Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dean
When we get Ayla back to Alex’s loft, I wake her gently, careful not to startle her.
She blinks at me, eyes hollow and rimmed with exhaustion, and follows me inside, moving like she’s made of glass—each step stiff, her body telegraphing pain she won’t admit.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, my voice barely steady, desperate to offer her some small normalcy, anything she can control.
She just stares through me, her gaze distant and empty, and whispers, “No.” That single syllable feels like a door slamming shut. She turns away, heading for the bathroom, her whole frame brittle, on the edge of breaking.
I want to help, want to say something, but she doesn’t acknowledge me, her silence thick and heavy. I hover in the doorway, useless, watching her hands fumble with the faucet. When she pulls off her clothes, the reality of what’s been done to her slams into me.
Bruises cover her skin—some old and faded, others fresh and angry, dark purples and sickly yellow.
Angry, blistered burns crisscross her arms, legs, breasts, raw and red, wounds that make me want to rip Charles and Nathan apart.
There are cuts on her thigh and hip, some still crusted with blood.
When she turns towards the shower, I see her back: striped with welts, some split and scabbed, others still raw.
The marks tell a story of relentless violence—a map of everything she’s survived, every horror I wasn’t there to stop.
Rage and heartbreak wrestle inside me, sharp enough to make me dizzy.
I want to scream, to destroy something, to make it so none of this ever touched her.
But I can do nothing. I watch as she steps into the shower, her body flinching at the first touch of water.
She bites her lip, shoulders shaking, and I realize she’s doing everything she can not to cry out.
She stands there, eyes squeezed shut, letting the water wash over her, as if it could erase the pain, the terror, the scars.
My hands curl uselessly at my sides. There’s nothing to say, nothing to fix.
I can’t take back any of it. All I can do is stand there, helpless, tears stinging my eyes, feeling my heart break as I watch her try to rinse herself clean of what they did.
She doesn’t want comfort, or food, or words.
She needs space, and time, and a world where she’s never hurt again. I want to give her that. God, I do.
She doesn’t meet my eyes, doesn’t speak.
She just stands there, letting the water pour over her skin, unmoving, not even bothering to wash.
When I quietly ask, “Ayla, how can I help? Please…” she doesn’t answer.
Then, without warning, her knees buckle, and she slides down the shower wall, her body folding in on itself as gut-wrenching sobs tear from her chest. The sound is raw, shattering, echoing off the tile and splitting me open.
I don’t bother taking my clothes off—I climb right in after her, pulling her into my arms as she cries and cries, the pain shaking her whole body.
Her wounds press against me, her cries of pain and grief earth-shattering and soul-crushing.
I just hold her, for as long as she needs, letting her break apart in my embrace.
I swear, in that moment, I will spend the rest of my life putting her back together—and those motherfuckers will pay for every scar they left on her.
Once Ayla’s sobs finally subside, she stands, moving with the slow, sore stiffness of someone who’s survived a car crash.
I don’t say a word. Gently, I grab a washcloth, work up a soft lather, and start washing her, careful to avoid any new bruises or open wounds.
I clean her arms and legs, wiping around the blistered, angry burns, my hands shaking with outrage at every mark.
She stands with her head bowed, shoulders hunched, her entire body language screaming defeat—like she’s not really here, just a shell holding in all the pain.
When I reach her back, I flinch at the sight of it up close, my heart aching.
The kind of wounds that only come from repeated, deliberate violence.
I run the washcloth over her as gently as I can, whispering, “I’m sorry, beautiful.
I’m so fucking sorry,” even though I know it can’t touch the hurt.
I shampoo her hair with aching care, watching the water run red and pink as it swirls down the drain.
I condition it, working through the tangles softly, wishing I could wash away every memory, every scar.
I stay fully clothed, water soaking through my shirt and jeans, not caring about myself—only about making sure she feels safe, tended to, even if it’s just for these few minutes.
When she’s clean, I help her step out of the shower, wrapping her in the softest towel I can find.
“Down the hall to the left, first door. Go lie down if you want. I’ll be here.
” She shuffles out, silent and small, and I watch her disappear, a lump in my throat.
I strip off my soaked clothes, wrap a towel around my waist, and head to the washer to throw them in.
In the laundry room, I run into Zayn, who raises an eyebrow.
“What are you doing in a towel?” he asks, eyes flicking over me, concern darkening his features.
“By the way, Alex texted—he got the girls back to their homes, and he’s on his way. Where’s Ayla?”
“She went straight to the shower. I followed her, but she collapsed and just started sobbing—like, full-body, gut-wrenching sobs. She couldn’t even stand. I climbed in with her, clothes and all, and just held her while she cried.”
Zayn’s jaw is tight, dread and anger in his eyes. “What did they do?”
I can’t answer right away. My throat closes up, the images flashing in my mind—Ayla shaking, bleeding, her skin a road map of pain.
I press my knuckles to my mouth, trying to steady myself, but the words still catch.
“It’s bad, Zayn. It’s… It’s fucking bad.
She’s covered, man. Whipped, burned, bruised everywhere—cuts and welts, some old, some fresh.
Her back…” I have to stop, my voice breaking, breath hitching in my chest. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s inhuman.”
Zayn’s blue eyes go almost black with rage. “I want to watch the life leave their fucking eyes,” he snarls, and I nod, the ache in my chest almost too much to bear. Because so do I. I’ve never wanted something more in my life.
When I finally go to my room, Ayla is already curled up in bed, cocooned in blankets, her body so small it nearly disappears into the mattress.
The side of her face is shadowed by the pillow, bruises angry and fresh and fading.
Her arms are wrapped tight around her chest, every breath shallow, her whole body flinching at the slightest sound.
“Ayla, I’m here,” I say softly as I pull on pajama pants, keeping my voice gentle. “Can I lie with you?”
“Yes,” she whispers, so quiet I almost miss it. I slip under the covers, careful not to jostle her, and realize she’s wearing one of my T-shirts—it hangs off her, sleeves swallowing her arms, the hem brushing her knees. The sight makes me ache: a little piece of safety she’s claimed for herself.
I curl up behind her, wrapping my arms around her as delicately as I can, feeling the bruised heat of her skin, the way her body tenses at first, then slowly, so slowly, relaxes when I whisper, “I’m right here, Ayla.
Beautiful. I’ve got you.” She shivers, breath shaky, but as I hold her, I feel her start to unwind, muscles loosening, shoulders dropping, until finally her breathing steadies and she drifts off.
The first soft, sweet snore is a tiny sound, but it’s everything—I close my eyes, grateful just to hear it again, wishing I could bottle this fragile peace and keep it for her forever.
When I’m sure she’s asleep, I slip out quietly and head to the living room, sunlight beaming in through the windows. Alex is already pacing, fists clenched, tension carved deep into his brow.
“She’s asleep,” I say softly, my own voice rough.
Alex spins on me, eyes wild. “How bad is it?”
I hesitate, the words stuck in my throat, but Zayn steps in, his voice flat, haunted, dangerous. “Not good. Tell him, Dean. Tell him what they did.”
My chest tightens. I force myself to meet Alex’s eyes. “Her back is a mess. Whipped—over and over. Burns on her arms and legs, bruises everywhere. Some of those wounds are fresh, some are old. They didn’t just hurt her, Alex. They wanted her to remember it.”
Alex’s hands curl into fists, shaking. “Those sick fucks. I’ll kill them with my bare fucking hands. I swear to God.” His voice breaks on the last word, rage and grief warring in his eyes.
Zayn nods, knuckles white where he grips the back of the couch. “I want to watch them beg before they die. I want them to feel every ounce of what she felt. No mercy.”
Alex slams his fist into the wall, the sound echoing through the loft. “No mercy,” he echoes, his voice a vow. “We’re not just going to find them. We’re going to end them.”
A heavy silence settles, thick with fury and the weight of all we couldn’t stop. I look at both of them, my voice shaking but certain. “We’re all in, right? No matter what it takes.”
Zayn meets my gaze, eyes blazing. “I’d burn the world for her.”
Alex nods, jaw set, voice low and lethal. “Whatever it takes.”
For a moment, the three of us stand there—united, furious, and ready to do whatever we must. It’s not justice we want. It’s vengeance. And nothing will stop us.
Zayn