Chapter Five Khai
Chapter Five
Khai
I leave on my bike faster than necessary, the engine snarling beneath me like it knows I shouldn’t look back.
Music pulses through my helmet, loud enough to drown out the thought of her standing there, unaware of how close I came to staying.
To watching her longer. To losing myself in the quiet act of observing.
I don’t linger. I never have.
A message from my father flashes through my mind like a warning shot. Meeting. ASAP.
Perfect.
I’d already been watching her before that.
From the moment she stepped out of her car, sunlight catching in her hair, her body relaxed in a way that told me she believed she was safe.
She isn’t what I expected. There’s a softness to her that shouldn’t survive in this world, and yet the way she smiles, the way she laughs without reservation, makes something dark coil tighter in my chest.
I want to hear those sounds directed at me.
By the time the message came through, the need had already taken root. To get close. To touch her again. To breathe her in until she settled somewhere permanent beneath my skin.
Instead, I ride toward my father’s estate.
It should take an hour. I make it in half. Rules have never applied to me, not road laws, not boundaries, not consequences.
I own cars. Several. But none of them offer what the bike does. Freedom. Focus. Silence from the things that claw at the back of my mind. Riding keeps the demons just far enough away that they don’t whisper too loudly.
The gates recognise me before I slow, opening with mechanical obedience. Security doesn’t question me. They never have.
The driveway stretches long and winding, trees arching overhead like spectators. The fountain at the centre of the roundabout glints under the lights, a relic from my childhood. I remember when it was built. I also remember the men who vanished because my father didn’t like the final result.
He doesn’t tolerate imperfection.
Neither did he train me to.
Jaxon’s already here. I cut the engine, remove my helmet, and inhale slowly, bracing myself for whatever demand waits inside.
The house is all marble and arrogance. One of the younger maids approaches, colour blooming across her cheeks when she sees me. She knows who I am. They all do.
“Good afternoon, Mr Harris. Your father is in his office.”
She won’t meet my eyes. I wonder vaguely if I’ve touched her before. Most of them blur together.
My father’s voice carries down the hallway, one-sided, clipped, decisive. I don’t knock. I never knock.
Jaxon lounges on the couch, phone in hand, posture relaxed but his mouth set hard. He doesn’t joke when my father’s involved. He nods at me once. I return it as the call ends.
“Consider it done,” my father says before looking up. His gaze is cold. Assessing. Always weighing.
“Khai. How nice of you to finally join us.”
“What do you want?” I ask, already wishing I were elsewhere. Watching someone else breathe.
He studies me through cigar smoke. “You’re healing well. Good. I have a job for you. Tonight. It needs to be clean.”
Urgency coils through me, sharp and unwelcome. Jobs like this are never clean. There’s no time to prepare. Too many unknowns.
Jaxon shifts. “Care to tell us anything useful?”
My phone buzzes. I glance down before I can stop myself, and there it is.
Little Heaven:
I’m not yours.
A slow smile curves my mouth.
That’s what she thinks.
My father waves a dismissive hand. “Everything you need will be sent. The client requires proof. Don’t disappoint me.”
Jaxon stands, muttering under his breath as he passes. I turn to follow, until my father speaks again.
“Khai.”
I stop.
“You seem distracted,” he says mildly. “I trust it won’t interfere.”
My jaw tightens. “No distractions.”
“It better stay that way.”
I don’t respond. I don’t need to.
Asshole.
We receive the details after we leave. One of my father’s men.
Interesting.
Loyalty means nothing to him when secrets are involved.
We switch to my truck, dark, unremarkable, invisible. The kind of vehicle meant to pass unnoticed. The street is quiet when we arrive. Suburban. Peaceful. People asleep in their beds, ignorant to how thin the line between safety and chaos really is.
“Why would he erase one of his own?” Jaxon murmurs, his voice low, thoughtful. “What kind of secret is worth a life?”
I scan the house as I answer, eyes tracing shadows, windows, blind spots. “My father doesn’t keep secrets,” I say coldly. “He is one. He breathes them. Bleeds them. Drowns in them.” I pause, jaw tightening. “I don’t want to know what this one was. Being his son is burden enough.”
And it’s true. Knowledge is poison in my family. I don’t crave answers, I crave distance. The job finished. Money exchanged. One day, disappearing from my father’s reach entirely. Or ending him. I haven’t decided which outcome I prefer.
We slip from the truck without a sound. I don’t bother locking it, escape always comes before caution. Jaxon moves with me, weapon steady, lethal focus etched into every step.
The house looms quiet as we approach, stairs creaking softly beneath our weight. We split instinctively, ghosts on the veranda, peering through darkened windows, searching for movement.
For life.
For anything that might still matter.
“I hate rush jobs,” he mutters. So do I.
We move like shadows, quiet and deliberate.
The target is sprawled across the couch like a man who believes himself untouchable, pizza box balanced on his lap, fingers slick with grease as he flips through channels without seeing any of them and takes a swig of beer.
Comfort. Carelessness. The kind that gets men killed.
Jaxon tests the front door. Locked.
We drift along the veranda instead, shadows clinging to us as if they recognise their own. “There better not be some massive, feral dog out back,” he murmurs under his breath. For all his brutality, Jaxon has always had a healthy fear of teeth bigger than his own.
Light spills from the kitchen window, warm and domestic. Empty. I close my fingers around the handle and turn it slowly. It opens without resistance. That always surprises me, how many people trust locks they never bother to use.
We slip inside, silent as intent. I lead.
Jaxon stays close, a presence at my back.
My body tightens, every muscle coiled, breath sharp and controlled.
I lift my weapon as I move down the hallway, doors yawning open on either side, like mouths that might speak if given the chance. I signal him forward. Clear.
The television hums from the front room, noise without awareness. No footsteps. No breath.
I round the corner.
Gun raised.
Nothing.
The couch is empty.
Pain explodes across my skull without warning, sharp, blinding. Beer and shattered glass cascade over my face, slick and disorienting, the world tilting violently off its axis. For a heartbeat, everything blurs. I brace myself against the wall, forcing my vision to steady through the haze.
A shot cracks the air.
A groan answers it, but the bastard doesn’t fall.
My weapon is ripped from my grasp, skidding away as a fist slams into my jaw. Heat blooms where my lip splits, copper flooding my mouth. Then he runs, panic finally outweighing his arrogance, as Jaxon surges after him like a predator scenting blood.
I straighten slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, fury curling tight in my chest. “Son of a bitch.” This is exactly why I hate rushed jobs. Sloppy. Unpredictable. Dangerous.
My gun lies abandoned beneath the coffee table. I retrieve it, fingers closing around the grip like an extension of my will and move after them.
At the end of the hallway, it’s already over.
Jaxon has him on his knees, hands locked behind his head, body trembling as if it knows what comes next.
I approach with measured steps, deliberate, unhurried. He’s earned this moment of fear. His head lifts when he senses me, eyes glassy and wild.
“Khai,” he sobs. “Please. Don’t do this.”
I crouch until we’re level, until he’s forced to look at me. “Why does my father want you dead?” The question surprises even me. I’ve never cared enough to ask before, but something about this reeks wrong.
“I don’t know,” he whimpers. “I swear.” Tears, snot, blood, it all blurs together as he shakes. He’s lying. I can feel it in my bones.
I press the barrel to his temple. “I’ll ask once more,” I say softly, each word spaced and lethal. “Why. Does. My. Father. Want. You. Dead?” A pause. A breath. “Be honest… and I might let you disappear.”
His gaze flicks between me and Jaxon, calculation warring with terror. Finally, he cracks.
“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you.”
“Then speak.”
“After you were shot,” he gasps. “Your father sent me to his safety deposit box. Sensitive files. I was putting them away when one slipped.” His breath shudders. “All I saw was your name. And your brother’s. With a date.”
I watch him carefully. “That’s it?”
He nods frantically. “I swear. I didn’t see anything else. He must’ve seen me on the cameras. I swear to God.”
I tilt my head. “What was the date?”
His lips tremble. “The 9th of July. 2015.”
I pull the trigger.
I never intended to let him live.
I straighten, draw my phone, capture proof, and send it where it’s demanded.
Jaxon steps beside me, offering a cigarette. I take it. Light it. Drag the smoke deep into my lungs.
“What’s with the date?” he asks quietly.
I exhale slowly; eyes fixed on the body cooling at our feet.
“The day my brother died.”