Chapter 49
FORTY-NINE
ALEXANDER
I pop a cigarette between my lips as I drop into the cold metal chair, the room thick with the smell of damp concrete and old blood. My legs spread, my body sinking back like I’ve been here all my life.
The lighter flares, the paper catches, and I drag in slow and deep, feeling the burn settle in my chest. I tip my head back against the wall, exhaling, watching the smoke twist upward into the stale air until it disappears.
The heavy metal door scrapes open. Footsteps echo across the floor. I don’t look.
I’m just bringing the cigarette back to my mouth when a hand snatches it away. My eyes flick sideways. Anton.
He breaks it clean in two, the tobacco spilling onto the cracked floor before he drops the pieces like they’re something filthy.
“I thought you quit,” he says, voice deeper than mine, close enough to our father’s to make my jaw twitch—but his face is all our mother’s, just sharper, meaner.
“I thought I did,” I reply, my gaze steady.
He gives me that slow, assessing look, then turns his head toward the far side of the room. His eyes settle on the man slumped there before he drags a chair closer and sits beside me.
“You think he’s gonna make it till this weekend?” he asks, nodding toward the unconscious body.
“Oh, trust me,” I say, my voice low as my gaze locks on the body. “He will.”
Nate.
The limp heap of him lies on the cold floor, wrists raw from rope, face a map of bruises I put there.
I’ve kept him here for two days—snatched him the moment he set foot in the city.
Hauled him into the dungeon and made him my outlet, every strike, every blow, every ounce of my rage finding its way into him.
Because I’ve been drowning in it ever since I saw Lucas in that hospital bed, begging Tyler to take him home. Saying he didn’t want to see me.
I’ve never had my heart broken before. I didn’t even think I could. But that day, it felt like something inside me cracked and kept cracking.
Still… that wasn’t the worst.
The worst was that moment in my study, when I walked in and found him holding that camera, and saw the color drain from his face. Shock, pure and sharp, tightened his features. The way he trembled and collapsed in my arms.
That image hasn’t left me.
It probably never will.
Fuck.
I need another cigarette.
“How is he?” Anton’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I know exactly who he means.
Lucas.
I drag in a deep breath, running both hands through my hair until my scalp aches. I don’t answer. Truth is, I don’t have an answer. Not one that makes sense. Not one that doesn’t tear me apart.
“How are you?” he asks instead.
I shut my eyes and bite down until my jaw threatens to crack. There’s a long, heavy silence before I hear him sigh.
“Mom’s worried about you,” he says finally. “She’s also worried about Lucas. She told me if she doesn’t hear from either of you by tomorrow, she’s cutting her vacation short and flying back.”
I let the words settle in my head, but they don’t really stick. They just drift around, meaningless compared to the weight inside my chest.
“I feel dead inside,” I tell him, my voice flat but breaking somewhere underneath.
“And I fucking miss him. I don’t know if he doesn’t want to see me because I know what happened to him, or because I killed those guys.
But I don’t regret it. I’d do it again—over and over. That’s why this piece of shit is here.”
Anton studies me for a long moment, his gaze heavy but unreadable.
“Was it really that bad?” he asks quietly. “What they did to him”
My eyes cut to Nate’s limp body. My chest tightens until breathing feels like swallowing glass.
“Really fucking bad,” I say, each word rough and deliberate. “So fucking cruel, I can’t get it out of my head most Times. I wonder how he did it, how he went through all that and still didn’t go to therapy or get the help he needed.”
Anton nods slowly, giving me a look that’s meant to be comforting. Then he stands and clasps my shoulder, his grip solid.
“You always have your reasons to kill, Sasha. So I know this is important to you. The case will be closed soon. No way the police will connect it to us, but still, I want it wrapped up. I’ve got people working to make sure it is.”
I give him a short nod, but my fists curl until my knuckles ache. The rage inside me is still too loud, too restless. I can feel it coiling, hungry.
I turn my eyes back to Nate.
I’m going to wake him up.
And then I’m going to make him scream. Again.
***
The shower is scalding cold, and I welcome it.
The shock of it cuts into my skin, numbing and sharp, almost soothing.
An ice bath would’ve done just as well, but I don’t have the time.
I need to get back to Lucas, back to sitting in my car in front of his building like some creep, or back to that fucking motel that’s already making me lose my mind.
I push my wet hair back from my face, my eyes drifting to the shower shelf.
His things sit exactly where he left them, lined up neat and untouched.
His loofah. His soap. His body wash—the one he barely uses because he likes mine better.
His shampoo. And other hair products he swears keep his curls perfect.
I turn the shower off with a muttered curse and step out, toweling off quickly. Traces of him are scattered on the bathroom counter too, small ordinary things that feel like they’ve been branded into my chest.
I move into the walk-in closet, but my eyes go straight to the other side—his side. His clothes hang there in perfect order, half of them unworn because they’re new. I reach for one of his hoodies, the one I love seeing on him. The fabric is soft under my fingers. I bring it to my face and inhale.
It hits me like a punch, longing and pain all at once, grinding my teeth together.
His scent. That same scent that’s tangled up in my head, my sheets, my skin.
The scent that made me lose control that night by the pool—the moment I kissed him for the first time.
That kiss is carved into me, etched so deep it’s permanent.
I knew, right then, I was done for him. Hooked.
Gone. The one you don’t come back from, no matter how many times he tries to push me away.
I place the hoodie back, pull on a pair of pants and a shirt, and step into my bedroom. Another wave of emotion crashes over me; the emptiness and the silence feel wrong.
I’ve always liked the quiet here, loved it, even. This huge space—2 story and four bedrooms all to myself—was perfect. I never wanted anyone’s presence lingering too long. Not even Vera, whom I never let stay more than two days whenever she comes for sex. Alone was my preference.
Or at least, that’s what I thought.
Lucas proved me wrong.
Having him here was like oxygen after years of stale air. I didn’t want him to leave. I loved seeing him in my bed, my kitchen, wandering barefoot through every fucking corner of this place like he belonged here.
Now the penthouse feels useless without him. Hollow. Shallow.
And I feel the same.
My fingers find my wrist, pressing against the thin band of metal there. The ache in my chest loosens just a little under my touch. The bracelet, the one Maksim had handed to me with a quiet, almost hesitant look, saying Lucas had left it in his car.
I remember opening the box, my hands trembling before I’d even lifted the lid.
The cool gleam of the bracelet, His handwriting in the note inside—telling me he appreciated everything I do for him, that he wants to do things for me too.
That he loves me. Wholeheartedly. And that he hopes I’ll cherish the gift.
It hasn’t left my wrist since. I don’t think it ever will.
Heading down to the kitchen, I text Tyler and ask him about Lucas. Grateful—if you can call it that—that he finally ate something after days of starving himself. It’s been five fucking days since I last saw him, touched him, heard the quiet rhythm of his breathing beside me.
Days of Tyler’s updates show that he continues to refuse food.
Days of him buried in his blanket, shutting out the world.
It’s taken every ounce of patience not to kick his door open and drag him into the light.
Tyler tells me not to. Says if Lucas doesn’t want to see me, he has his reasons.
Says I should give him time. Respect his wishes.
Time. Patience. Respect. Pretty words for something that’s slowly killing me.
Because my patience is almost gone, and if he doesn’t come out soon, I swear I’ll storm that apartment and bring him here whether he likes it or not.
He can wallow here, cry here, drown in whatever storm he’s caught in, just as long as I’m with him.
I’ll stand in the middle of it, take every hit, every tear.
I don’t care if it’s toxic. Not seeing him is making me unravel thread by thread.
I can’t focus. I can’t eat. My work is piling up, and I don’t give a damn. I don’t have control of anything anymore. I feel lost. Empty. Like someone cut out the part of me that knows how to breathe.
Grabbing a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge, I down it in seconds, even though what I really want is tequila or something stronger that could burn a hole in me. The empty bottle clatters into the trash. My hand reaches for my car keys on the coffee table.
And then I hear it.
The soft chime of the elevator door sliding open.
My brows pull together. I’m not expecting anyone—and if I were, the doorman would let me know when whoever it is arrives. Lucas is the only one who doesn’t need permission, the only one who can come and go from here as he pleases, and the only one who knows the password to my apartment.
My heart stops.
I move toward the sound, each step pulling me tighter, like a wire winding around my ribs. And my breath lodges in my throat as Lucas steps out of the elevator and into my space.