Chapter Eight
Alexander
Dean’s fingers fly over the keyboard, pulling up everything he can on Charles Barron.
It doesn’t take long—Ayla’s father is all over the internet.
Investment banker, big league, wife deceased, only child.
Ayla was thirteen then. On paper, he’s the definition of clean: charity dinners, board memberships, pictures shaking hands with politicians.
A real stand-up guy. But the more I read, the heavier my gut sinks.
There’s nothing here. No scandals, no messy lawsuits, not even a drunk-and-disorderly.
It makes my skin crawl, because I know what a monster looks like when the mask is perfect.
But the truth is in Ayla’s eyes. I keep replaying the way she went white, the way her hands shook, the haunted look, like she was stuck in a nightmare she couldn't escape. That wasn’t just fear—it was the terror of someone who’s spent a lifetime learning how to hide.
The kind of pain that seeps into your bones and never really leaves.
Whatever Charles did to her, it’s carved into her, and I’d give anything to rip it out for her.
I hate that I can’t. I hate that all I can do is watch her flinch at shadows and hope she’ll let me stand beside her in the dark.
Suddenly, Derek’s voice explodes out of the computer speakers—a snarl that chills my blood.
“You’re going to do what I fucking tell you to do, worthless fucking whore—” I watch, sick with helpless rage, as he slaps Ayla hard across the face.
She staggers, but instead of cowering, she shouts back, her voice sharp with raw, desperate defiance: “I will not see him!”
Something in my chest cracks wide open. Even after everything Derek’s put her through, she’d rather go to war with him than face her father.
That realization guts me. I feel this ache—fear and pride all tangled up—watching her fight, battered but unbowed, refusing to let anyone break her spirit.
She flinches at the second blow, her cheek red and swelling, but she doesn’t back down.
When Derek lunges for her again, she’s all claws and fury, her survival burning through the pain.
I realize in that moment just how much fire she still has left, and I swear: as long as there’s breath in my body, she will never have to fight alone again.
I will stand between her and the darkness, no matter what it takes. And fuck, I hope she’ll let me.
She manages to wrench herself free for a heartbeat, but Derek is quicker—he slams her to the ground, and the sound of her sobs rips through me.
Something inside me snaps. My mind blanks, all plans and caution obliterated by pure, blinding rage.
I snatch up my helmet and keys, my hands shaking with adrenaline.
Dean and Zayn both stare at me, alarmed.
“Alex, the long game—what happened to that?” Dean pleads, voice urgent, but I’m already moving.
I glance back at the monitor. Derek’s hand is sliding up under Ayla’s shirt while she cries, her body curling in on itself. I can’t take it—I won’t. “Fuck the long game,” I snarl, and I’m out the door before either of them can stop me.
I tear through city traffic on my bike, weaving between cars like a man possessed.
There’s only one thought in my head—get to Ayla.
Now. Every red light feels like a lifetime, every second a razor cutting into my patience.
I’m riding well past reckless, throttle wide open, no fear, no hesitation.
The drive stretches into eternity, but finally I screech to a stop in front of her house, heart pounding hard enough to crack ribs.
I round the side of the house, creeping closer through the shadows, when the sounds hit me—Ayla’s broken sobs, the sharp, unmistakable crack of a slap, all of it leaking out through the open window.
I go still, cold fury racing through my veins.
Time has slipped through my fingers—I’m too late to stop the worst of it, but I won’t let it go on.
Not for another second. My fists clench, jaw locked.
I swear to God, it ends tonight. Someone is going to pay for this. And it sure as hell won’t be her.
I rip off my helmet and yank a black balaclava down over my face, hands shaking with a fury so cold it feels holy.
My vision tunnels, everything narrowing to a single bloody point.
I move silently as a shadow, every muscle alive with the urge to destroy.
When I look through the window and see Derek on top of Ayla—my Ayla—her broken sobs muffled beneath him, something in me snaps so hard I feel it in my teeth.
All that’s left is rage. Pure, monstrous, all-consuming.
I pull my knife—a matte black handle, steel blade glinting, hungry for blood. I slice through the window screen, every movement deliberate, calculated. I want the element of surprise. I want Derek to see my eyes and know the end is here.
Just as Derek lets out a guttural grunt, I slip the knife away, vault through the window, and grab him by the hair.
I tear him off Ayla and fling him across the room.
He’s naked and wild-eyed, terror blooming on his face, but not fast enough.
I storm over to him, and my gloved fist connects with his jaw, again and again—the crunch of bone, the spray of blood, the music of vengeance.
I am unhinged. Relentless. I become a storm—violence and vindication crashing down on him, unstoppable, the fury inside me finally unleashed.
Every blow is thunder. Every scream is lightning.
Tonight, I am his fucking misery. He tries to fight, but I’m not a man—I’m his worst fucking nightmare.
I grab his head, both hands iron, and drive my knee into his face with a wet, shattering crunch.
Blood gushes, splattering the floor. I want him to drown in his pain.
I want him to know that the monster he made has come for him—and that he will never, ever touch her again.
I yank my knife from my pocket and press it to his throat, making him freeze beneath me.
His eyes go wide, body rigid with terror, and for the first time tonight, I let myself smile—a slow, wicked grin that feels almost inhuman.
I am his devil, his reckoning, and he’s about to learn the price of touching what’s mine.
I glance down at him, sneering at the blood pooling from his nose, his mouth red and ruined.
“You’ve had a lot of fun with that cock, haven’t you, Derek?
Been doing things you never should’ve.” I press the blade harder, just enough to make his skin dimple.
“Tell me, do you enjoy touching what belongs to me?”
The confusion, the fear, the pain—all of it flashes across his face. He spits blood at me, snarling, “Fuck you.”
But I only smile colder, voice dropping to a near-growl. “See, if it’s up to me, you’ll never fuck anyone again.” I lean in, my eyes dead and merciless. “Wait—that is up to me.”
My laugh is low, dark, and cruel. Without a second thought, I slash the blade along his jawline—not deep enough to kill, but enough to paint his neck red and make him scream.
He thrashes, weak and desperate, but it’s useless against the fury boiling through me.
Tonight, he learns what it means to fear the monster he made.
As Derek bleeds out on the floor, I stalk a slow circle around him, drinking in his agony—the way he writhes, the terror in his eyes, the blood pooling beneath him.
Each gasp, each scream, only feeds the inferno inside me.
He pleads, begs, but I’m past mercy. I crouch beside him, my voice a deadly whisper.
“Let me show you what happens to men who can’t keep their hands—or their cocks—where they belong. ”
With gloved hands, I make my choice. No hesitation, no remorse.
My breath is steady and chilling as I reach down, fingers closing around his cock—my grip is icy, clinical, the angle brutal.
The room smells like blood and sweat, metallic and raw, the air heavy with his sobs and ragged, desperate pleas.
I look him dead in the eye, my face inches from his. “This is your legacy, Derek. Remember it.”
With a single, ruthless swipe of my blade, I sever his cock from his body in one clean, merciless motion.
The flesh parts easily, hot, arterial blood pumping in violent spurts, splattering my gloves and painting the floor in thick, dark red.
The sound is wet, sickening—the slice, the gurgle of torn flesh, the sharp intake of his breath before it transforms into a scream unlike anything I’ve ever heard: high, curdled, animalistic.
It splits the night, echoing off the walls, shaking the windows.
He thrashes, legs kicking, hands clawing at the floor, back arching off the ground.
His eyes roll, foam and blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth as he begs for mercy that will never come.
I don’t flinch. I don’t look away. I watch every second, letting the horror and agony etch themselves into my memory.
My boots slip in the blood, but I hold firm.
All I feel is grim, unyielding satisfaction. Tonight, Derek learns the taste of true fear. Tonight, he’ll never hurt Ayla—or anyone—ever again. And I stand there, watching the life and hope drain from his eyes, knowing I’d do it all again if I had to.