69. Julian #2
A heavy, invisible weight pressed down on my chest at her words. Life is too short. She had no idea the terrifying, heavy weight of that truth, or how her previous life had been stolen from her before it even truly began.
“I’m pursuing a career in art obviously ,” she continued, her eyes drifting towards the flicker of the candle. “But even then, I don’t really know exactly what path I want to take with it. I just know that I want to live a life worth looking back on when I’m lying on my deathbed.”
She looked back across the table at me, and the soft, dreamy look in her eyes suddenly turned into something far more curious. She narrowed her eyes slightly, resting her chin in her hand.
“Okay, enough about me,” she challenged gently. “What about you? What do you want, Julian? You never actually talk about yourself, and it bothers me. I feel like I’m always talking your ear off, but I hardly know what you want out of this life.”
I set my wine glass down onto the crisp white tablecloth. I held her gaze, the centuries of war, blood, and loss hidden behind my meticulously crafted human facade.
“I’m not after much anymore,” I told her, the unvarnished truth ringing in my low voice. “I’ve already accomplished every goal I ever set out to do. I’ve fought my battles. Now… I just want to live in peace.”
I reached across the table, my large, scarred hands gently enveloping her smaller ones.
“I want to live a life that isn’t dictated by anyone but myself,” I murmured, my thumb slowly tracing the smooth skin of her knuckles. No military. No immortal bloodlines. No psychotic brother hunting us in the dark.
I stopped moving my thumb. I looked up, locking my eyes directly onto hers. The rest of the restaurant, the hum of the conversation, the entire world simply ceased to exist.
“And I want you,” I said softly, the vow vibrating with a heavy, ancient weight.
She didn’t look away, captivated by the overwhelming burning in my eyes.
“Forever.”
Was this the moment? I stared into her beautiful eyes, the word forever still hanging in the candlelit air between us. My heart thundered against my ribs. Just do it, I told myself. Do it right now.
I slowly broke eye contact, shifting my weight as my hand dropped toward the inner pocket of my suit jacket, my fingertips brushing the soft velvet of the ring box—
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
The vibration of my phone vibrating against the wooden table shattered the quiet intimacy of the booth.
I froze, my hand still tucked inside my jacket.
Sage blinked, the heavy spell broken. A small, teasing smile returned to her red lips as she glanced down at the glowing screen resting next to my water glass.
“You going to get that, Mr. Popular?” she asked lightly.
The moment was gone.
I pulled my empty hand out of my jacket, forcing a tight, apologetic smile as I picked up the phone. But the second the screen illuminated my face, my expression instantly hardened into stone.
It was an encrypted, untraceable number. Two messages.
The first was a line of text:
Good brothers share their toys. They don’t hide them.
My hands instantly went clammy, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of my neck. With a numb, trembling thumb, I pressed the video link in the second message.
The screen buffered for a fraction of a second before a dark, grainy video began to play.
It was shot in the dark, illuminated only by the faint, eerie green glow of night vision. It took my brain a few moments to process the chaotic shapes and shadows. But then, the camera steadied.
I saw the torn, lace of the corset. I saw her soft skin, smeared with dirt. And then, I saw the massive, gloved hand dragging a knife down her chest and it instantly all clicked.
I stopped breathing.
The camera angle shifted upward, catching the reflection of the grim reaper mask —the exact identical costume Sage had playfully picked out for me in the store.
A wave of nausea hit me so hard my vision blurred.
He had filmed it. Cain had actually set up a camera in the dirt, recording himself violating her.
He had captured every breathless moan, every desperate, drug-induced plea, knowing exactly how badly it would destroy me to watch it.
He was getting off on the painful, disturbing psychological torture of it, twisting the knife into my chest even if she didn’t remember a single second of it.
My hands started to shake, the metal casing of the phone groaning under my crushing grip.
“Julian?” Sages soft, concerned voice cut through the roaring static in my ears. “What’s wrong?”
I instantly slammed the phone face down onto the table, my jaw locking so tight my teeth threatened to crack.
“Nothing,” I ground out, my voice sounding hollow and foreign to my own ears. I forced myself to take a slow, shallow breath, desperately trying to throw her off. I couldn’t ruin the evening. I couldn’t tell her. “It’s work stuff. A complication with my discharge paperwork.”
I had to physically lock every single muscle in my body to stop myself from flipping the heavy, candlelit table right there in the middle of the crowded five-star restaurant. I felt physically sick to my stomach.
But beneath the blinding, feral rage was a crushing, suffocating wave of guilt.
I didn’t keep her safe. The thought echoed mockingly in my skull.
I had her locked away on a private mountain estate, under my own roof, and he had still violated her.
He had still hurt her. Did I even deserve to have her in my life?
How could I possibly ask her to marry me when my very existence was a magnet for the man tearing her apart?
Sage stared at me, her concerned eyes scanning my rigid posture. She was incredibly perceptive, I knew she didn’t fully buy the excuse. But, sensing the volatile agitation rolling off me in waves, she didn’t push the issue.
She offered a small, hesitant nod. “Okay. I’m going to use the bathroom. I have to pee.”
She slid out of the velvet booth, her black dress sweeping elegantly around her legs, and walked away towards the back of the restaurant.
The instant she disappeared from view, the dam broke.
“Fuck,” I hissed under my breath, a sound of pure agony leaving my body.
I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on the table, and buried my trembling hands deep into my hair, gripping the roots tight enough to hurt.
The urge for carnage was boiling in my veins, blinding and feral.
If Cain had been standing in front of me right now, I would have killed him.
I would have ripped his head off with my bare hands.