Chapter Twenty
Zayn
We picked up everything we thought we’d need—shampoo for Ayla (I spent way too long sniffing bottles, hoping she’d like the one I chose), boxes of ammo, pepper spray, and a couple of tasers.
I even grabbed her favorite snacks—sweet-and-salty trail mix, kettle chips, those sour gummies she always steals from my stash—plus some chocolate bars, protein bars, and extra batteries.
Every item was a promise: we’re thinking of you, we’ve got you, even if we’re barely holding it together ourselves.
I wanted her to feel cared for, to know she’s not alone, that we’d thought of every little comfort that might make her smile, even if just for a moment.
The whole ride back, I’m relaxed—cruising the backroads with Alex, the wind in our faces, half-laughing through our helmets about the ridiculous haul we’ve got in our backpacks.
There’s a rare lightness between us. For once, I’m not worried.
I let myself believe the worst is behind us, at least for now. Right?
But the second we roll up the drive, that fragile peace shatters.
The kitchen light is still on—strange, this late.
The front door is cracked open, barely hanging on its hinges.
My whole body goes cold, a sick dread knotting my stomach.
I barely have time to process before panic floods my veins.
The living room is dark, silent—too silent.
“Dean? Ayla?” I call, my voice suddenly hoarse, but the house swallows the words.
There’s no answer—just a suffocating emptiness.
Alex falls in behind me, tension radiating off him in waves.
My hands shake as I move toward the kitchen, every instinct screaming that something has gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.
And then I see him. Dean is sprawled on the kitchen floor, a pool of blood spreading out beneath his head, so much blood I can’t believe he’s still breathing.
For a split second, the world slips out from under me—like I’m falling, lost, my lungs crushed flat.
I scream his name, a raw, animal sound that rips out of me, echoing off the walls.
My knees slam into the slick, bloody tile, pain shooting up my legs, but I barely register it.
All that matters is Dean—Dean, who is bleeding out right in front of me.
I grab him, cradling his head in my lap, my hands trembling so violently I can barely hold him.
His skin is cold, his lips already tinged blue, and his breaths are shallow and ragged—barely there at all.
Panic chokes me. My mind races, every nightmare I’ve ever had coming true right here, right now.
What if I’m too late? What if this is the last time I’ll ever see him alive?
All the things I should have said, all the ways I failed him—every regret piles on until I feel like I’m suffocating.
His eyelids flutter but never open. My palms are slick with his blood as I stroke his jaw, press frantic kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, anywhere I can reach—desperate, pleading, panicked.
My sobs break loose, wild and broken, the sound of them unrecognizable in my own ears.
Panic claws at my throat, and I taste salt and copper and pure, animal fear.
“Please, Dean, wake up. Please, I love you, please—don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. I need you. I need you.” The words spill out of me, a frantic litany of terror and loss.
Devastation crushes me. It’s a weight so heavy I can barely breathe.
My thoughts are a storm: What if he dies?
What if he slips away right now and I can’t stop it?
What if I’m not enough to keep him here?
I’m sobbing, shaking, clutching him as if the force of my love alone could anchor him to the world.
The blood on my hands is everywhere—slick, hot, a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
I rock him, begging him to stay with me, to come back, to not do this, not now.
I whisper his name again and again, my voice strangled with panic, the nightmare closing in.
The fear is so sharp it’s like glass in my chest—shattering me, leaving me hollow and desperate.
I can’t lose him. I can’t. The pain is an avalanche—unbearable, relentless, no air, no hope, just the sickening certainty that I’m about to lose everything that matters.
I hold him, sobbing, praying, not sure who I’m begging—God, fate, the universe—just desperate for a miracle.
Alex crashes to the floor beside me, his phone clattering as he fumbles for 911.
His voice is high and wild with panic: “Fuck, fuck—911, we need paramedics, there’s been a break-in, a man is bleeding—” I barely hear him, the roar in my ears drowning out everything but Dean’s shallow, fragile breaths.
“Zayn, have you seen Ayla?” Alex’s voice breaks, terror lacing every word.
I can’t answer him. “Ayla!” he shouts, but there’s nothing.
No answer. The silence is a tomb, and all I can do is clutch Dean, tears and blood streaking my face, desperate for him to stay alive.
“Please, Dean. I love you. Please.” My whole world has shrunk to this—Dean’s weight in my arms, the terror of watching him slip away, the helplessness of knowing I can’t do anything except hold on.
Alex’s hand finds my back, rubbing frantic, shaky circles, his other hand gripping my shoulder like he’s trying to hold us both together.
I’m sobbing into Dean’s hair, refusing to let go, refusing to believe this is the end.
Sirens wail in the distance, drawing closer, the lights outside starting to strobe through the windows—red and blue panic painting the room.
Paramedics burst in, shouting instructions, kneeling beside us, moving with terrifying speed.
I hear them say, “critical,” “low blood pressure,” “unresponsive”—and every word is another knife in my chest.
I’m shaking so hard I can barely breathe as they check Dean’s vitals, lift him from my lap, and start hooking him up to wires and monitors.
Blood is smeared everywhere—my hands, my jeans, my arms. I’m gasping, fighting for air, the world spinning.
They slip a neck brace around him, their faces grim, voices tight.
I scramble into the ambulance beside him, refusing to let go, grabbing his hand like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
The world blurs with sirens and lights, the doors slamming shut.
I look through the window and see Alex—his face torn, devastated, lips moving as he yells, “I’ve gotta look for Ayla.
Keep me updated, please!” The fear in his eyes—raw, helpless—nearly breaks me.
He’s torn in two, desperate to save us both.
The ambulance jolts forward, lights and sirens screaming into the night, and I cling to Dean’s cold hand, panic and heartbreak crashing through me, praying with everything I have that this isn’t the last goodbye.
Alexander
I watch the ambulance pull away, frozen in place, heart pounding so loud I can barely think.
For one long, paralyzed moment, everything inside me just…
stops. Dean tried to protect her, and it might have cost him his life.
I should have protected them both. Guilt and anger claw through me, hot and relentless.
Suddenly, I snap back to reality, adrenaline flooding in.
I tear through the house, screaming “Ayla!” over and over, the echo of her name ragged and desperate in the empty rooms. I know there’s no point, but I can’t stop.
She’s not here. They got to her. Panic pulses in my veins as I sprint to her room.
The sight guts me—furniture overturned, blankets half-hanging off the bed, the chaos of a struggle written everywhere.
My stomach turns to ice. There are blood drops spattering the floor, leading out to the stairs.
Dread and rage twist inside me until I can hardly breathe.
Shaking, I grab my phone and open the security camera app, praying for answers.
The footage loads, and I force myself to watch, every muscle locked and trembling.
The kitchen is dark—then, suddenly, the light flicks on.
Dean stands there, confused, and in the next instant, Charles is behind him, a cruel smile twisting his mouth.
Dean whirls, knife in hand, and throws himself at Charles, rage and desperation in every move.
They struggle—Dean fighting with everything he has, yelling at Ayla to run, his voice fierce and terrified.
Ayla’s scream—“Dean, look out!”—cuts through the speakers.
Before Dean can get the upper hand, Nathan steps out of the shadows, raises the gun, and cracks Dean in the head with the butt.
The sound is sickening—a sharp thud, blood dripping from his head.
Through the speaker, I hear Dean’s broken, desperate plea: “Ayla, run—don’t let him break you,” before his knees give out, head hitting the counter, and he drops to the floor.
My chest goes hollow. Charles, satisfied, turns to Ayla, his voice curling through the speakers: “Princess.” The word makes bile crawl up my throat.
Dean is out cold, helpless, as Charles grabs Ayla and drags her into her room.
Nathan follows, and Ayla’s screams echo through the audio—raw, terrified, shattering.
My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop the phone.
I know what’s happening behind that closed door.
I know. My heart shatters into a million pieces, and the sobs just rack through me, body breaking under the weight of it.
But I can’t look away. I keep watching, desperate, hollow, ruined.