Chapter 15 Beckett
Pain.
That's the first thing that registers when consciousness drags me back to the surface. Sharp, radiating pain that starts in my ribs and spreads like wildfire through every nerve ending.
Metallic. My mouth tastes metallic.
Blood.
I try to move my jaw and immediately regret it. My lip is split and swollen. When I run my tongue along my teeth, I taste copper and feel the tender, pulpy flesh where they connected their fists to my face.
My ears are ringing with a high-pitched whine that makes it hard to focus on anything else.
But then I hear her.
Her voice, distant and trembling, cutting through the disorientation.
"Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven—"
Counting.
She's counting.
The realization cuts through the fog in my brain with startling clarity.
He told her to count.
I force my eyes open, blinking against the darkness. The room swims into focus slowly — shapes and shadows that gradually solidify into Adela's bare dorm room.
I don't move yet. Strategy before action. Always.
I listen.
Are they still here?
I strain to hear past the ringing in my ears, past Adela's quiet, broken counting. Footsteps in the hallway? The creak of floorboards? Breathing that doesn't belong to us?
Nothing.
Just silence and her voice.
They're gone.
But I don't relax. This was bullshit.
Theo wanted her to make the connection to the masks and understand that whoever hurt Cody is now coming for her.
What I didn't expect was how far he'd take it.
I shift slightly, testing my body. My ribs scream in protest. They’re definitely bruised. My stomach feels like it's been used as a punching bag. Which, technically, it has.
Theo didn't look at me once while he kicked me.
That was deliberate.
I turn my head carefully and see her.
She’s still tied to the chair. Still facing her desk where the laptop sat — where it's now conspicuously absent.
But she's not hysterical. That's what unsettles me.
I expected screaming. Crying. The complete breakdown of the fragile girl who called me over because she couldn't handle being alone.
Instead, she's quiet. Eerily quiet.
Her counting has stopped.
I can see her profile in the dim light filtering through the window — the tape still covering her mouth, the zip ties cutting into her wrists. But it's her eyes that make something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
They look empty.
Not scared. Not panicked.
Empty.
Something in her has shifted. I can see it even from here, even in the dark. Like whatever foundation was holding her together has finally crumbled completely.
I didn't account for that shift. Didn't plan for what she'd become after watching those videos.
I process what happened through the filter of what I knew versus what just occurred.
I knew Theo might move soon. He'd been getting restless, talking about "escalating the timeline." But I didn't know when. Didn't know it would be tonight.
I agreed to scare her.
I didn't agree to this.
The bathroom footage wasn't part of any conversation we'd had. That was Theo going rogue, taking this beyond scare tactics into something else entirely. Something more visceral. More personal.
More cruel.
My gaze shifts to where the laptop used to be.
It's gone. Theo has it now.
That changes everything.
Because now he has leverage beyond scare tactics. Now he has proof. Evidence. Ammunition.
This just got bigger.
I need to move. Need to free her. Need to play my part as the protective savior who got beaten up trying to defend her.
I groan — half genuine, half performance — and shift onto my side. Every muscle protests, so it’s not entirely a lie. The kick to my stomach wasn't pulled. Neither were the ones to my ribs.
Theo wanted it to look real, so I let them kick my ass.
She tries to say something, but her voice is muffled behind the tape. She tries again, and I think she might be saying my name.
I don't respond yet. I need a moment to compartmentalize. To separate what I feel from what I need to do.
More sounds from her throat.
The desperation in the way she’s moving does something to me.
I force myself to move, to show signs of life. My foot shifts in her line of sight.
She tries again, but this time her shoulders relax like she’s relieved.
I place a hand on the floor and push myself up slowly, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my torso. When I finally manage to get to my knees, I have to pause and breathe through it.
Fuck, Theo and Silas did not hold back.
I crawl toward her. When I reach her chair, I place a hand on her shoulder — establishing contact, establishing trust, establishing that I'm here and I'm okay and we survived this together.
I kneel in front of her and see her properly for the first time.
The tape across her mouth. The tear tracks on her cheeks. The zip tie cuts on her wrists, where she must have struggled.
But it's her eyes that gut me.
She's looking at me like I'm the only thing standing between her and complete annihilation.
Like I'm her savior.
The guilt hits unexpectedly sharp.
I yank the tape off my mouth and spit out the fabric. I reach for the tape on her and start peeling it off slowly. She mumbles something, so I move faster. She spits out the fabric, panting for a breath of fresh air.
"Are you okay?" I ask, needing to know. Needing to assess the damage. "Did they hurt you?"
Tears spill down her face. "No. Are you okay?"
The concern in her voice — genuine, unfiltered concern for me after what she just went through — makes something uncomfortable shift in my chest.
"I'll be fine. Do you have scissors?" I ask, knowing that she probably doesn’t. I don’t even think she has toothpaste if I’m being honest.
She shakes her head, and I see her wince at the movement.
"Try the kitchen," she says.
I force myself to stand, using the desk for support. My ribs protest violently. I make my way to the kitchen, flipping on the light and squinting against the sudden brightness.
I find scissors in the second drawer I check.
As I walk back to her room, I pass a mirror in the hallway. I stop.
My reflection stares back — nose crusted with dried blood, lip split and swollen, bruise already forming around my left eye.
They fucked me up. I wonder briefly if Theo enjoyed it. If there was satisfaction in those kicks beyond just selling the performance.
Probably.
When I return to Adela's room, she's still tied to the chair.
I kneel beside her again and fit the scissors between the zip tie and her wrist. I feel her pulse racing against my fingers as I position the blades.
"This might pinch," I warn.
I squeeze the scissors. The plastic gives with a sharp snap, and she gasps as her hands come free.
I move to her ankles next, cutting through the restraints.
The moment she's released, she falls into my arms.
The impact hurts, but I hold her anyway. I wrap my arms around her trembling body and let her sob into my chest.
"I'm sorry," she cries, the words muffled against my shirt. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."
Her coconut shampoo fills my senses. The warmth of her body against mine. The way she's clinging to me like I'm the only solid thing in her collapsing world.
I didn't expect to feel protective.
I didn't expect to feel anger when they tied her up — real anger, not performed anger.
I didn't expect to feel something genuine.
She pulls me toward the bathroom, and I follow. When she flips on the light, I see her face properly for the first time.
Red. Swollen. Terrified.
But there's something else there, too. Something harder forming beneath the fear.
"Let me see," she says, reaching for my shirt.
I want to refuse, but I need her to see the damage. Need her to understand how much I "sacrificed" for her tonight.
I lift my shirt carefully.
She gasps when she sees the bruise spreading across my stomach — dark purple and angry, the clear outline of boot treads visible in the swelling.
Theo really committed to the bit.
"I'm so sorry this happened to you." She covers her mouth, fresh tears spilling over.
I pull her against me despite the pain. "It's not your fault."
But it kind of is, isn't it? She's the one who moved here and won’t stop asking questions. She opened Cody's laptop and poked the bear.
I turn her around, checking her back, her shoulders. Then I grab her wrists, examining the cuts where the zip ties dug in. Red welts circle both wrists, some spots broken and bleeding.
My jaw tightens. That part wasn't necessary.
"Did you know who those guys were?" I ask, watching her face carefully. "What did they want?"
She closes her eyes, hesitating for a moment.
"Did you see the videos?"
I shake my head. I was unconscious for that part — genuinely unconscious, though I suspect Theo timed it that way deliberately.
"While you were knocked out, they tied me to the chair and forced me to watch videos of Cody." Her voice breaks. "Sleeping with multiple women. Dozens of them, maybe."
She's leaving something out. I can hear it in her voice, see it in the way she won't meet my eyes.
She's not telling me everything.
"We should go to the police," I say, testing her.
Her head snaps up. "No. No police."
Interesting. Immediate refusal. Not even a moment's consideration.
I don’t need to act confused because now I actually am. "Are you sure?"
She nods frantically. "They'll come for me if I do, and the cops are no help."
She's afraid. But there's something else. Something she's hiding.
I watch her clean my face with a warm washcloth, her hands shaking so badly she can barely hold it steady.
"Are you sure you're okay?" I catch her trembling hand.
She nods, but guilt floods her expression. "I shouldn't have invited you over tonight. I'm sorry, Beckett."
I grab her chin, forcing her to look at me. "I'm not sorry."
"You're not?"
I shake my head, letting my thumb stroke her hand. "Can you imagine if I wasn't here?"
I watch the realization hit her. Watch the color drain from her face as she processes what could have happened if she'd been alone.
"I can stay if you want," I offer, reading her perfectly. "If it makes you feel safer."
Relief floods her features. "Yes. Yes, that would make me feel safe."
"You can take the bed. I'll take the ground."
I leave the bathroom and lower myself to the floor beside her bed, every muscle screaming. I pull out my phone while she's still in the bathroom.
There's already a message waiting.
From Theo.
You alive?
Two words. That's it.
I stare at the message for a long moment. The casual tone. The complete lack of concern about whether he went too far.
I don't respond.
Adela emerges from the bathroom, and instead of getting into bed, she lowers herself to the floor beside me.
We lie there in silence, both staring at the ceiling.
"Thank you for being here," she whispers.
I reach for her hand, intertwining our fingers.
Her breathing eventually evens out, but I know she's not sleeping. I can feel the tension in her body, the way her thumb occasionally strokes against mine.
I close my eyes and try to process everything that just happened.
Theo has the laptop. Which means he has all the videos. Which means he has control.
She's going to lean on me now.
That was always the goal.
But she's also hiding something. Which means she's not completely under control. Which is a problem.
And I felt something tonight that I wasn't supposed to feel.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Another message from Theo.
I pull it out carefully, making sure Adela can't see the screen.
Don't get attached.
Three words this time.
I stare at those words until they blur.
He knows.
He's already several moves ahead, watching me weaken, testing my loyalty.
If Theo thinks I'm compromised, I won't get a second chance.
I lock my phone and slip it back into my pocket.
Beside me, Adela pulls out her own phone and starts scrolling — anything to distract herself from what happened tonight.
I watch her in my peripheral vision. The blue light from her screen illuminates her face. The tear tracks are still visible on her cheeks. The way her hand grips mine like a lifeline.
She thinks I survived this with her.
She has no idea I'm part of what's destroying her.
And the worst part?
I'm starting to wish I wasn't.