The man on my right yanks me upright. “Shut it.”
I try again, my muscles screaming, to wrench free. My right arm is numb, useless. Left still works. I swing it, connect with something solid, a jaw, maybe. A grunt. Then pain explodes across my face.
Gun butt. Heavy. Metal meeting bone.
The world tilts, stars bursting behind my eyelids.
Blood floods my mouth, hot and thick.
I taste iron, salt, and defeat.
They drag me forward. My knees buckle, all power gone from my legs.
I mutter through swollen lips, the words slurred but defiant:
“I ain’t dying today. Not like this.”
A boot connects with my ribs—once, twice, and a third time for good luck. Air leaves me in a bloody wheeze.
Everything goes black.
Chapter 21
Eddie
I need to do something.
Nothing isn’t an option.
I might be a Little, but I need to help my Daddy…
The penthouse feels like a cage now, all glass and luxury that can't hide the emptiness and frustration gnawing at me.
Robbie and I are sitting on the thick white rug in the living room, legs crossed, staring at the city sprawl below us through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The morning sun glints off skyscrapers, making everything look sharp and unforgiving. Goldie is in my lap, his mane soft under my fingers as I absently stroke him, but it's not comforting.
Nothing is.
Alexander is at the kitchen island, sipping a coffee—black, no sugar, like it's just fuel to keep him going. His face is still a mess of cuts and bruises, the towel Robbie gave him earlier now stained red and discarded on the counter. He's quiet, eyes distant, phone in hand like he's waiting for a miracle text.
I can't take it anymore.
The silence is suffocating, every tick of the wall clock a reminder that Viktor's out there… captured, hurt, or...worse.
My chest tightens at the thought. "I can't just sit around while Viktor's in danger," I say, voice breaking the quiet like a crack in glass. "He's my Daddy. He's protected me, saved me. I need to repay that. We have to dosomething."
Robbie looks up from his phone, where he’s been scrolling aimlessly, probably checking news or social media for any hints of what happened.
His face is pale, eyes red-rimmed from the tears we both shed earlier. "Eddie, I get it. I do. But be sensible. What on earth could we even do to help? We're not... likethem. We don't have guns or plans or whatever. We'd just get in the way. Or worse."
He’s right, logically.
We're Littles, artists, baristas.
We’re not fighters.
But logic doesn't stop the ache in my heart, the desperate need to act. "I know, but... sitting here? It's killing me. What if he's..."
I can't say it.
