From now on, the chapters are getting longer, so I think it’s only fair to wait until the comment goals are met before posting the next one. That means one chapter per week or even longer if we have to wait for eternity if comment targets don't fulfill .Hope you understand. 💗

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I watch him disappear into the bathroom, the door clicking shut.
Our whole day — no, our whole life — feels like it’s been thrown into a rollercoaster I never agreed to ride.

This man... the same man who just hours ago fell on his knees in the rain, begging me not to leave, saying he loved me...
This man.
He’s killed someone. Not just killed  .. he skinned them alive.

How cruel can a person be?
It’s not like I didn’t know he was involved with the mafia. That was never a secret. But somehow, it didn’t truly fit in my head.
I never asked him about his past ..how he even ended up here, why he left wherever he was.

Maybe because... I didn’t want to know.
Because all I’ve ever really seen was his kindness, the small ways he takes care of me,
The way he loves.

It’s confusing.
How does someone carry hands gentle enough to fix my hair, but also cruel enough to peel the skin off a man?
I grip the fabric of my pajama pants, feeling my pulse tremble through my fingers.
I don’t know what to do with this new truth.

But somehow, I know one thing:
I still love him.
And that scares me more than anything.

I stand at the top of the stairs, heart thudding so loud it almost drowns out my thoughts.
I want to know more. I have to know more.
Let’s… let’s ask Ilya.

Should I go alone?
What’s the worst that can happen?
Kill me?
Well, after everything today, that somehow doesn’t even scare me the way it should.

Before I can change my mind, I slowly start down the stairs. Each step feels heavier, like I might turn around and bolt back into the room at any second.

The living room is empty. Quiet, except for the faint ticking of the wall clock.
I creep toward the window, peeking through the sheer curtain. Outside, Ilya’s men lounge around —

Some smoking, others talking near the cars. One car’s even pulled halfway onto the lawn.

My pulse eases just a little. Okay… no immediate threat.

“Hey… what are you seeing?”

I jump so hard I almost trip over my own feet, whipping around.

There he is.
Ilya.
Standing by the archway, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked, looking at me like I’m a curious stray cat.

“Oh — Mr. Ilya…” I stumble over the words, clutching my chest.
He tilts his head, a smirk curling the edge of his mouth.

“Mr.? Tch. After all this, still so polite…”

He steps closer, his pale eyes sharp even without those dark glasses.
“So, you were spying on my boys or just planning your escape?”

I shake my head quickly.
“No… I — I actually wanted to… ask you something.”

" About what? "

" About My Husband's past"

He’s wearing Sir’s lavender t-shirt, the soft color oddly striking on him. It clings just a bit at the shoulders but hangs loose along his slender waist, like it was made for a broader, heavier build.

His forearms rest lazily on the arm of the couch — pale, roped with muscle, and littered with deep, jagged scars. Cuts that look too deliberate to be accidents. Knife? Blade? I can’t even begin to guess.

We sit like that, facing each other — him sunk comfortably into the couch cushions, legs spread with an easy arrogance, me perched stiffly the chair, across him .

He crosses his ankle over his knee, and from the pocket of his tailored suit pants, he pulls out a sleek silver lighter. Next comes an elegant beige box — Gurkha Royal Courtesan. It feels like  these cigars are impossibly expensive.

In one practiced flick, the cigar tip catches flame. He draws in a deep breath, cheeks hollowing, then blows out a lazy stream of smoke that curls between us.

His pale eyes narrow, studying me through the haze.
“You didn’t know about his past… before getting married?”

My throat feels dry. I shake my head, slow.
“No…”

His mouth curves. It’s not quite a smile — more like the barest pull of interest.
“Was it an agreement, then? A business thing?”

I hesitate, then nod.
“Yes. A… contract marriage.”

His brows lift, amusement dancing in his gaze as he taps ash into a nearby water drinking glass.

He is annoying.. total mess.

“…Shouldn’t he be the first to tell you about himself?” he says, voice wrapped in that casual Russian lilt, like this is all just lazy evening talk instead of something sharp enough to draw blood.

I clutch the edge of my chair. “I don’t know how deep you two go — or what exactly your relationship is,” I admit, my voice is small, “and honestly, I don’t even want to. But you said he’s in your gang now, till all this… mess is sorted. So… about his past. If you know, can you tell me? Please. I won’t pry otherwise.”

He studies me for a long moment, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth, before letting out a low laugh.
“You’re braver than you look. But I don’t stick my nose in another man’s dirt if he’s still around to spill it himself. It’s his story — he’ll decide if you ever deserve to hear it.”

My shoulders slump. Disappointment knots tight in my chest, even if I knew that was likely.
“Then… at least tell me this,” I murmur. “Why did you two… fight over me that day? Why did it come to that?”

He pauses, one brow arching, mouth quirking into something almost amused.
“You really don’t know, do you? Huh..”

He leans back, cigar balanced between his fingers, exhaling a slow plume of smoke that seems to settle heavy over everything.
And I wait, heart in my throat, hoping he’ll actually give me an answer.

“Don’t you have questions, hearing that I lost my eye for you because of him — and yet I still want to help?” he asks, voice cutting through the haze of cigar smoke.

I nod, swallowing.
“Yes.”

He lets out a dry chuckle. “Alright then. Let’s give you a little clarity.”

“Lyubertsy, Moscow. Born into a rich mafia family — the Sokolovs. My mother died trying to bring my little sister into this rotten world. Pregnancy complications. The baby didn’t survive long either. I didn’t exactly get love after that. My father married my aunt — yeah, blood aunt — later I found out she was the one who’d drugged my mother in the first place. Cleared her path to power. Produced two little litter sons. They’re all dead now.suka..” His mouth curls into something like a grin. “I killed them.”
(Suka : Little Bitch in Russian)

My breath hitches, but he just goes on, voice almost casual.

“One day, a housemaid caught me kissing her son. Russians — especially our circles — don’t exactly wave rainbow flags. Homophobic.. Do I care now .. huh nahh .
She ran her mouth to my father. The boy… he was older, seventeen maybe, I was eleven. A greedy little bastard who’d fuck anything for coins under the table. My father didn’t care about details. Just saw me as the disease. Beat me half to death. Turned me into his personal monster.

He draws a slow breath, eyes glinting with old, ugly memories.

“And then… that day. What was his name? Neel. Right — Neel was the one who took you, wasn’t he?”

I blink, my heart twisting.
“Neel uncle… he was my father’s manager.”

“Yeah… he took you,” Ilya says, voice dropping low, a far-off look in his eyes. “I don’t know exactly from where, only that day there was supposed to be a fight — big money, dirty stakes. Neel was a sadistic whore. He offered you up to Ace’s men. You were just a child… thrown in like a prize goat alongside the cash on the table.”

I gasp, hand flying to my mouth. My chest feels tight, breath shallow. How can he ...

Ilya watches me, eyes flat, unreadable. Then he leans back, drapes an arm over the sofa’s edge. The cigarette smolders between his fingers.

“Rayan and I… we were good friends back then. I helped train him — taught him all I knew. His father was an incredible fighter, so Rayan had that fire in his blood. Picked up everything in just two years. Still… every spar we had, he lost. Over and over.”

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh.

“That day, the big fight was set. No one ever dared stand in my way. But then there was Rayan — bruised all over his face, didn’t even know from where. He stepped in like a wild beast. Fought me like he was rabid. And he won.”

Ilya’s hand clenches, veins rising under the skin. Smoke curls around his sharp jaw.

“He won you. I was never interested — my father forced that plan on me. Only Rayan knew I was gay. He never judged. Never laughed. After the fight, his last words to me were, ‘Break the rules for the happiness you want. Willpower will get you there. Fuck them all.’
He knew I’d lost more than just a match that day — I was going to pay with my life. That night my father tortured me all over again. Beat me until I couldn’t stand.”

I swallow hard, my stomach twisting.

“So…” Ilya’s lip curls into a ghost of a smile, eyes glinting dangerously. “I killed him. My father. My stepbrothers. That bitch of an aunt who loved watching me bleed. Wiped them all out. And that’s how I became Pakhan."
(Pakhan : Mafia Boss in Russian)

The silence between us stretches. I barely notice the tears clinging to my lashes.

Ilya takes another drag, exhales slow, and says almost softly, “Now you know why your sir… your Rayan… is the only person in this hellish world who ever got through to me.”

" I hope this little bit makes your confusion clearer... I can only say one thing — no one is born monstrous. People make them that way. And now, you’re the one who should ask him about himself,"

I swallow, then whisper, "Can... we trust you?"

He lets out a half-smirk, exhales smoke, then leans back lazily.
"Trust me? It’s not really up to you now, is it? Neither does your Rayan have a choice. We’re all chained to this mess together — till it ends."

"Also, there’s a big reason I’m helping… even if, unfortunately, your husband is painfully straight." He gives a sly smirk, tapping ash from his cigar.

"Big reason? Straight?" I echo, confused.

He tilts his head, grin widening.
"You’ll find out soon enough… blyad, life always loves to screw with us, doesn’t it?"

(Blyad: Fuck in Russian)

Then he bursts out laughing, hearty and echoing through the room.
"HA HHAa HAa! "

What a rich smile like money is going to pour from the mouth ..

What does he even mean, unfortunately my sir is straight?
Ilya is gay — that’s fine, not my business at all. But then… what big reason?
Why would someone’s sexuality matter to help?
What the hell does that have to do with any of this?

Thinking all that, turning it over and over in my head until it feels like a pile of tangled threads, I climb the stairs in a sort of sluggish haze.
If sir would only tell me his past… truly tell me…
Because right now, I know absolutely nothing real about him. Nothing.

It makes my chest feel hollow.

I enter my room slowly, peeking in to see if he’s out of the bathroom yet.

No… not yet. Good.
My hair is almost dry — might as well braid it. I settle at the dressing table, fingers rummaging through the drawer.

“Where is my comb…” I mutter under my breath, still searching.

Then — click.
The bathroom lock turns.

He steps out, dripping water everywhere, hair wet and slick against his forehead. And he’s only wearing a white towel.
A white towel that’s barely holding on.
And the bulge… oh god. It’s… it’s so clear.

“Ah… Aaaa!”
A tiny, strangled scream slips out before I can stop it.

My eyes dart away, face heating so fast I think I might explode.

First, he actually looks confused, blinking at me with his brows slightly knit, like why are you screaming?

Then he follows my wide, horrified eyes downward…
…and it’s obvious.

His face drops. Eyes widen. He quickly shifts, hands flailing for a second before clutching the towel tighter around his hips.

In  panic he enters the bathroom, shoulder smacking into the doorframe with a thud .

Holy crap… why is he so damn big down there?!

I stare wide-eyed at the door he just disappeared behind, jaw practically unhinged. My hands fly to cover my burning face.

Oh my god.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.

I drop my hands and pace in tiny circles like a hamster on caffeine, muttering under my breath, “No, no, can’t be. Not possible."

My legs feel unsteady, like they might give out.

What the hell did that white crow Ilya mean—he doesn’t like pussy but dick?
No. No, no, no. That can’t be.

My eyes dart side to side, searching the floor like the answers might be hiding in the carpet fibers.

I heard it from the stairs.
“Pussys don’t attract me. Dick does.”
His voice, clear as day, echoing in my head.

Sir—he literally blinded that man. Took his damn eye.
And yet Ilya laughs with him, comes here like a friend.
Just because he… he likes his dick?

Because my husband has a huge dick…

Fucking holy Christ.

My man’s out here pulling both genders or what?!

I clutch my head, fingers tangling in my hair as I pace the room like a lunatic. My face is hotter than the sun.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God…”

Then tap tap tap — a tiny three-time knock on the door snaps me back to earth.
My shoulders jerk up to my ears.

Is it… Ilya?
Holy shit. My stomach does a flip. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Food is here… please come down.”

Oh. That’s not Ilya’s voice.
I slump against the dresser, my knees weak.

“F-food…” I whisper like a confused fly.

Then that crude voice cuts through the hallway.
“Little hoes, come down! I’m starving!”
It’s definitely Ilya — so much cursing, it stains the air. My shoulders jerk at the sound, and I bite my lower lip.

I should go down first… things need to get clear.
That he is mine.

Wives may have to guard their husbands from other women — but look at my life. Bhogoban… time has come for me to compete with a six-foot-tall Russian gay mafia.

I slowly come down, fixing the clutcher into my hair, taking a deep breath.

I spot him immediately — sitting at the dining table, back toward the stairs, broad shoulders relaxed like he owns the entire room. His man is at the table too, placing plates of steaming food: tacos, chowmein, fries, golden chicken, things enough to feed at least three people.

I quietly slip into the chair across from him.

He lifts his head a bit, smirks, and tilts it.
"Where is your husband?"

"He’s… bathing. He’ll come down soon." I say, trying to sound casual, even though I clutch the table edge a little too tight.

"You must be really hungry to come down first without Rayan," he says, giving a sly smile, one eyebrow lifting, like he’s teasing — or maybe testing.

“Listen, Mr. Ilya… he’s straight. So stop trying any fishy things. It won’t be good for you,” I say, crossing my arms tight.

"… Hahha hahha!” He bursts into laughter again, slapping his thigh.

“I’ve had plenty of death threats, but none this adorable. Makes me want to tease you even more.”

“I’m not joking,” I snap, my eyes narrowing into slits.

“Yeah, yeah, I can see that…”

“Don’t worry. I do have some morals. I don’t lay hands on married men—especially straight ones. But you…” he points a playful finger at me, smirk widening, “you’re so easy to rile up. Almost too tempting not to.”

He brings out a lighter from his pocket — smooth, almost elegant, as if he’s done it a thousand times.
Click it open. Flame dances, bright against the dim room.

Then he holds it to the neck of the wine bottle.
Just let it sit there, the small blue-orange glow licking the glass.
I watch, uneasy, my eyes darting between his steady hands and that small hungry flame.

After a minute, there’s a sudden sharp pop.
The cork bursts out. I flinch, shoulders jumping.
But I keep still, forcing myself not to look too shaken.

He chuckles, almost under his breath, like it amuses him how little I reacted.
Swirls the bottle once, then pours the wine into his glass — dark and heavy, the scent curling through the air.

He leans back, elbows resting on the chair arms, fingers drumming lightly. Then he reaches for the wine, pours a dark swirl into a glass, and lifts it partway.
“Do you drink?”

I quickly shake my head.
No.

He clicks his tongue. A short, sharp sound.
“How old are you?”
His brow rises, almost playful — but there’s something cold beneath.

“Twenty-four.”

He stills. Then throws his head back with a snort.
“What? Twenty-four…”
He tsks again, tongue against teeth. A smirk creeps across his face.
“He is an ancient dinosaur married to a newborn little fairy.”
His eyes narrow behind the glasses, lips curling.
“Tsk, tsk. How precious.”

Just then, footsteps thunder down the stairs.
“Devi! Devi, you’re here?”

Sir — my sir — appears, looking confused and a little breathless.

“Mr. Sokolov was... well, yelling, so I came down,” I murmur quickly, almost like a child caught where she shouldn’t be.

Ilya clicks his tongue, giving me a sharp sideways grin.
“‘Mr.’? Again "

Sir shoots him a glare, then looks at me, exasperated.
“At least tell me next time. Don't just run here there without telling me . When I was in the bathroom—”

“Why so late, fucker? I’m starving here!” Ilya cuts in, irritation curling his lip.

He didn't reply maybe he doesn't care to reply.

“What are you two talking about?” Sir asks, sliding into the seat beside me. Looking at both of us .

“Ah… I mean—” I start, fumbling for words, but Mr. Ilya cuts in smoothly.

“Your wife has quite a few questions. So I was giving her a few little answers.” He tilts his head, smirking faintly. “And you too, Rayan—maybe your wife wants to know some things you’ve left unsaid.”

Sir’s jaw tightens just a little. I catch it.

“But let’s not drag heavy talk to the table. We should eat.” Ilya claps his hands once, calling the men to start serving.

There’s something in the way he says it—like he’s deliberately dropping hooks into the water, waiting to see which of us will bite.

“Pour for you some…?” Ilya says, swirling his wine glass before taking a small sip.

I nibble my chicken parmesan, trying not to look as awkward as I feel.

Sir glances at me, then at Ilya, then shakes his head.
“Umm… no thanks.”

Why does he look so tense?

Then Ilya mutters something in Russian with a sly grin,
«В один день ты пил четыре пива, когда даже не был взрослым… Не притворяйся пай-мальчиком перед женой.»
(“In one day you used to drink four beers when you weren’t even an adult… don’t pretend to be a little angel in front of your wife.”)

I have no clue what those words mean, but the mocking tilt in Ilya’s voice says enough.

Sir snaps back in Russian, his tone sharp,
«Заткнись, Илья… Она к такому не привыкла.»
(“Shut up, Ilya… she’s not used to that.”)

Okay, wow. They’re just going to keep speaking in code right in front of me?

Ilya keeps smirking, then lazily turns to Sir and asks,
«О чём спрашивала Деви?»
(“What was Devi asking?”)

Sir’s jaw tightens, muscles shifting under his skin.

Ilya lifts a brow, then answers himself with a shrug,
«О твоём прошлом.»
(“About your past.”)

My stomach flips. So they are talking about me… and him. Or what ..

That’s it.

I drop my fork a little too loudly.
“You know what? Stop talking in the cheat codes while I’m sitting right here clueless. It’s disrespectful. If I start cursing in Bengali, would that be good?!”

They both blink at me. Then—almost in sync—
“Sorry.”

We eat until our stomachs feel heavy.
The table is a mess of empty bowls and half-eaten dishes. Ilya has already gone to his room, leaving just us—and enough leftovers for at least 4 people people.

I look over the plates stacked with untouched pasta and fried chicken.
“So much waste…” I mumble.

But Sir shakes his head, already gathering things up.
“No. I’ll heat it up tomorrow, and store it in the fridge. We can have it for breakfast—and give some to our maid. Why waste?”

I nod, strangely warmed. He thinks ahead like that… even after everything.

He reaches for our empty plates.

“Let me help you,” I say, standing up.

A tiny smile plays on his lips.
“So generous of you.”

I roll my eyes but follow him, carefully picking up the glasses. My heart still pounds from everything tonight—but at least right now, this small, quiet chore feels almost like… home.

He places all the plates in the sink and turns on the tap, letting the water run to rinse off the leftover bits. The warm scent of garlic and butter rises again, mixing strangely with the faint citrusy soap.

“Devi, can you bring out the containers from the fridge?” he says without looking up, sleeves rolled up, glinting under the kitchen light.

“Humm…” I nod, stepping to the fridge and pulling out a few empty glass bowls with matching lids.

He starts scraping the untouched pasta into one container, then spoons the saucy chicken into another. Each movement is methodical, like he’s done this countless times before.

Next, he places the containers in the microwave, one by one. The low hum fills the kitchen, breaking the silence. I watch the steam fog up the little glass window.

When each is warmed through, he carefully snaps the lids on.
“Tomorrow’s breakfast, lunch—maybe even dinner. We’ll see,” he says softly.

There’s something strangely comforting in how calmly he does it, like he’s determined to keep at least this small corner of life normal, no matter how violent the world outside is.

“Umm… Sir…”

He only hums in response, arms crossed as he leans against the counter. The microwave’s low hum fills the pause, its light flashing over his face in slow intervals.

“I know about my past a little bit… but… but you never told me about yours,” I whisper, hoping, praying, that this time he might share.

For a long moment he doesn’t move. Just stares ahead—his eyes blank, mouth set, shoulders somehow dropping even lower, like my words pressed a hidden weight down on him.

Did I… say something wrong? My stomach twists.

“Sir…” I try again, voice smaller.

He doesn’t look at me. Just exhales, slow and heavy.
“Go to your room. I’ll come after this.”

“But—”

“Go to your room.”

This time his tone is firm, final.

My heart stutters. I bite the inside of my cheek, then turn and walk away, feeling his silence trail behind me like a shadow all the way up the stairs.

I sit at the dressing table, absently running the comb through my hair. The bristles catch at a few knots, but I barely feel it. My hands move on their own, twisting my hair into a loose braid.

Is he… hesitant to tell me? Or is it something darker—something he’s trying to protect me from?

It’s so frightening to even think about. He killed someone. Brutally, Skinning a man alive..

How much cruelty does it take to do something like that? How much rage—or how much cold emptiness inside?

A little shiver crawls up my spine.

But then… if anyone were to see him—standing there with that gentle half-smile, the way he folds my laundry or scolds me for skipping meals—no one would ever believe what he’s capable of.

No one would guess there’s a monster hiding under all that tenderness.

I tuck the end of my braid behind my ear, staring at my own reflection.

Is it possible to be both?

I glance at the round white clock on the wall—10:20 p.m.

Why is he taking so long? It’s already been half an hour.

I shift on the edge of the bed, about to stand and go check on him… but then I pause, fingers clutching the bedsheet. What if he gets angry?
A small sigh slips from my lips, and I lay back down, eyes darting around the dim room.

Which side should I sleep on?
Right?
Left?
Or maybe on the floor…

A little heat creeps into my cheeks at that thought. Sharing the same bed after everything—knowing the darkness he carries—should terrify me. But… it doesn’t. Not fully. And the towel scean is still playing on my mind .. I slap slightly on my cheeks because.. feel like I will die in embarassment ..

Also the tenderness he’s shown me, the small acts of care… they’ve stitched themselves into my heart. I can’t hate him. Even if maybe I should.

Suddenly—

Thud!

I flinch so hard my braid brushes against my shoulder. My heartbeat stutters.
What was that? It sounded like something heavy hitting the floor.

I slip off the bed and tiptoe to the door, carefully turning the knob. When I peek out from the stair landing—

My breath catches.

There he is—Sir—sprawled on the ground, bracing himself on one arm, trying to steady his balance as if he’s about to get back up.

My hands fly to my mouth. What happened? Why is he—

I hurry down the steps without thinking.

"Are… you okay?" I crouch down quickly to help, heart racing.

"Humm," he nods, pressing his hand to the wall. His left arm flexes, trying to lift his weight, stubborn as ever—forcing himself up even though he’s clearly stumbling.

I hover close, hands half-outstretched, afraid he’ll topple again. Somehow, with a couple shaky steps, we make it into the room. I guide him to the bed, and he drops onto it heavily.

"How did you fall like that? Be more careful," I mutter, almost scolding.

But he doesn’t look at me—his face is turned away, angled toward the doorway. Then… a faint smell hits me. Sharp, woody… something like what lingered on Ilya’s breath when he was drinking wine.

"Are… are you drunk?" I lean closer, trying to see his eyes. "Look at me. Hey—look at me."

Slowly—almost like slow motion—he turns his face to me.

His ears and cheeks are flushed bright pink. His eyes look a little glassy, lids heavy.

"You’re drunk," I whisper, half in disbelief. "Then—"

"Sorry," he murmurs, voice low, almost boyish.

I let out a long sigh. Of course…

"Which side will you sleep on?" I ask, already resigned.

"I’ll… sleep on the couch downstairs," he says, averting his eyes again.

"Then why did you even come up here?"

"To get my phone," he mutters, almost sheepish.

"Go and sleep on the right side," I say, raising my voice just enough.

"No, I’ll sleep on the co—"

"Right side. Go there."

He freezes, then with the tiniest sigh, obeys—like an obedient puppy. He climbs onto the bed and lies straight on his back, eyes squeezed shut as if pretending to be asleep already.

I almost want to laugh. What happened to the big, scary mafia man? I should feel annoyed… but somehow he’s too cute like this, listening to every word I say without a fight.

I walk over to the switchboard and click off the harsh tube light. The only light now filters in through the half-open window—pale moonlight and a bit of steamy, cold wind slipping through, mixing with the faint glow of the street lamps outside. It makes soft silver patterns across the floor.

I finally lie down on the left side. There’s a small space between us. He’s way over on the edge, as if trying to become part of the wall, hands folded neatly on his chest like a mummy.

Idiot… so disciplined even while sleeping, I think, biting back a smile.

“Can I… take off my T-shirt? It’s hot,” he mutters.

“What? No!” I almost squeak.

He sighs, a tiny, tired smile on his lips. “Okkie…”

Listening to my every word ..

If I ask him again… will he finally say it?

I turn onto my side, facing him in the dim light. My voice is soft, careful.
"Where is your mother and father?"

Silence. Maybe he’s fallen asleep? But then—his eyelashes flicker. From the corner of his left eye, a thin stream of tears slides down, soaking into the pillow.

He’s crying…?

My heart twists. I sit up a little, hesitant, and reach out to lightly touch his shoulder.
"What happened…?"

"They… are dead." His voice is flat, almost strangled.

My breath catches. "What… how?" I swallow, dread curling in my stomach.

"My father, Liam Martinez, was tortured to death. For cheating on them."

Them…? My throat is too tight to ask.

"And your mother?"

He opens his eyes then. The green is washed out, his whites so bloodshot they look painfully raw.

"She was… raped. Right in front of me." His voice breaks. "I… I couldn’t even do anything."

I slap my hand over my mouth, stifling a sob. My chest feels like it’s caving in.

How much pain has he hidden behind that calm, careful face?

Then it slips away. He stares at the ceiling, voice rough.
“My sister… Erin. She was maybe a few years older than you—like 13 14  can't remember. They tried to sell her. And I… I had to join that fucking group, pay all the debut ”

His jaw locks. A muscle twitches there. Then—
“That fucker, that asshole bastard cheap worm… Ace. I felt so much pleasure ripping his tongue out. Skinning half the flesh off his face.” His breathing hitches. “The unbearable pain I gave him… I hope—wherever my parents are—they saw. I hope they feel happy.”

He presses a shaking hand over his eyes.

My heart twists painfully. I shouldn’t have asked. Not tonight.

Compared to him… I’ve suffered nothing.

I want to reach out, to whisper something to soothe him. But my throat closes up. Maybe it’s better not to ask more—not now.

Looking at him like that—eyes red, tears leaking out, voice breaking—I can’t hold it anymore. My own eyes blur, sting, spill over.

I don’t even have words. I can’t say anything that would matter.

So I just… move closer. I slip my arms around him, pressing my face into his shoulder, hugging him tight. It’s awkward, my cheek is damp with his tears and mine. But it’s all I can do—this small, trembling comfort.

They made him this way, I think, heart squeezing so painfully I almost gasp. They turned him into a monster… a monster like them.

But then I remember—he took that monstrous strength and used it to avenge his parents. To give them peace.

How heartless people can be, I think, burying my face deeper against his skin, my breath shuddering.

All I can do is hold him. Hold him and hope, somehow, it eases even a little of that enormous, old pain.

For a moment he stays rigid, like he doesn’t know what to do with it—like he’s been starved of this simple human warmth for so long that it’s foreign to him. His breath shudders out, ragged.

Then, so slowly it almost breaks me, his arms come up. One slides around my back, the other buries into my hair, clutching me as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish. His fingers tangle tight, and I feel the faintest tremor run through him.

He draws me closer, presses his face into the crook of my neck. I feel something wet there—more tears, maybe, or just the warm ghost of his breath.

“I’m… sorry,” he whispers, voice splintered and hoarse. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

I shake my head fiercely, my own throat thick. “Don’t. Don’t say sorry. You’ve held all this alone for so long… let me be here. Just for tonight, let me hold it with you.”

His grip tightens, almost painfully. He lets out a small, broken sound—half a sigh, half a sob—and his shoulders finally drop, tension seeping out like poison drawn from a wound.

I run my hand slowly up and down his back, feeling the solid lines of muscle there, the quiet tremors. “You’re not alone anymore,” I whisper. “I am with you.”

I shift just enough to press my forehead to his, our noses almost touching. His lashes flutter against my skin. For the first time tonight, his eyes meet mine fully—still glistening with unshed tears, but there’s something else too. Something raw, unguarded.

My heart squeezes. I close the last inch and press a gentle kiss to his damp cheek. His eyes slip shut, breath hitching, as if that tiny softness undoes him more than any blade ever could.

I settle back against him, one hand resting lightly over his racing heart. He keeps holding me, his thumb stroking small, aimless circles into my side, as though grounding himself in the reality that I’m here. Really here.

And like that—twined together in the moonlight, surrounded by nothing but the quiet hush of our breaths—we finally drift into a fragile, shared peace.

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She kissed on his cheek… OMG… but the moment was so painful. I hope you liked it. To get the next chapter, please help reach the comments target first.

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