then muttered, almost to himself, “I can’t believe he just… just—”
“Focus,” Ro said calmly, one hand still keeping Jackson pinned while the other helped Lane secure the makeshift bandage.
Lane’s fingers trembled as he wrapped the towel around Ro’s arm, but he didn’t pull away. “I… I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking.
“I said it’s fine. There’s nothing to be sorry for, Lane. But would it help if you could do me a favor?”
“Yes! Whatever you want,” Lane promised, finally knotting the towel around Ro’s arm.
“Great. Then I’m assigning you to torture duty. Dorian, you can either assist Lane or find some cleaning supplies.”
“Aren’t we leaving him here to find?” I asked.
“Yeah. But there are a few drops of my blood by the door that need to be gone,” he answered.
Jackson tried to twist again, crying, but Ro adjusted his grip effortlessly, pinning him without a struggle.
“Stop moving,” Ro murmured, almost gently, like he wasn’t just restraining a man who had tried to kill him two seconds ago.
“Okay, I’ll find something,” I told him, giving the scene in the bedroom one last glance before jogging out, dodging the brother’s body in the hall, and locating the laundry room.
“Please have bleach,” I said under my breath, searching through the various detergents on the shelf above the washer and dryer.
I cursed as I read the label of the last bottle, finding a scent booster. That wouldn’t be very fucking helpful.
As I left the laundry room and entered the kitchen, determined to not let Ronan down, I heard a broken scream coming from the direction of the bedroom. It was very clearly Jackson’s, so I turned back to the task at hand, opening each cupboard and drawer.
My fingers rattled across jars, boxes, anything that might have a chemical strong enough to erase blood without leaving a trace. Nothing looked right—vinegar, baking soda, and dish soap were all too weak.
Another pained wail came from the bedroom, jagged and raw. Lane must’ve started.
Then I spotted it: a bottle of concentrated bleach tucked behind a stack of cleaning sprays. Relief surged.
I carried the bottle carefully back down the hall, all the while listening to Jackson’s blubbering and my friends’ voices.
I ducked into the bedroom doorway, keeping low, trying not to disturb Lane’s torturing.
Ro’s gaze flicked to me as I knelt on the floor. “Got it?” he asked, voice calm but commanding.
“Yeah,” I whispered, setting the bleach down beside me. I grabbed a few rags, dipped them carefully into the bleach, and pressed them to the trail of blood along the floor. The chemical bite stung my fingers through my gloves, but I ignored it.
As I cleaned, I watched the action on the other side of the room.
Ronan was propped up against the wall, occasionally throwing out instructions or comments, but mainly just watching the same as I was.
Lane was… truly in his element, I guess you could say.
He was crouched beside Jackson, peering down at him with a face that looked like something you’d see when successfully flirting with your date. Not quite bedroom eyes, but close. It was hard to describe.
“What should we play with next?” he crooned. Jackson was staring up at him in terror. And when he didn’t say anything, Lane continued the conversation by himself. “I think your fingers would be fun. Well, you know, the remaining ones.”
Jackson cried, “W-why are you doing this?”
Lane ignored him, and held the man’s uninjured hand flat against the floor. With his other hand, he pulled a tactical knife from its sheath.
Very slowly, he began to stab at the empty space between each finger, one after another. For a few seconds, Jackson’s eyes followed the knife, and he flinched with each movement of Lane’s hand, but eventually, he ended up rolling his gaze up toward the ceiling, unable to watch any longer.
Lane sped up as he went, stabbing between Jackson’s fingers over and over as the man trembled. Faster and faster, the knife cut through the air, until it was almost a blur.
The rhythm turned frantic.
Metal striking wood in rapid succession—thump, thump, thump.
A choked sob tore out of Jackson, his whole body jerking under Lane’s hold as his bound hands strained uselessly behind his back. “Stop—stop, please—please—”
Lane didn’t.
If anything, the sound seemed to settle something in him. His shoulders relaxed, his movements smoothing out even as they stayed impossibly fast, the knife dancing between fingers with terrifying accuracy.
“Shh,” Lane hummed, almost fondly. “You’re doing so good. See? You haven’t lost any more yet.”
Jackson sobbed harder.
I forced myself to look away, focusing back on the floor. The blood was already starting to fade under the bleach, breaking apart, and dissolving into nothing. I pressed harder, scrubbing at the edges, making sure there wasn’t a trace left in the grain of the wood.
Behind me, the rhythm suddenly stopped.
The silence hit harder than the noise had.
“Oops,” Lane said lightly.
I looked up.
Jackson shrieked as he looked at the blood welling across his hand from where his ring finger used to be attached.
Lane tilted his head, examining the damage with mild curiosity rather than concern. “That one’s on you,” he said conversationally. “You moved.”
“I didn’t—I didn’t—”
“You’re really starting to annoy me, Neil,” Lane sighed dramatically.
Ro let out a quiet breath from where he leaned against the wall, head tilting as he watched the scene unfold. His gaze flicked from Jackson’s mangled hand to Lane’s expression. “Lane,” he called.
Lane glanced up immediately. “Yeah?”
“If you’re bored,” he said evenly, “ you can end it. You’ve done enough.”
I briefly wondered what he’d done while I was out in search for cleaning supplies. If Ro said it was enough, it was enough. But still, I was curious.
Jackson’s breath hitched, a wet, panicked sound, his eyes darting wildly between Ronan and Lane. “No, n-no, no, please—please don’t—”
“Yeah,” Lane said after a second. “I think I’m done.”
Jackson started sobbing harder, words tumbling over each other, desperate and incoherent. Apologies, denials, promises—none of it mattered.
Lane didn’t even look at him anymore.
He rose smoothly to his feet, wiping his hand absently on his pants before stepping behind Jackson. For a moment, he just stood there, looking down at him like he was deciding how to finish a game he’d already lost interest in.
I found myself watching again, rag clenched in my hand, bleach stinging my nose as the last faint trace of blood disappeared from the floor.
“Wait—wait, please—” Jackson choked.
Lane crouched behind him, then shoved the knife into Jackson’s throat, all the way to the hilt, before pulling it back out.
Jackson gurgled for a moment, choking on his own blood, but quickly went still.
Lane stayed there for a second longer, like he was making sure every drop of life had been emptied from the shell at his feet, then stood up, brushing his hands together. “Okay,” he said brightly, like he’d just finished a chore. “All done. I am in dire need of a bubble bath.”
Ro pushed up from the wall, eyes sweeping over the room one last time. “Good,” he said simply.
I swallowed, forcing myself to move again, to finish wiping down the last edges of the doorway. “Floor’s clean,” I said.
Ro nodded, looking tired. “Then we’re leaving. Come on.”
Lane stepped over Jackson’s body without a second glance, moving to Ro’s side like nothing had happened. “You sure you’re good?” he asked, eyeing the blood soaking through the towel again.
“I said I am,” Ro replied, but there was a faint edge of impatience now. “We’ll deal with it in the car.”
I tossed the used rags into a plastic bag I’d grabbed from the kitchen and tied it off tightly. The smell of bleach clung to everything, but at least there was no visible trace left behind.
Ro headed for the door first, stepping over the brother’s corpse like it was nothing more than an obstacle. Lane followed close behind him.
The night air hit like a shock when we stepped outside—cool, clean, untouched by what we’d just done, and most importantly, bleach-free.
Ro didn’t slow as he led us toward the car. “Keys,” he said.
“Got them,” I answered, pulling them from my pocket and unlocking the doors.
Lane slid into the backseat, already watching Ro with that same lingering concern. I got into the driver’s seat, starting the engine as Ro climbed in beside me.
Ro leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. “Good work,” he said.
Lane let out a small breath, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders. “Yeah,” he murmured.
I pulled the car into motion, the house disappearing behind us like it had never mattered at all.
And just like that, our first official job was over.
“Best bonding experience ever,” Lane declared.