Chapter Eight #2
I turn to Ayla, and for a moment she’s not even breathing—eyes wide, face ghost-pale, frozen in the aftermath.
Her fear is raw, so sharp I can feel it in my own bones.
I see her panic, the way she’s hugging herself, trembling, her breath coming in tiny, broken gasps.
My hands are still shaking, blood drying on my skin, and a part of me is just as lost as she is.
There’s a part of me that’s horrified by what I just did, but a bigger part that knows I’d do it again, over and over, for her.
I want to reach for her, to promise her she’s safe, but I’m terrified I’ll scare her even more.
The violence, the blood, the monster I became to protect her—is that what she’ll remember?
Or will she remember that I came back, that I refused to let her be alone in hell another night?
As she stares at Derek’s ruined body, I see so much in her face: terror, grief, disbelief, but also—somewhere way down in the rubble—a tiny flicker of hope.
She looks at me like she’s not sure whether I’m her savior or the next threat.
My chest aches with the need to comfort her, to be the man she can lean on, not just the weapon she unleashed.
I want to fall apart, to rage at the universe for making her live through this, but I can’t.
She needs me solid, gentle, unwavering. I want to promise her everything will be okay, but I know better.
All I can do is stand there, hands open, waiting for her to decide if she’ll let me hold her together, or if all I’ve done is break her in a new way.
Tonight, I crossed a line I can never come back from.
I did it for her. And whatever it costs me, I’d pay it again.
But as I watch her shatter and try to gather herself, I realize this is the beginning—not the end—of everything we both have to survive.
For the first time, I understand: saving someone isn’t just about violence or vengeance.
It’s about being brave enough to stay, even when you’re not sure you’re enough to help them heal.
“We have to go. Now, Ayla.” My voice is rough, urgent. She doesn’t move. She just keeps staring, her whole world narrowing to that bloody mess on the floor. "Ayla!" I shout, sharper this time, but she’s lost in it, locked in the horror and disbelief.
I don’t think. I cross the room in two strides, grab her face in my bloody gloves, and kiss her forehead through the mask. It’s messy, desperate, but it’s enough—her breath hitches, her eyes snap to mine. “You’re safe, darling. I’ve got you.”
She’s standing there in shock, still half-naked, her eyes vacant and her hands shaking so hard I’m afraid she’ll fall apart right here.
I move fast, crouching down to grab her clothes off the floor—her shirt, her shorts, that soft hoodie she always wears when she wants to disappear.
My hands are still bloody, but I’m careful, gentle as I help her step into her shorts, pulling them up over her hips.
I thread her arms through the sleeves of her shirt, then through the sleeves of her hoodie, zipping it up to her chin.
She’s limp, letting me move her, eyes glazed, but I don’t rush her.
I just keep talking to her, grounding her to the now.
“You’re safe, Ayla. I’ve got you. Just breathe for me, okay? ”
When she’s dressed, I pull her into my arms and hold her for a moment, letting her sob into my chest. Only when she’s steady enough to stand do I scoop her up, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her out the door, leaving everything else behind.
She’s still trembling when I set her down by the bike, but she doesn’t argue when I press the helmet into her hands.
“Put this on.” She does, hands shaking, and climbs on behind me, clinging to my jacket like I’m the only thing keeping her tethered to this world.
I rev the engine, adrenaline still surging, blood drying on my skin.
I have no idea how I’m going to clean this up, no idea what comes next.
But I know I don’t regret a thing. As we tear off into the night, all I care about is getting her somewhere safe—somewhere she can finally breathe.
We’ll figure out the rest together, one mile at a time.
Ayla
I stumble through the door, numb and silent, letting Alex steer me inside.
My legs barely work—every step is mechanical, like I’m watching myself from far away.
There’s a roaring in my ears, a stunned silence where every heartbeat feels like it belongs to someone else.
I can’t speak. I can’t even think. What the fuck just happened?
It all feels like a nightmare I can’t wake up from, and yet—somewhere under the terror—there’s a strange, aching solace.
I’m safe. For the first time in months, I think I might actually be safe. And it’s almost too much to bear.
Alex’s loft is neat and spare, the kind of place that should feel safe, but all I notice is the blood drying on my skin, caked under my nails.
Two guys I don’t recognize are sitting on the couch, their eyes wide, mouths hanging open as they take in the bloody, shaking mess Alex just dragged inside.
Dean. Zayn. Their names trickle through the fog, but they’re background noise—just more witnesses to my unraveling.
“What the FUCK, Alex?” Dean explodes, voice echoing off the walls. “You can’t just disappear and come back covered in blood—what the hell did you do?”
Zayn stands up, staring between Alex and me, eyes wide. “Alex, man, you’re out of your mind. We could have helped you.”
Alex’s jaw tics; he barely glances at them as he closes the door behind me.
“Dean. Zayn. Drop it. I got her out. That’s all that matters right now.
” There’s something in his voice—a fierce, protective certainty—that both terrifies and comforts me.
I’m not used to being someone’s reason for anything.
I’m not used to anyone fighting for me, much less destroying worlds to keep me safe.
Their names stick in my mind, even though they aren’t talking to me—just to Alex, loud and frantic, trying to process the mess we’ve walked into.
I stay silent, frozen in the doorway, my brain still catching up.
These are Alex’s people—maybe, if I let myself believe it, maybe mine too, now.
The thought is so foreign, it almost hurts.
I glance down and finally see myself—splattered, smeared, a human crime scene.
The sight cracks something inside me. I start to cry, the sobs breaking loose before I can stop them.
My whole body shakes, knees threatening to buckle.
The room spins. Alex killed him. I saw it.
The violence, the rage—by all rights, I should be terrified; I should be running for the door.
But the fucked up truth is, a part of me feels something else: relief.
Gratitude. Awe. There’s a twisted comfort in knowing Derek can't touch me anymore, even if it means everything has changed forever. It’s horror and safety wrapped up together—nightmare and sanctuary, all at once.
I’m not sure what that makes me—a survivor, or just broken in new ways.
“Come on, darling. Let’s get you cleaned up,” Alex murmurs, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.
He steers me gently down the hall, his hand warm and steady on my back, guiding me like I’m made of glass.
For a moment, I let myself lean into him, letting his strength hold me together.
The bathroom is big and bright, too nice for a man who just tore the world apart in front of my eyes.
I can’t stop staring at the blood crusted on my hands, the way it stains my skin—proof that nothing will ever be the same.
Alex peels off his gloves and mask, dropping them into the sink, then turns on the tap, letting the tub fill with hot water and swirls of bubbles.
He tosses in a bath bomb, the scent of lavender blooming in the air.
I just stand there, frozen, feeling so far away from my own body it’s almost like I’m watching a stranger in my skin.
Grief, exhaustion, and gratitude war in my chest. I want to collapse, to scream, to let myself unravel, but I can't seem to move—I'm caught between the urge to run and the longing to let someone take care of me for once.
Alex moves slowly, cautiously, like he’s afraid the wrong touch might break me.
He unzips my hoodie and slides it off me.
He reaches for my shirt, pausing for permission, and I force myself to lift my arms. He pulls the fabric over my head, then kneels to slide my shorts down.
Every movement is gentle, nothing rough or hurried, just care.
I am standing in front of him, completely exposed, shame and relief both prickling at my skin.
Just like that night in the club, he never lingers, never takes more than he’s given.
He only touches me as much as he needs to, helping me into the bath, his hand steady beneath my elbow.
I feel almost human—but a part of me is terrified by how much I want to sink into him, to let him hold the pieces of me that are still left.