Chapter 45
FORTY-FIVE
ALEXANDER
I slam the laptop shut.
My breath comes out harsh and uneven, chest rising and falling like I’ve just been punched in the gut.
My throat burns, and I can taste bile rising.
I push up from the chair, my body shaking with something I can’t name, rage, grief, something darker—and I stumble toward the bathroom attached to my office.
I flick the tap on and just stand there, staring at the water like it might drown the thoughts screaming in my head. But it doesn’t.
The fucking video keeps playing. Over and over and over as it burns into the back of my mind like a brand I’ll never scrub off.
Nothing… nothing could’ve prepared me.
Not for the way they dragged him.
Not for the sound his head made when it hit the bench.
Not for the scream he let out or the ones he swallowed back.
Not for how small he looked… how alone.
How hard he fought.
God—how he fought. Even when his voice was gone, even when his strength gave out, he didn’t give them the satisfaction they needed.
He didn’t even scream the way he should’ve.
He kept it in.
Even when they made him choke, even when the hits came, again and again, even when his knees buckled, he held on to what little control they couldn’t take from him.
And it kills me.
I shove my hands under the water, scrubbing hard.
Harder.
Hard enough, I feel I could scrape the skin right off.
But it’s still there.
The way he looked so empty, so gone, like he was trying to vanish from his own body.
They hit him. Laughed at him. Took turns like he wasn’t human. Like he was something to ruin.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Now I know why he froze and looked so out of it the first time I grabbed him at the exhibition, why he didn’t want to do most things during intimacy.
And thank fuck I never pushed.
I never asked. Never demanded. Never made him feel like he had to give me something that was taken from him like that.
This is what they took.
I feel sick.
All I want now is to find them, every single one of those monsters.
I want to ruin them.
I want to make them feel what he felt—no, worse. So much worse.
I dry my hands, slowly, mechanically. My skin’s raw, but I barely notice it.
I walk back into my office, grab the camera and the memory card, and lock them in the drawer. I never want to look at them again. I don’t even want them to exist.
All I want now is to be by his side.
To hold him.
To remind him that I’m here.
That he’s not alone.
That no one—no one—will ever touch him again.
I leave the office and step into the bedroom.
The moment I see him, my chest tightens.
He’s curled up under the blanket, small and still, brows drawn together like he’s fighting something in his sleep. But he’s not crying out tonight, not whimpering or gasping like he sometimes does.
I cross to the other side of the bed and shrug off my shirt, quietly slipping beneath the covers. The mattress shifts as I move closer, wrapping my arm gently around his waist.
He’s warm. Bare skin soft and solid against mine, his back flush with my chest.
I hold him tighter.
He stirs, murmuring something in his sleep, and his hand reaches instinctively to find mine, his fingers curl around it like he knows I’m supposed to be there.
I bury my face in his hair and breathe him in. His scent grounds me. Settles the storm that’s been roaring in my skull since I watched that video.
I press my nose to his neck, then kiss the spot just above his ear, right where the damage was done, and I feel him shiver.
“Alex,” he mumbles, barely awake.
I press a kiss to his shoulder in response. I don’t answer aloud. He wouldn’t hear me since he’s not wearing his hearing aids.
And God, that alone… that truth carves straight through my ribs.
Now I know why he’s deaf.
That sound, the hit to his head.
The way he clutched his ears—desperate, and in pain.
That was it.
That was the moment.
I close my eyes and hold him tighter, pressing our joined hands firmly against his stomach. He murmurs something faint, unintelligible, but then his breathing softens, slow and even, until he slips back into sleep again.
I don’t move. Just stay there, wrapped around him, the silence humming in my ears.
And then, beneath the ache, something else rises.
Pride.
Fierce, full-bodied pride that climbs up my chest and wraps itself around my heart like armor.
He fought.
He didn’t just take it; he didn’t let Tim have his way with him. He stood his ground, trembling maybe, broken definitely, but he fought.
And he won.
He had the courage to raise that knife. Again. And again. And again.
I never expected to see him like that. Not Lucas, my soft-spoken sweetheart who flinches at sudden sounds and carries his pain quietly like it’s stitched into his spine.
But I should’ve known.
Because I have seen it, flashes of it, buried beneath all that gentleness.
That fire.
That heat in his eyes when he gets frustrated or stubborn, a glare in his eyes, and the tension on his shoulders when someone tries to cross a line.
He doesn’t see it in himself, or maybe he chooses not to.
But I do, he’s not just a survivor, he’s a fucking force.
And I will never stop being proud of him for it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his hair.
“I’m so fucking sorry that happened to you.”
My voice breaks. Quiet.
“How did you do it, Lucas?”
“How did you survive that day?”
“How did you keep going?”
“How did you let yourself love and trust someone like me after what they did to you?”
He breathes, soft and peaceful now. I feel pressure at the back of my eyes, and I swallow it down.
I don’t know how he made it through that night.
But I swear on my life, he’ll never face anything like it again.
Not while I’m breathing.
***
I park the delivery bike just off the sidewalk. The street is quiet—only the low hum of a passing car and the soft click of a guy walking his dog across the road.
Helmet on. Padded courier jacket zipped to the neck. Gloves. Boots. Every inch of me masked in plain sight.
I swing open the bike's rear compartment and pull out the insulated delivery box, weighed down with just enough to pass for legit. Then walk toward the building.
The glass doors to the lobby slide open without resistance.
Inside, everything is clean and upscale—marble floors, abstract wall art, security cameras tucked neatly into corners. But every lens is useless right now. Maksim made sure of that.
“You’re in,” his voice crackles low through the mic tucked into my ear. “Security feed’s on a loop. Motion detection is overridden. You’re a ghost.”
I don’t reply. Just nod slightly and head toward the elevators.
I tap the digital keypad beside the elevator panel and enter the six-digit access code Maksim built—a spoof code registered under a verified third-party courier service. He’s a freak of nature with this kind of shit.
“Fifteen minutes before the system pings and starts rechecking itself. Josh and Caleb are still inside, movement confirmed five minutes ago.” Maksim says again.
“I know that,” I mutter, low and clipped.
I’ve been on them for a week. After I watched that video…
after I saw what they did to Lucas—I couldn’t sleep.
I reached out to his mother. Asked her for anything she knew about them, and she gave me a little info, not much, just their full names, and that was all I needed.
She told me Tim had been in a coma for years, after the incident, but had died recently. Good. One less name on the list.
The moment I had full names, Maksim was on it.
He didn’t ask why, just looked at me, saw the weight in my face, and nodded.
That was enough. Within hours, I had locations, addresses, job records, and photos.
Turned out Caleb and Josh live out in another city and are also roommates in an apartment complex, and Nate is in China now, working as a travel nurse.
Living the life.
Not for long.
The elevator dings softly.
I step out.
The hallway is pristine—white walls, polished floors, silence hanging heavy like something sacred lives here. Apartment 222 is just down the hall, straight ahead. My boots echo as I walk, each step calculated, controlled.
But underneath the surface…
I’m not calm.
I’m seething.
Not even the wind from the helicopter ride to this city could cool the inferno inside me. It’s been burning from the moment I watched that goddamn video. The same video that made my knuckles bleed when I punched the wall. The same one that’s been playing behind my eyes for a week now.
“The code to the door is 2243,” Maksim says in my ear. “I’ve got visual. You’re good.”
He’s watching everything I see through the visor in my helmet. His voice is distant background noise, like static in the storm. My focus is razor-sharp as I reach the door. I enter the code—a soft beep. The lock clicks open.
I push the door and step inside.
Then I lock it behind me.
I don’t care if they heard that. I hope they did. I want them to know someone’s here. But they won’t be leaving. That much is certain.
Inside, the apartment is dim. The low thump of music vibrates from somewhere down the hall. A mix of weed, sweat, and energy drink coats the air like a cloud of filth. I breathe it in through the helmet and still feel nauseated.
I move down the corridor, slow and silent. And then I hear it—
Groaning.
Moaning.
Rhythmic. Unmistakable.
I blink.
As I reach the edge of the living room, my lips curl into something between disbelief and disgust.
There they are.
Naked.
Fucking.
Josh on top. Caleb underneath him. Neither of them is aware I’m here, standing just behind them in the shadows.
“Well, well,” Maksim mutters with a low scoff. “Guess we caught them mid-celebration?”
I tilt my head. My jaw tightens.
The irony is so thick I could choke on it. These are the bastards who hurled slurs at Lucas. Called him names. Made him feel inhuman. Mocked him for being gay.