Chapter Six
Alexander
Now that I'm home, I can't get the night out of my head. I keep replaying the scene—watching from the shadows as that piece of shit grabbed Ayla by her hair and dragged her back inside. Every detail is burned into my memory: the way he slapped her, how she went limp, as if her soul had just left her body while he was fucking raping her. She looked hollow, just surviving, her eyes dead and her movements robotic. The bastard didn’t even care enough to close the curtains—like he wanted the whole world to see him hurt her, like it was nothing. The bruises, the red handprint blazing on her cheek—I saw it all, every sickening mark. There’s no mistaking what’s happening in that house.
He treats her like property, not a person, and it makes me livid.
Seeing her like that—broken, trapped—nearly pushed me over the edge.
It took everything I had not to smash the door down and tear him apart.
And she’s supposed to marry him? No fucking way.
I know she pushed me away, but after seeing the truth up close, there’s no way I’m leaving her in that hell.
I just got out of prison, and every muscle in my body is begging me to go back in there and rip him to shreds—but I can’t.
Not now. If I lose control, I risk ending up locked away again, leaving Ayla trapped with that bastard.
I saw the truth written all over her—every bruise, every flinch, every dead-eyed stare.
There’s no denying it, not after witnessing it firsthand.
She needs help, whether she admits it or not.
And her fiancé? He’s at the top of my fucking shit list. I’ve gotta time this right.
I pace my apartment, the scene with Ayla and Derek playing over and over in my mind—her bruises, the way she looked at me, every piece of it burned behind my eyes. I can’t shake the rage or the sense of helplessness, but I know I can’t do this alone.
I pull out my phone and dial Dean. He picks up immediately.
“Hey man, what’s up?”
“I need your help,” I say, cutting right to the chase. “Come over. Now. Please”
He doesn’t even ask why—just agrees, no hesitation. That’s Dean. The one person I trust to have my back, no matter how bad things get. Tonight, I need him more than ever.
Dean shows up fast. I let him in, and before he can say a word, I launch straight into it—every ugly detail of what I saw tonight, the bruises on Ayla, the way Derek manhandled her, everything. He listens, jaw tight, anger flickering in his eyes.
"I need to know everything about this motherfucker," I tell him, my voice cold and clear. "Where he works, where he drinks, who he talks to, what time he takes a shit—if he so much as changes a hair on his head, I want to know."
Dean just nods, already rolling up his sleeves. "Say less." He drops his bag and heads straight for my computer, fingers flying across the keys. I'm pacing behind him, restless, my mind racing.
"You ever seen her like this before?" Dean asks while code scrolls across the screen.
I shake my head, jaw clenched. "I've only seen her twice before this.
But tonight—" I break off, frustration tightening my voice.
"At the club and the gas station, there was this light in her eyes.
Of course, that was a year ago now. She was fierce.
Alive. But tonight, it was like she was already gone.
I didn't see any of that. Just emptiness. "
Dean glances up, brows drawn. "So he's breaking her down."
"Yeah," I say, voice low with determination. "And I'm not letting it go."
It takes Dean a few hours—digging, hacking, checking and rechecking everything, his concentration absolute.
I've started dozing off by the time he finally leans back, cracking his knuckles with a satisfied sigh.
"You're in. I've got his phone texts, his emails, his location, Ayla's too.
As a bonus, you're tapped into the cameras inside their house.
" I snap awake. Damn, his skills still impress me.
His eyes narrow at the screen. "He works at Meyers I want to fucking kill him,” I tell him, trying to keep my tone steady, though I can feel a tremor in my hands.
Dean rubs his face, still half-asleep. “Alex, I get that you’re angry, but if you go nuclear, you’re just going to end up back inside. You sure this is the play? Maybe there's another way—something legal, or at least less permanent.”
I shake my head, jaw clenched. “You didn’t see her, Dean. She’s... she’s not herself anymore. He’s killing her slowly. I can’t just sit here and watch. I need to end this.I don’t care what lines I have to cross.”
Dean sighs, running both hands through his hair. “Look, I hate the guy too. But murder? You really want to throw your life away? You just got out. There’s got to be another option—evidence, blackmail, something. You’re not thinking straight.”
I stare him down, voice low and steady. “I am thinking straight. He won’t stop, Dean. And Ayla? She won’t save herself. Hell, I don’t even think she believes she deserves to be saved. I’d rather be the monster who saves her than the coward who walks away.”
Dean looks at me for a long moment, torn. “You know, man, I always thought you were the sane one in our crew.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Not anymore. Not when it comes to her.”
He studies my face, then nods, resolve settling in. “Alright. I’m with you. But if we’re doing this, we do it smart. We get leverage, we cover our tracks, and we don’t leave loose ends. Gloves, masks, the whole nine yards. You go down, I go down too.”
I nod, throat tight. “First, keep an eye on Derek. If he so much as steps out of line, I want to know. And if it comes to it, I need you to wipe anything that could tie us back.”
Dean just nods again, no questions, no hesitation.
We’re in this together, whatever comes next.
It’s going to take time, patience, and more control than I want to have—but I know I can’t blow it.
So for now, I keep my eyes on Ayla through the monitor, Dean stretched out on the couch beside me, both of us waiting for the next move.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. I drift off to sleep, the image of Ayla curled up alone, the last thing I see.
Ayla
I wake up, and Derek is still asleep. Saturday.
No work for him today, which means he’ll be home all day—looming, watching, waiting for me to mess up.
My stomach knots. I slip out of bed as quietly as I can, careful not to wake him.
The floorboards creak, but he doesn’t stir.
I tiptoe down the hall, start a pot of coffee, and pull out eggs and bacon.
Breakfast in the morning, just how he likes it.
Keep him happy. Don’t say anything stupid. Do what he asks.
Old habits kick in, hard and familiar. I move through the kitchen on autopilot, just like I did in my father’s house, doing whatever it took to keep the peace.
His voice still echoes in my mind, heavy and cruel: Remember, princess, this is how men are.
The sooner you learn, the better off you’ll be.
I can’t shake it. Some part of me still believes it’s true.
Maybe that’s why I ended up here—repeating every lesson he ever taught me, even the ones that broke me.
I’m making breakfast, music playing low on my phone, when my thoughts wander to Alex—uninvited but impossible to shake. I glance at Derek, still sleeping, then type out a quick text:
Hey.
My heart beats double-time as I hit send. I don’t know what scares me more: the chance he won’t reply, or the risk that he actually will. I’m playing a dangerous game, and I know it.