Chapter Five
One Year Later
Alexander
The man I beat—the Uber driver—I’ve never lost control like that before.
I nearly killed him. All it took was seeing his hands on Ayla, and something primal snapped inside me.
I wanted him dead, wanted to tear him apart just for touching her.
That kind of rage, the urge to destroy for someone else’s safety, was new to me—fierce and terrifying.
It’s not like my record is full of violence; before this, it was just a few stupid bar fights, nothing that ever really mattered.
But for her, I’d do it again. I’d do worse.
I’d do things I never knew I had in me until that night.
My grip tightens on the cheap canvas bag they gave me at release—just a few clothes, some paperwork, my old wallet.
No phone. No contacts. Uber isn’t even an option, so I wave down a cab, ignoring the way the driver sizes me up in the rearview.
I give him my address, stare out the window as the city rushes by, and when we pull up to my building, I run in, dig out the roll of bills I stashed in my loft before everything went to hell, and go back out and pay him.
I tip him well enough that he doesn’t ask questions.
Inside, the place is spotless. Too clean. The housekeeper’s been in, dusted around the ghosts. I drop my bag on the floor and let myself sink into the couch, the silence so thick it’s almost a living thing. “Free.” I say the word out loud, just to make it real.
The first thing I do is strip off my shirt in front of the mirror.
The new ink sprawled across my chest, muscles hard and lean from a year spent working out frustration and rage—it all looks different under the soft light of home.
With too much time and too much anger, I carved myself into someone new while I was locked away.
I let the shower run hot and step in, the water pounding against my skin, washing away months of grime and memory.
The heat sinks into my muscles, loosening the tension I’ve been carrying for a year.
I close my eyes, the steam swirling around me, and let my hand wander down my body—every touch exploring the changes, the new strength, the scars.
My palm finds my cock, already half-hard, and I start slow, stroking up and down in deliberate motions.
The relief is almost dizzying—a way to reclaim my body, my life, even if only for a few minutes.
The water drowns out everything but my own breathing, heavier and faster with each stroke.
I edge myself, building the pleasure and letting it fade, again and again, chasing the high but holding back, savoring the control.
Finally, when I can’t hold out any longer, I let go—my orgasm hitting hard, a guttural groan tearing from my throat as I spill ropes of thick cum onto the shower floor, hot and shuddering, every muscle finally relaxing into the heat.
For the first time in a year, I feel clean. I feel free.
After my shower, I grab my phone off the charger and dial Dean DeRose—my business manager, the one person I trust to keep my life afloat when I can’t.
I built my tech company from nothing, and Dean ran the show while I was locked up, making sure I didn’t lose everything I’d bled for in my 28 years on earth.
He even managed to get my bike and my phone out of impound for me at some point, because they are here.
“Hey, man, how are you?” I say, my voice a little rough from disuse.
“Oh shit, Alex!” he practically yells, and I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “When did you get out? Do you want me to come get you? Wait—you called me, so you’re already home. Damn, sorry.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I’m home. Just grabbed a cab. I wanted to thank you, for real—for holding it all together.”
“Of course, man. You want to grab a drink tonight?”
I hesitate just a second, my mind already running through a list of questions I need answered. "Actually, before we meet up, Dean, I need to know where Ayla Barron is. I need to see her, to know she's okay."
Dean gives me a knowing huff, his tone laced with reassurance but also caution. "You'll know when you see me, Alex. Trust me. I'll make sure you have what you need."
“Thanks man, and yeah. A drink sounds great,” I say without a second thought. I could use it.
We lock in plans—7 p.m. at Rusty Bull, downtown.
Just saying it out loud feels surreal after a year behind bars.
I glance in the mirror and realize I look every bit like a guy who just got out of prison.
That won’t do. I grab my helmet, head out to the parking garage, and swing a leg over my bike, the engine roaring to life beneath me.
It’s like I never left—the rhythm, the wind, the surge of freedom as I cut through traffic.
The city looks different from behind handlebars, more alive, like it’s waiting for me.
I hit up my old barber. The scissors buzz away a year’s worth of rough edges, and when I step out, I almost recognize myself. I can’t help the small grin tugging at my mouth. Got to look sharp before I show up to claim what’s mine, right? Ayla, my darling—I’m coming for you. Promise.
I roll up to Rusty Bull, engine rumbling, and tuck my helmet under my arm.
Inside, Dean’s already posted up at the bar with Zayn and Luca—familiar faces and just enough noise to drown out the nerves.
Dean spots me, grinning like I’m some kind of war hero, and shoves a shot my way before I even sit down.
“Drink, bro,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder.
I don’t hesitate. The whiskey burns in the best way, and for a second, it almost feels like old times. Dean lines up another shot next to my empty glass, raising a brow. “So, you gonna tell us if prison food is as bad as they say, or are you sworn to secrecy?”
“Wouldn’t recommend the chicken, if that’s even what it is. I have questions,” I deadpan, and the guys laugh, easy and loud.
Dean leans in, dropping his voice. “Real talk, though—are you gonna reach out to Ayla? Ya know, since you went full psycho over her?”
My jaw tics, and I force a shrug, keeping my eyes on the row of bottles behind the bar. “Not sure she wants to hear from me, man.”
He nudges me, voice gentle. “You still thinking about her?”
I just sigh, spinning the shot glass between my fingers, but in my head, Ayla’s all I can see. I haven’t messaged her. Not yet. Not until I figure out what the hell I’d even say.
Zayn elbows me, grinning. “Bro, honestly? You should hit her up. You literally went to jail for this girl—the least she could do is hear you out.”
I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Drop it, Zayn.”
He throws his hands up, all innocent. “Hey, I’m just saying—”
“Seriously. Change the subject,” I say, my voice low, threading just enough warning through it to kill the conversation. It works; the guys shift gears, but my mind’s already tangled up back where I don’t want it—thinking about her.
“So, man, what was prison actually like? You get into fights, or is it just like the movies?” Dean asks.
I snort, rolling my empty glass between my hands.
“You have no idea. I got into it with more than a few guys. Most of the time, it was just boring as hell. But the fights? You learn quick who not to mess with. And it’s lonely.
Lonelier than you can imagine. Makes you think too much, about everything you did wrong and everyone you let down. ”
Dean claps me on the shoulder, his grip solid. “Well, you’re out, man. And you’re not alone now.”
I pull out my phone and stare at her contact—Ayla.
My Ayla. Dean verified for me that her number is the same.
Just seeing her name lights something up in my chest, fierce and hungry.
My thumb hovers over the screen, itching to call, but I shove it back in my pocket.
She doesn’t get a text. Not yet. I want to see my girl’s face when I show up.
I want her to remember that she’s mine—that I did a year for her, and I’d do a hundred more if that’s what it takes. Soon enough, she’ll know it.
We knock back a few more shots, the conversation spinning off in every direction.
Luca starts up about the last girl he hooked up with, bragging about how she blew his mind.
I let the noise wash over me. These guys are my brothers, but my girl—the only girl who matters—she’s not some story for bar talk.
I don’t say her name, don’t let them touch it.
Ayla’s mine, and nobody gets to talk about her but me.
Ayla
It’s nearly ten when I hear Derek’s key scrape the lock—always too loud, always in a hurry. I’m curled up on the couch, TV flickering, a book forgotten in my lap. The house is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the tick of the cheap wall clock Derek says he will replace but never does.
He comes in, suit jacket slung over his arm, tie half-undone, Bluetooth still stuck in his ear. He doesn’t say hi. He never does anymore.
I push myself up, smooth my hair, and set the book aside. “Long night?” I ask, already heading for the kitchen.
He grunts, tossing his keys in the bowl by the door. “Miller filed the wrong motion—again. I had to fix the whole thing myself.” He drops his bag with a thud like punctuation.
“Want a drink?” I reach for the bottle of bourbon he likes, the fancy stuff he keeps on the highest shelf.
He doesn’t answer right away, just shrugs out of his tie and tosses it over a chair. “Yeah. Make it strong.”
I measure out two fingers, add a single cube—he hates when it’s watered down. I hand him the glass, and he takes it without looking at me, already scrolling through emails on his phone.
“Thanks,” he mutters, not really meaning it, not really here.
I watch him for a moment, wondering if I should ask about his day, about the trial, about anything. Instead, I just lean against the counter, the kitchen light too bright, my reflection in the window looking tired and unfamiliar.