Nikolaus
I have never been particularly good at waiting.
Three days have passed since Charlie’s rescue, though they stretch out like a slow-burning agony, each hour a fresh reminder of the violence he endured.
Charlie has been sleeping a lot these past few days, drifting beneath the haze of painkillers, antibiotics, and sheer exhaustion.
His breathing is often shallow and uneven, a fragile rhythm I track as though my very life depends on it.
Every hour, I rise from the armchair I’ve been keeping vigil in and place my palm against his chest to feel his heart beating and lungs working.
Only when I’m certain he’s alive can I return to my station.
His skin is now a map of his suffering—bruises blooming violet and ink-black against pale flesh, each one a word in an unspoken indictment of Constantine.
The puffiness around Charlie’s jaw and cheeks has eased, revealing the discoloration from his nose being broken, the thin scabs along his temples, and the raw vulnerability that no medicine can erase.
Every mark on his body steels my hatred for the men who did this.
My mother has noticed my sleepless obsession. This afternoon, she appears in the bedroom doorway, arms balancing a silver tray heaped with a steaming bowl of soup, fruit, toast, and a pot of chamomile tea, sending curls of vapor into the air.
“He’s going to be alright,” she says, meeting my eyes.
“Good afternoon, Mother.”
She snorts, then crosses the room to set the tray on the bedside table. Charlie shifts beneath the tangle of blankets, one small hand slipping from the covers. My mother’s frown lines soften immediately.
“Oh, look at him,” she murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. He sighs in his sleep, and she melts. “He’s so precious. Ugh, I can’t wait to get him in a wedding suit. He’ll be so handsome.”
I groan softly.
If one thing has become clear in the past few days, it’s that my mother has fallen in love with my boy. I’m convinced that she already loves him more than she loves me, and that’s with him being mostly unconscious. Once he heals, she’s going to be glued to his side, obsessed with him.
“I should have met him the moment you brought him home,” she frets.
“I needed privacy to settle him in,” I reply, voice flat. She should understand—I’ve inherited her appetite for discretion. And obsession, quite obviously.
“Privacy?” She laughs, an indulgent sound. “Nikolaus, I gave birth to you.”
“I’m well aware.”
“Watch your mouth.” Despite myself, I grin, and she catches it immediately. “In all seriousness,” she says, lowering her voice. “You need sleep, my son.”
“I’m not leaving him alone,” I grunt.
“If you don’t rest, you’re going to get sick.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She clicks her tongue. “What are you so scared of?”
I turn away, heart pounding from the memory I can never erase—I was across from Artem Bogdanov, the young Russian boss Constantine had talked me into meeting, when my phone chirped.
Thinking it was Charlie messaging that he’d finished with his testing, or even Constantine updating me that he’d gotten Charlie home safe, I took my phone from my pocket and checked it.
What I saw will forever haunt me.
A single picture from an unknown number—Charlie covered in tape, bloodied, bruised, and swollen.
Bogdanov had leaned back, fingers steepled. “As you can see,” he said, smiling, “I have your attention.”
My calm was absolute as I looked up and met his gaze. “What do you want?”
“Oh, just simple things.” He gestured expansively, as if offering me a gift. “Access, territory, influence. I envision Greek and Russian operations merged under my authority.” His tone implied generosity.
“You took my boy, hurt him, and expect me to negotiate with you?”
Bogdanov grinned.
Before anyone realized what I’d decided, I fired. The crack of the shot silenced the room. The guard standing behind Bogdanov dropped where he stood. Chaos erupted in shouts, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air. I rose with my pistol trained on Bogdanov’s face.
“One opportunity,” I said. “Tell me where he is.”
He spluttered excuses, and when his hand twitched toward his holster, I shot him. Afterward, the remaining men were pretty compliant. Fear lubricates communication, after all. In minutes, I had an address. In fifteen, I’d assembled a dozen armed men. Thirty minutes later, we moved.
I close my eyes now and still see Charlie broken on the warehouse floor as I dropped to my knees. I can hear his rasping sobs, see how out of it he was.
I can hear him trying to tell me something about his bracelet just before losing consciousness. The dumb little friendship bracelet I’d made for him on his birthday.
He’d been wearing it underneath all the tape.
Bogdanov’s circle crumbled after his death. The older Russian leadership, craving stability, absorbed his men into quieter enterprises. The four men who tortured Charlie were executed before I took a step outside that warehouse.
My mother calls, “Nikolaus? Where did you go?”
I shake myself out of the memory and turn back toward her. “Nowhere. But maybe I will try to get some rest.”
She nods and passes by me to leave the room, patting my shoulder as she goes. “Taking care of yourself is taking care of him.”
She means it, too—a subtle rebuke, but also a mercy.
I glance at the tray left behind, at the bowl of soup stenciled with a gloss of oil and herbs, the crust of bread dusted with sea salt.
The food is meant for me, not for the boy hibernating in the bed, but she knows I’d outright refuse if she brought me a meal.
I’ll try to eat later. I just can’t right now. Instead, I count his breaths again, forearm against my forehead, waiting for the anxiety to crest.
I move to the bedside and kneel—awkward at my height, but necessary to scrutinize the purple-black bruise swelling his cheek, the darkened crescents beneath both eyes. I brush my fingers lightly across his brow. The heat is no longer feverish, mostly the lingering flush of sleep.
He stirs, eyelids fluttering. He blinks his eyes open, finding me immediately. His gaze still looks so glassy and faraway.
“Hey,” I whisper, hating the sound of my own voice—too raw, too much exposed nerve.
“Hi,” he whispers back. “Water?”
I reach for the cup on the nightstand and bring the straw to his lips. He sips, spilling a little, and I swipe the droplets off his chin with a finger.
“You know,” he said softly, voice thick with sleep, “I never got to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
He happens to look at the bedside table, following my movements as I set the glass back down.
His bracelet sits there, waiting for him.
Charlie’s eyes go wide, brimming with tears. “You saved it! I thought it would be ruined.”
I pick it up carefully. “Were you worried it’d be cut when getting the tape off?”
“Yeah.”
A lump tightens in my throat. I slide the bracelet back onto his wrist as he watches, tears quietly traveling down his cheeks.
“I really thought I was never coming home,” he murmurs, staring at the returned bracelet.
My hand closes around his. “Don’t—” My voice breaks on the word. “Don’t ever think that again.” His gaze locks on mine, tender and uncertain. “There was never going to be a version of this story where I didn’t find you, baby.”
Charlie’s eyes fill with tears, not of fear this time but of relief.
“You’re safe,” I remind him, voice thick. “You’re home.”
“I know.” His eyes flutter, and he smiles, his chin quivering, like he still can’t decide if the world is ending or just beginning again.
After a while, he sleeps.
The next tide of consciousness brings more lucidity. He wakes to the clatter of the tray as I move it, to daylight streaking in through the blinds.
“Did you ever leave?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I took a nap beside you for a few minutes.”
He looks to his left, a soft smile appearing on his face as he takes in the rumpled sheets beside him, proof that I was there.
I’m eventually able to coax him to eat, holding the spoon to his lips, which makes him blush.
He gets a few good mouthfuls in. He’s become a little self-conscious about the bruising and the way his jaw cracks a little when he chews, but I keep my face blank, just encouraging him to go slow.
After maybe six minutes, he stops, exhausted from the effort, and squints at me through lashes clumped with tears.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
He nods, then asks, “Do you want—Can you lie down with me?”
I obey as if the urge is my own to begin with, toeing off my shoes and settling on top of the covers beside him. He threads his hand into mine, our bracelets touching.
Niko’s and Baby’s.
When he starts to drift back to sleep and mumbles, “Don’t let go,” I clamp my fingers around his and promise I never will.