Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Greesha
Blood.
That’s the first thing I see. A jagged smear on pale tile, glistening under the hallway light like someone had landed in their own blood. I don’t remember hearing anything. Just the clatter—something heavy toppling onto the floor outside my room.
I freeze. I was supposed to secure the apartment. I should’ve. But I hadn’t. Had I?
I’d gotten too comfortable, too careless.
And now I’m staring at crimson chaos with no center. Is it his blood?
My breath catches—too loud. My limbs already in motion, muscle memory kicking in before my brain can catch up. A flash of movement near the kitchen—too fluid to be accidental. A shadow gliding along the wall.
He wants me to see him.
I lunge. A takedown maneuver I’ve executed a hundred times. But something’s off. I hit the intruder—feel his weight buckle—but then I crash into him like I’ve slammed into a wall.
Solid.
He doesn’t stumble.
Instead, we go down together—and now I’m on top of him, straddling him in a blur of instinct. Black clothes. Black balaclava. His eyes glint with something manic that makes my gut twist.
He’s smiling.
I swing. Fist to face. Connect. But there’s no reaction. It’s like punching wet clay.
I swing again. Slower. Sluggish. Each strike weaker than the last. I feel it now—my limbs draining, as though something inside me is unraveling.
Drugged?
No. No, I was fine a minute ago. I didn’t eat anything suspicious. Didn’t drink—
A second too long. That’s all he needs.
He twists, and suddenly I’m pinned. Hard. My back slams into the floor. His weight bears down, iron pressing me into tile.
I try to squirm, to throw my legs—but they won’t move. My arms won’t lift.
And then—
CRACK.
His fist connects with my jaw.
My head jerks—but nothing moves. Like my body didn’t register the blow. My face should’ve turned. My vision should’ve flickered. But everything holds still. Unnatural. Wrong.
His laugh is low. Too calm.
“Thank you,” he says sweetly.
Another punch.
“Thank you for the permission, baby.”
A third one. Sharp. My jaw screams.
“I did it. I did. Look what I did.”
His voice is high now. Mocking. Almost childlike.
“I’m doing it, Gree. You told me to.”
I writhe. Try again. Lift your arms. Fight back. But my limbs are cinderblocks. My body doesn’t listen.
He leans down, breath hot and sour on my cheek.
“You’re the best. Always so naive. So selfless.”
Another punch.
“So trusting.”
Another hit.
“Thank you!”
I can’t scream. Can’t move. The silence around me is suffocating.
Where is Advik?
Oh god—where is he?
My thoughts splinter. I try to focus. The blood. The tile. The sound of my own heartbeat—except it’s not right. It’s not syncing. It’s staggered.
“I said thank you,” the man sings again, fists rising one last time.
Then—
Another hand grabs my shoulders. Tight. Urgent.
“Greesha!” someone hisses. “Baby—hey! Jaan! Thank you!”
The voice. Familiar. Too real but disoriented. It cuts through the static, but I’m still somewhere between the tile and the softness, still under that bastard’s weight, still gasping for air I can’t find.
My arms flail in resistance. I grunt low in my throat, struggling against something—someone—holding me down.
“Greesha, it’s me!” the voice pleads again. “It’s me, Advik. Wake up. Please... please, please, please!
I blink.
Once. Twice.
The world jerks into focus.
I’m not on a cold tile floor. Vik’s holding me, one arm wrapped tight around my back, his hand cradling the side of my face like he’s scared I might shatter.
“You were shaking,” he says, breathless. “Fuck, did I do this?”
I stare. I’m not trapped anymore.
“You weren’t screaming, but I could hear you thrashing. You kept saying stop... I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t—”
I don’t hear the rest.
Because instinct takes over.
I break free from his grasp, rolling away and grabbing the blade my body knows to grab from under the mattress edge. In one swift move, I’m on top of him—knees pinning his hips, my forearm pressing into his collarbone, the cold edge of the knife glinting at his throat.
His eyes go wide. Not with fear—just shock.
Did I kill that man?
“Greesha,” he breathes, hands lifted, open. “It’s... it’s me.”
And just like that, reality caves in.
I’m in bed. My sheets are damp with sweat around me. I feel the soft push of the mattress against my knees.
The blood is gone. The fists never landed. The man in the balaclava was never real. The nightmare loosens its grip. He wasn’t real.
But this is.
Vik, beneath me, still healing from his wounds, holding perfectly still—his only weapon now a look of absolute calm and concern. My one arm is accidentally digging into his shoulder but he still doesn’t react.
I drop the knife.
It lands with a soft thud on the sheets between us.
I push off of him, chest heaving, pulse racing like I’ve run ten miles through a minefield.
“I—I didn’t...” I choke. “That man was...”
He doesn’t move right away. Just watches me from where he’s lying, like he’s afraid one wrong gesture will send me spiraling again.
“It’s okay,” he whispers finally. “You don’t have to explain. Just... come back.”
But I don’t know where back is anymore.
Because right now, I’m not sure which version of me woke up.
He rises with a wince, jaw clenched tight. I can see the pain shoot through him as he steadies himself with one arm. I probably ripped his stitches. Fuck.
His other hand circles around my waist while I’m still straddled across his thighs.
But it’s not affection. It’s survival.
He’s holding on because he has to. Because without it, I don’t think he’d be able to sit up at all. I can feel his subtle weight on my back.
“You’re okay, baby,” he whispers hoarsely. His face close to mine.
The words land like an echo from another life.
I blink, eyes adjusting reality again—to the soft orange glow of the night light I never sleep without. It halos his face. Pale. Frightened. But still... that flicker of love. That damn flicker.
And I hate that I can’t unsee it.
I hate that for one unguarded second, some part of me wants to fall into it.
So I snap myself out.
I scramble away from him fully—harder than I need to. “I’m fine. You can leave.”
His chest rises in a slow, heavy exhale. His eyes close like he’s bracing for impact.
He nods once.
“Yeah, okay.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. Just rises, silently, every movement stiff with pain. He pauses at my door for half a second, maybe to check if I’m still breathing, maybe to make sure I meant it. I don’t look up.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I exhale for the first time in what feels like hours. My limbs are trembling. Not from the fight. From the nightmare. From the weight of what just happened.
From the fact that it didn’t feel like a nightmare at all.
I collapse backward onto the bed, arms splayed, eyes wide open.
Then I force my eyes to close. But there’s no sleep left in me. Just the echo of panic, the heaviness in my chest, and the silent reminder that my fears of years ago haven’t fucking left me yet.
The sheets are soaked with sweat. And even though I know none of it was real—the fists, the blood, the laugh—I can still feel it on my skin. I can still hear it in the room.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.