“And when I’m done with him…” His voice drops to a near-growl, grounding, terrifying, and intoxicating all at once. “He’ll become food for the vultures.”
I blink at him, stunned. My mouth opens, then closes, but nothing comes out. No argument. No plea for mercy. Because the truth is, I don’t feel a single shred of pity for Nate. Not one.
Because instead of fear, instead of disgust, something stirs low in my stomach. Something sharp and hungry that’s been simmering all evening but now claws its way forward, unstoppable. I should be horrified. I should be ashamed. But crap, there’s something wrong with me, so wrong, because the way he says it, the way his hand grips the back of my neck, makes me feel alive in the most dangerous way. This shouldn’t be turning me on. Not his words, not his violence, not the iron grip of his hand on my neck. But it is. fuck, it is.
He must see it—whatever’s burning in my eyes—because his jaw tightens, the muscle clenching hard.
My tongue swipes over my lips, trying to wet the sudden dryness there. His gaze follows the motion, lingering on my mouth, then dragging back up to my eyes with devastating slowness.
“Alex…” The word slips out of me, broken, breathless, already surrender. I know. I know we’re done for. Nothing on this earth can stop what’s coiling between us. Not the storm inside my head.
Not the blood on his hands.
Not even the fact that I am deeply in love and obsessed with a man like him.
“Fuck,” he growls.
And then his mouth crashes onto mine.
The moan that tears out of me is raw and unguarded, a sound of relief, of surrender, and he swallows it whole.
***
I let out a shaky breath, my eyes locked on the heavy metal door in front of me. Beyond it waits the boy who ruined me. The boy who tore apart my childhood, who left pieces of me scattered so far I thought I’d never gather back, who left scars on me, deeper ones buried in my soul. My chest feels too tight, like something is caged inside me and thrashing to get out. Just the thought of his face is enough to drag me under.
It’s been a week since I came back to Alex. A week of him holding me together when I thought I was falling apart. A week of endless tears spilling into his chest, my voice breaking as I finally told him everything I’d buried for years. Every word I let out was jagged, painful—but Alex stayed. He held me through it all, his arms an anchor when the storm in my head grew too loud. He listened to me talk about that day, about the endless nights of depression after, about how impossible it’s been to live with the weight of it. Each day I opened with every confession, every broken whisper, I felt something loosen in my chest, just slightly. A chain unfastening. It’s not freedom, not yet, but it’s the closest I’ve ever been.
I still have a long road ahead. Alex knows it too. He suggested therapy; he was gentle but firm about it, telling me how much I needed it, how much it could help me heal. I know he’s right. But today… Today I asked him for something else. I told him I wanted to see Nate.
When I said it two days ago, Alex had given me one of those long, quiet looks of his, like he could see through me, like he was weighing whether I was ready. Then he just nodded, saying nothing more. And now here I am, standing in this underground prison of locked doors and suffocating air, facing the one room that makes my body tremble.
My heart pounds like it wants to tear out of my chest. My palms are clammy, my stomach a knot of dread. I know Nate can’t hurt me here, not behind thick steel, not with Alex besideme. But fear doesn’t listen to reason. Fear lives in my bones. It remembers.
A warm hand suddenly seizes mine, steady, grounding. I blink, dragging myself out of the spiral, and look up. Alex is there, watching me with that unshakable focus of his. Concern etches his face, but not pity—never pity. His grip tightens, lacing our fingers together like he’s stitching me back into myself.
“Baby,” he says, voice low, steady, like he’s trying to pour calm into my veins. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes,” I blurt too quickly, nodding fast. “Yes, Alex, I am. I just…” My throat closes up, words crumbling, and I shut my eyes tight. My chest heaves like it’s forgetting how to breathe.
“Hey,” Alex murmurs, thumb brushing over my knuckles. “It’s okay. Take your time. Count if you need to.”
So I do. Inside my head, I start from one. My lips press together, and I hold onto the numbers like a lifeline. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. My grip on Alex’s hand is desperate, maybe too tight, but he doesn’t flinch. He just stays there, still as stone, letting me draw strength from him.
By the time I reach sixty, my pulse has steadied enough to open my eyes, wetness stinging the corners, but I force myself to look at the door. The door to my past. To my nightmare.
“I’m ready,” I whisper, though my voice trembles.
I can feel Alex’s gaze on me, heavy, searching, like he’s making sure. Then he nods once.
“Alright,” he says, and his voice is solid enough to steady me. His hand tightens around mine, then he reaches with his free hand and punches in a code—a sharp beep, then a click.
The metal door groans as it swings open. My heart lurches, but Alex doesn’t let me falter. He steps forward first, leading me in, and I follow—my hand still locked in his, clinging like it’s the only thing keeping me from breaking.
I take two steps in and stop dead.
He’s there.
Nate.
