Chapter Thirty-One
Alexander
Zayn and I work in grim silence, securing Charles and Nathan to the heavy wooden chairs we dragged to the center of the basement.
The chain bolted to the floor gleams in the harsh overhead bulb—just one more piece of evidence of what they did to Ayla, what this house has seen.
We place them on either side of the chain, facing each other like condemned men awaiting judgment.
Their wrists and ankles are locked tight in layers of zip ties and thick rope—enough to hold even the strongest man.
I check every knot, every loop, making sure they won’t wriggle free.
The air is cold, thick with the scent of damp concrete, old fear, and something metallic—blood, sweat, and dread.
Dean stands by the door, arms crossed, his face a mask of fury and focus. He’s already disabled the cameras—no more witnesses, no more leverage. None of us bother with masks; there’s no need for secrets here. They aren’t leaving this basement. Not after what they’ve done.
I glance at Ayla, standing in the shadows, her eyes cold, jaw set. This is her show. We’re only here to make sure no one stops her.
A few minutes after we finish tying them up, Nathan stirs.
He blinks, groggy and confused, tugging at his restraints.
When the realization hits, panic flashes across his face.
“What the fuck,” he mumbles, voice rough.
As full consciousness returns, his fear morphs into anger.
He yanks harder, testing the ties. “Let me the fuck out of here!” he roars, but all it does is make me laugh—a dark chuckle, a menacing sound that echoes off the cinderblock walls.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I croon, my voice thick with mockery.
Zayn leans in, his grin wicked and sharp. “Have a good nap?”
Nathan thrashes in the chair, veins bulging in his neck, spit flying as he shouts. “What the fuck?! You fucking psychos—let me go!”
I laugh, deep and menacing. “You’re not going anywhere, Nathan.”
Zayn circles behind him, voice low and gleeful. “Nope. You end right here. And guess what—I like to play with my prey.” He flicks open a knife, the blade glinting in the harsh light.
Across from him, Charles begins to stir.
He blinks, confusion giving way to terror as he takes in his surroundings—the chain, the ropes, the bloodstains on the floor.
Ayla’s fucking blood. His eyes lock onto Ayla, and for the first time, I see real fear in him.
I step forward, my voice loud and merciless. “Hello, Charles.”
“Ayla, Ayla, princess—” Charles tries to croon, his voice trembling with fake affection, but Zayn is on him in an instant. He presses the tip of his knife right to Charles’s throat, voice cold as ice. “Don’t fucking speak to her. You do not get to address her. She’s fucking mine.”
Charles’s eyes burn with hatred as he snarls, “Fuck you, she’s my daughter,” and before we can blink, he spits straight into Zayn’s face—defiant, desperate, still clinging to whatever power he thinks he has left.
The glob lands on Zayn’s cheek. For a heartbeat, the whole basement goes silent, thick with tension and the sharp tang of adrenaline.
But Zayn just smiles—slow, wicked, almost amused.
He wipes the spit from his face with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact.
His laugh is low and dark, echoing through the room.
“That wasn’t a very good idea,” he murmurs, the words a warning and a promise all at once.
Then, without hesitation, he leans in, pressing the knife just hard enough to break the skin—a thin, bright line of blood welling up on Charles’s neck.
Charles stiffens, his bravado crumbling for the first time, fear flickering in his eyes as he realizes just how badly he’s underestimated us.
Nathan finally finds his voice, spitting venom through clenched teeth. “She doesn’t belong to you. She belongs to me! She signed it. She’s fucking mine.”
I can’t help the bark of laughter that bursts from my chest, cold and sharp.
“I’d like to believe we’re past the fucking paperwork, Nathan.
” I circle him, slow and deliberate, watching him try to keep his eyes on me, fear flickering beneath the bluster.
He tugs at his restraints, sweat breaking out on his brow.
I flip my knife open, the metallic click echoing in the cold basement.
The blade shimmers in the harsh light as I lean close, voice dropping to a deadly whisper by his ear.
“You think you own her? You’re just a fucking piece of shit rapist. And now you get to find out what it feels like to be powerless. To become the fucking victim.”
“Fuck you,” he snarls, but the bravado is gone—his voice cracks, his eyes wide.
I said I wasn’t taping mouths, but Nathan’s about to change my mind, because what we are about to do is going to make him scream.
I grab the roll of duct tape from the table and slap a strip across his mouth, silencing him.
I move in front of him, dragging the knife up his shirt, exposing his chest to the cold air and the promise of pain. I catch Dean’s gaze, a dark smile curling my lips. “Wanna have some fun?”
I walk over and hand Dean my knife. “Make it hurt, just like he did to her,” I say, and in that moment, every ounce of fury, grief, and vengeance in the room sharpens into something dangerous, something righteous. Tonight, we take back what was stolen from her, from us, one cut at a time.
Dean approaches Nathan slowly, deliberately, the knife glinting in his fist. Nathan’s eyes go wide, terror blooming as he struggles against his restraints, his chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic breaths.
Dean plants the blade against Nathan’s bare chest, pressing it just hard enough for Nathan to feel the cold bite of steel.
Then, with a single, ruthless motion, Dean draws the knife across his skin—a sharp, deliberate slash.
Nathan screams behind the duct tape, the sound muffled but raw, as blood beads and runs in thin, crimson rivers down his chest.
“This is for every fucking time you cut her, burned her, hit her, and fucking raped her,” he growls out, venom in his voice.
He carves another line, and another, each cut sharp and methodical, the word taking shape letter by letter across Nathan’s torso.
With every slice, Nathan thrashes harder, tears streaming down his face, his body wracked with sobs.
When Dean is done, he grabs a filthy rag from the floor and wipes away the blood, revealing the word he’s carved in angry, jagged letters: “MONSTER.”
Silence falls over the basement—thick, suffocating. Charles stares, eyes wide with terror as he takes in the word carved into Nathan’s flesh. Nathan sobs and yells behind the tape, his body shaking, the pain and humiliation breaking through whatever bravado he had left.
Charles finds his voice, desperation twisting his features. “You fucking monsters!” he shouts.
I step right up to him, voice cold and merciless. “We haven’t even started with you, ‘Daddy.’”
Suddenly, Ayla steps forward, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip. “Stop!” she shouts, her eyes blazing.
Ayla
I walk right up to Charles, heels clacking on the concrete—the only sound in the charged silence of the basement, besides Nathan’s muffled cries. I stand directly in front of him, chin high, letting him really look at me. "Hi, Daddy," I say, venom curling through every syllable.
He tries to muster that old, oily charm. "Ayla, baby, my princess—please. You don’t have to do this. We can start over. I can help you—"
My laugh slices through the air—raw, wicked, echoing off the cinderblock walls. “Help me?” I sneer, voice sharp as a blade. “You’re the one who broke me, Charles. You think after everything you did, after everything you let Nathan do, I’d ever want your help?”
He stammers, fear flickering in his eyes. “Ayla, please, you’re my daughter. I love you, I always have. I just wanted to protect you, to give you the world—”
I throw my head back and laugh, the sound cold and wild.
“Protect me? Is that what you call it? Selling me, hurting me, locking me in a basement? That’s love to you?
” I shake my head, disgust curling my lip.
“You’re pathetic. You’re not a father. You’re a monster.
And you’re begging now? That’s rich, Charles.
Beg a little more. Let’s see what it sounds like. ”
He starts to sob, voice trembling. “Ayla, please, please, I’m sorry. I swear I’m sorry. Just let me go—let’s go home, baby, we can fix this, I’ll do anything—”
I step in close, ice in my veins. “You’re right about one thing,” I whisper. “You’ll do anything. And I’ll watch you break, just like you watched me.”
I turn and look at Alex, Dean, and Zayn—my voice steady, my power absolute. “He’s not my father anymore. He’s nothing.”
He tries to speak again, but I cut him off, turning to Zayn. “I think we’ve heard enough from him. I don’t want to hear his voice ever again. Shut him up.”
Zayn gets the message immediately. He steps forward, blade gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light as Charles erupts—shouting every vile, desperate word he can muster.
Zayn doesn’t so much as blink. With unflinching precision, he grabs Charles by the jaw, forcing his mouth open.
Charles’s eyes go wide, panic finally overtaking bluster, but it’s too late.
In one swift, brutal motion, Zayn slices clean through his tongue.
Charles’s scream is inhuman—raw and guttural, blood pouring from his mouth, painting his chin and splattering across the floor.