40. Chapter 40
Chapter forty
JUDE GRAVES
Two weeks later
I genuinely never thought I’d be back in the States. New York City isn’t buried beneath violent snowstorms or smoke or blood or burning mansions. But the second the SUV pulls into lower Manhattan beneath a gray winter sky, I feel nauseous anyway.
I’m arriving somewhere that already knows my name.
That’s seen me abused and angry and drunk and fucking high.
I’d be lying if I said that my heart wasn’t pounding and my palms weren’t sweating.
How am I even going to be able to visit any big city that once truly knew my ghost?
How am I going to function anywhere when all I’ll be able to think about is how, for years, I didn’t give a shit if I lived or died?
How am I going to live after this?
Hell, I tried to kill myself in NYC at least two times that I remember.
Emma sits beside me in the backseat, quiet beneath the dark wool coat draped over her shoulders.
Her ribs are still healing, and every bump in the road makes tension flicker across her face, no matter how carefully the driver moves through traffic.
She hides it well now. Better than she did during those first days after waking up.
But I notice everything about her now, because I can’t stop staring at her.
I’m not a creep, but I can’t help but gaze into the face that I was once conditioned to fear and hate.
I sometimes fear that I’ll wake up and feel that hell again.
So maybe I’m obsessed with her face because I never want to forget her again.
Since waking up in Moscow, she’s been a little different. There’s less…sunshine coming from her. I fucking hate myself for robbing her of any of that light that I love so much. But I suppose I’m different, too. Though I’m trying my best to make sure she’s okay.
My hand rests over hers, thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles while the city blurs outside the tinted windows. Her fingers tighten weakly against mine in response. That tiny movement is enough to keep me breathing. She’s reassuring me, because she knows I’m an anxious mess right now.
Across from us, Levi is working. His phone glows in one hand while the other flips methodically through a stack of printed documents balanced against his knee.
Every few minutes, another message lights up his screen, and he responds without hesitation, calm and composed in his charcoal coat.
Nothing rattles the man. Not even the fact that a murderer is sitting across from him right now.
But I suppose he’s used to that sort of thing.
“We’ll enter through the private access point,” Levi says without looking up. “No statements or reactions. Do not engage with press if they somehow breach perimeter. Got it?”
Rafe snorts quietly from the seats behind us. “You say that like Graves over here doesn’t look one bad question away from biting someone’s face off.”
“Rafe,” Adela mutters tiredly beside him.
“What? I’m trying to lighten the mood.”
“You are physically incapable of reading a room.”
“I read it fine,” he replies easily. “I simply choose to be a dick.”
Emma’s shoulders shake faintly with laughter beside me, and the sound make the corner of my lips twitch.
I glance back briefly. Rafe looks far better than he did in Moscow, though the bandage still disappears beneath the collar of his black shirt near his shoulder and neck. Adela sits tucked against his side, one leg folded beneath her on the seat. Her bruising has faded to yellow now.
Heather, Micah, Kami, and Finnick follow in the SUV behind us. Micah wasn’t cleared to travel until four days ago. Heather nearly fought the doctors over it despite the fact that she was sleeping curled against his hospital bed every single night anyway.
The memory almost pulls a full smile out of me this time.
Then the courthouse appears ahead, and every single thought in my head goes quiet.
Large barricades line the sidewalks despite the early hour.
News vans sit across the street like waiting predators beneath the winter clouds, satellite dishes pointed toward the courthouse steps while bundled reporters linger outside the restricted perimeter.
Even from here, I can feel the pressure of public attention.
I’ve never particularly cared for it, I must say.
But especially now that everyone probably hates me.
Levi finally lowers the papers in his lap. “They know you arrived in New York yesterday,” he says evenly. “But they do not know where you’re staying, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
Emma shifts slightly beside me. “How bad is it online?”
Levi’s expression barely changes. “Divided.”
My jaw locks as the SUV slows beneath the underground entrance ramp. Divided means some people think I survived. And others probably think I deserve to die. I stare through the windshield as security gates begin sliding open ahead of us.
“You are not on trial for being abused,” Levi says suddenly, his voice quieter now. “You are not on trial for surviving captivity,” he continues. “You are not on trial for what was done to you psychologically over years of coercion and torture.”
My throat feels tight.
“However,” Levi says carefully, his blue eyes sharp. “You are absolutely being judged for it. And I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through, kid. Truly.”
The SUV rolls fully underground, away from cameras, noise, and public speculation. Concrete walls replace city lights, and the gates close behind us. For a moment, nobody moves. Then Emma’s hand slips more firmly into mine. I glance down at her to see that she’s already looking at me.
“We’re okay,” she whispers softly.
The words make me nauseous.
Levi opens his door first. “Let’s go,” he says. And just like that, survival ends, and consequences begin.
***
The private waiting room outside the courtroom smells like burnt coffee. I sit near the far wall beside Emma, elbows resting against my knees while exhaustion drags through my body. My bruises are mostly faded now, but my knuckles still split open whenever I flex my hands too much.
A television mounted silently in the corner flashes through news coverage while subtitles crawl endlessly beneath talking heads.
INTERNATIONAL TRAFFICKING LINKS EXPOSED.
DISSONANCE’S JUDE GRAVES UNDER INVESTIGATION.
RUSSIAN ORGANIZED CRIME CONNECTIONS.
One image appears briefly on-screen, then changes again too quickly for me to fully process it. But I already know which image they use most.
The white mask, splattered with blood.
My stomach twists, and Emma must notice the change in me immediately. Her hand settles gently against my arm beneath the sleeve of my coat, grounding me before I spiral too far into my own head again.
Across the room, Levi stands near the windows speaking quietly with another attorney while flipping through legal documents. Watching him work is like watching someone slowly dismantle a bomb with the hands of a fucking neurosurgeon. He’s incredible.
Heather walks in a few minutes later, carrying coffees alongside Micah, who still moves carefully.
“You look homicidal again,” Micah tells me casually as he lowers into the chair beside mine.
“I’m in a courthouse.”
“Fair.”
Heather hands Emma a drink before sitting carefully beside him. “You haven’t eaten.”
“I had breakfast.”
“You had three bites of toast.”
“It was enough.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Emma rolls her eyes, and I can’t help but smirk at how adorable it looks.
Then Levi returns, the atmosphere shifting when he looks down at me. “They are attempting to challenge the coercion framework,” he says.
Micah leans back with a muttered curse beneath his breath.
Levi continues calmly. “Which means the prosecution’s current strategy relies heavily on perception management.”
I already know what that means. They want me to look dangerous, as someone who willingly killed those men.
Levi’s eyes settle on me directly. “The public version of you is currently split between victim and accomplice.”
Jesus. That’s the real horror of all this, isn’t it? Not what Nolan and Alexei turned me into. But that the motherfucker convinced the world I chose to become it.
“Today,” he says evenly, “we begin dismantling the version of you they were taught to believe. Are you ready?”
I swallow hard, squeezing Emma’s hand. “Yes.”
***
The hotel room is too quiet after the courthouse. It’s not exactly the peaceful type of quiet. We’ve been questioned and analyzed all day by fucking assholes who have no idea what real suffering is.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Manhattan, glowing gold and white beneath the winter sky, headlights flashing through the streets far below, while snow drifts lazily between buildings.
Somewhere in the distance, sirens echo faintly through the city.
Aside from the insane hustle and bustle here… I do love it.
Emma sits near the edge of the bed, one of the hotel blankets loosely wrapped around her shoulders, her phone glowing in her hands as the television plays quietly in the background.
I’m standing near the small table by the balcony doors, scrolling through messages I still haven’t figured out how to answer.
Mom: We love you. Please remember that.
Dad: Whatever happens, we’re here.
A photo from Vanessa follows underneath. My little sister is sitting cross-legged on the back porch with Mom, wearing one of my old Dissonance hoodies, holding up a handmade sign that says:
You’re an asshole, but you’re my asshole. Come home.
Despite everything, a laugh escapes me.
Emma glances up. “Your family?”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
“How are they?”
I stare at the screen for another second before locking my phone. “Trying really hard not to panic, I think.”
She smiles faintly at that before her attention drifts back down toward her own messages. “My parents keep asking if I’m eating.”
“I imagine I permanently scarred your mom when you sent her a picture of those burnt pancakes,” I murmur with a grin. “She said that I could never be the chef in the house.”
“Mm.” Her thumb scrolls absently. “My mom threatened to fly here if I don’t answer within an hour.”
“She’d fit right in with Heather.”
That finally earns me a tiny laugh, even if it fades too quickly.
I watch her for a second longer before stepping out onto the balcony.
Cold air hits me, sharp enough to sting my lungs as Manhattan stretches endlessly below. The city feels alive in a way I can’t relate to anymore. People are still moving around down there. Laughing. Going to dinners. Falling in love like in those romcoms I used to enjoy watching.
I light a cigarette with slightly shaking fingers. The first inhale burns.
Inside, Emma changes into one of my hoodies and soft sleep shorts. The television flickers against the dark hotel room walls, filling the silence enough that neither of us has to.
Then suddenly, the channel changes.
I glance back through the glass just in time to catch a flash of my own face on-screen before it disappears. Press coverage.
Emma stares at the remote afterward, shoulders tightening beneath the oversized hoodie. Something about it twists painfully inside my chest. Because she shouldn’t have to flinch every time she sees me attached to words like investigation, murder, and trafficking.
I crush the cigarette out harder than necessary.
When I step back inside, she’s sitting cross-legged against the headboard now, staring at her phone again.
I move quietly toward the bathroom to change, stripping out of my clothes slowly while exhaustion drags heavily through every inch of me.
Bruises fade across my ribs now, thankfully.
Hope flares inside me for a moment when I think about the fact that my body shouldn’t ever be subjected to that level of violence again.
By the time I pull on sweatpants and step back into the room, Emma’s crying. She’s staring down at her phone while tears slide over her cheeks, her mouth trembling faintly like she’s trying not to let the sound out.
Panic grabs me instantly. “Em?”
She shakes her head quickly before holding the phone out toward me, and my heart clenches.
Nova.
Mrs. Kent must’ve sent the photo recently. The black dog is sprawled dramatically across the grass, tongue hanging out one side of her mouth while her bright brown eyes practically glow with happiness. Her fur looks shiny in the sunlight.
“Oh,” Emma whispers brokenly. “I miss her.”
I climb carefully into bed beside her, pulling the blankets over us both before gently taking the phone from her trembling hands. I set it on the nightstand and carefully pull her against me.
Emma folds into my chest the moment she settles, her face burying against my neck while tears continue slipping free. I kiss the top of her head, fingers smoothing gently through her hair.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers shakily.
“For missing your dog?”
A weak laugh leaves her. But even holding her like this feels different now.
It’s like we’re both standing inside the wreckage of ourselves, trying to remember what intimacy used to feel like before survival hollowed parts of us out.
We haven’t touched each other that way since before Alexei’s event.
Not because I don’t want her. Fuck, I want her constantly.
But she’s still healing, sore, and still waking from nightmares.
And me?
Sometimes I still smell Alexei’s basement. Or feel hands that aren’t there. Honestly, if Emma told me never to touch her again, I would listen. I’d walk away if that’s what she needed to heal. Days, weeks, months…years. Or even forever.
The thought alone fucking kills me, but I would do it anyway. Because I can’t survive becoming another source of pain for her.
Emma eventually quiets against my chest, breathing evenly while my hand continues moving through her hair. I stare up at the dark ceiling long after she falls asleep beside me. And somewhere deep down, I truly wonder if we’re ever going to feel normal again.
Or if this damaged, aching, careful version of us is all that’s left now.