Chapter 18

VICTORIA –

The ceiling is dark above me, a blank slate in the quiet room. My chest is still rising and falling with uneven breaths, but they’re slower now. The heat is fading from my skin, leaving a cool, clean feeling in its wake. But my mind… my mind isn’t quiet.

She’s here.

Still here.

We’re both lying close in the silence. I can feel the soft rhythm of her breath against the space between my shoulder and my jaw. I haven’t moved. Not since we both came apart. I don’t want to. I don’t want this fragile, peaceful moment to end. I could stay like this, with the weight of her beside me, for a long, long time. The thought should terrify me. It always has before. But right now, it doesn’t. It just feels… right.

I shift my head just enough to look at her without fully turning. Her eyes are closed, her lashes dark against her skin. She looks peaceful. Real. I listen to the steady sound of her breathing, and a startling thought forms in my mind: This might be the sound I want to hear for the rest of my life.

And then her voice cuts through the stillness, soft but clear.

“Victoria?”

I hum in response, a low sound in my throat. I’m not ready to form words yet, to break the spell.

She doesn’t look at me when she asks her next question. “…How long have you been doing the side jobs?”

The question catches me completely off guard. The timing of it, the sheer bluntness, coming in this vulnerable quiet. But as I process it, I realize there’s no accusation in her tone. Only a deep, sincere curiosity. A need to understand the parts of me that are still hidden.

And so, I don’t lie.

“Since I was eighteen.”

She turns to me then, her eyes flying open. I can see her doing the math in her head.

“Twenty years,” she whispers, the number hanging heavily in the air.

I give a single, slow nod.

I know the next question before she even asks it. I can feel it coming, and I brace myself internally.

“How did you… What was the reason for it?” she asks, her voice still soft, but pressing gently for the truth.

This time, I don’t answer right away. I’ve never told anyone the full story. Not a soul. Not even Jennifer, who knows parts of it. But Avery… she has already seen parts of me no one else has. She has taken pieces of me I’ve never given. And right now, in the dark, I want her to know. I want someone to finally know all of it.

I choose my words with care, pulling them from a place I usually keep locked tight.

“When I was thirteen, my parents died in a car crash,” I begin, my voice flat, my eyes fixed on the dark ceiling above. “The only family I had left was my uncle – my dad’s brother. The courts put me in his care. It was all legal, all official.”

I don’t look at her. I can’t. I keep staring up.

“The abuse started immediately. It was physical at first. Then it became… worse. It lasted for three years. Until I turned sixteen… and I killed him.”

The silence in the room changes, becoming thicker, heavier. My voice remains steady. It always does. But something deep inside me feels raw, exposed.

“Bullet through the head,” I state, the words clinical and cold. “The justice system said I fabricated everything to justify what I did. They tried to put me away. But I had the best lawyer money couldn’t buy. A man named Darius. He was cold as ice, brilliant, and utterly terrifying. But he believed me. He kept me close after that. Took me in, unofficially. He said if the system wouldn’t protect the innocent, then someone had to.”

I take a slow, deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs.

“He was already doing side work. Contracts. High-end, high-secrecy. But he only took jobs for men like my uncle. The predators. The monsters.”

I finally risk a glance at her. She hasn’t moved. Her eyes are glassy, wide with a pain that isn’t hers, but feels it.

“He taught me everything,” I finish, my voice barely above a whisper. “He taught me how to hunt the rot.”

There’s a long pause. The weight of my confession sits between us.

Then, she reaches out. Her fingers are soft as they skim across my bare stomach. It’s not a demand, not a plea. It’s just a touch. A connection. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

I let out a quiet sound — a breath that’s almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. There never is, when it comes to this.

“Don’t be,” I say, my own voice rough. I reach for her face, my hand cupping her cheek. My thumb finds the tear slipping from the corner of her eye and I brush it away, gently.

Then I lean in and press my lips to her temple. It’s a kiss. Quiet. Reverent.

Because she heard the worst of me. She saw the bloody, broken foundation my life was built on.

And she didn’t run.

She didn’t flinch.

She stayed.

***

AVERY –

It’s early. Too early to be awake already, but I couldn’t sleep. So I’ve been staring at Victoria for what feels like hours already. She’s soundly asleep. Or at least, she’s doing a damn good job of pretending. I can’t tell for sure. Her body is turned slightly toward me, one arm curled under the pillow, the other draped loosely over the sheet. Her dark hair is a mess against the white linen, her face relaxed and softer than I’ve ever seen it in the daylight.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this still. This… unguarded.

My mind keeps replaying last night in sharp, vivid flashes. The feel of her hands on my skin. The low, steady tone of her voice as she told me things I know she’s never told another soul. Her truth. The story of a girl who was broken and then built herself into something unbreakable.

And something inside me is different now. Something has shifted. There’s no more mystery about why she does what she does. No more questions about the darkness she carries. Instead, there’s just this overwhelming sense of awe. Awe that she survived what she did. Awe that she didn’t just survive, but that she stayed standing. That she forged herself into this controlled, terrifying, magnetic force of a woman— and somehow, against all odds, still had room in her chest to let someone like me in.

Logically, I know I should feel scared. I should feel like I’m in way over my head, tangled up with a woman who deals in life and death. But I don’t. All I feel is… closer. Like an invisible thread, thick and strong as blood, has tied me to her. And I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that not even she can sever it now.

Her breathing changes. It’s a subtle shift, but I’ve been listening to it for what feels like hours. Her eyes open, slow and heavy with sleep.

She looks right at me. And there’s no mask this time. No wall of cool control, no carefully maintained distance. Her gaze is clear, open, and completely present.

She offers a soft, tired smile.

“Try to catch some sleep,” she says, her voice a low murmur in the quiet room. “It’ll be morning before you know it.”

I look at her, at the quiet question in her eyes, and I feel a warmth spread through my chest. I let out a soft breath, a little embarrassed but mostly just happy, and I feel a smile touch my lips.

“Yeah,” I whisper back. It’s all I can manage.

Then, she does something that stops my heart for a single, suspended beat. She doesn’t just pat the space beside her. She lifts her arm in a clear, deliberate invitation, creating a space for me against her side.

It’s a small gesture, but in the language of us, it feels monumental.

Without a second thought, I shift closer, settling my head onto her shoulder, my body curling against the side of hers. Her arm wraps around me, her hand resting securely on my back. It’s not a tentative hold; it’s sure. It’s a choice.

My head finds its place in the crook of her neck, and I can feel the steady, solid rhythm of her heartbeat against my cheek. The scent of her skin — clean and uniquely her — fills my senses. This is different from the frantic heat of before. This is quiet. This is calm.

And that’s when I know.

She’s not running anymore. And for the first time since I met her, the frantic, fearful part of my own heart finally stills, believing it’s safe to stay.

***

VICTORIA –

The smell of coffee fills the quiet apartment, a rich, dark scent that reaches into the bedroom before the sun has fully risen. I stand barefoot in the kitchen, my silk robe hanging loose, a heavy ceramic mug warming my hands. I should feel exposed. Uneasy. I never let anyone see my space in the harsh light of day, let alone share a morning after.

But this morning, I let her sleep. I slipped out of bed without waking her, and that simple act feels more significant than anything I’ve done in a long time.

She pads into the room quietly. Her hair is a beautiful mess, and she’s wrapped in the sheet from my bed, clutching it around herself like a shield. The sight is almost amusing. Not because she doesn’t look stunning — she does — but because she doesn’t need to hide from me. Not anymore.

“Good morning,” she says, her voice still soft with sleep.

“Good morning,” I reply, pushing a second mug across the counter toward her.

She takes it, her fingers brushing against mine. The contact is simple, but it sends a warm, magnetic current straight through me, settling deep in my core.

We move to the small dining area by the windows. The city is quieter at this hour, a muted gray world just beginning to wake up. For once, I don’t feel the need to control the silence or break it.

She doesn’t speak for a while, just sips her coffee, her gaze thoughtful. I do the same, watching her over the rim of my mug.

Finally, I speak, because I know I have to. I’m not good at this part, but I owe her this clarity.

“If you want out,” I say, choosing my words with care, “now would be the time.”

She blinks, processing my meaning. “You mean… out of– what, this? You and me?”

I give a single, slow nod, holding her gaze.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she sets her mug down with a soft click, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and looks at me with a clarity I haven’t seen before. It’s a look of pure, unwavering certainty.

“No,” she says, her voice firm and clear. “I don’t want out.”

I let out a breath, a quiet release of tension I hadn’t even fully acknowledged I was holding. Something solid and calm settles inside me.

“Alright,” I murmur.

A silence settles over us again. Not awkward, but comfortable. Her eyes are fixated on her hand wrapped around the mug now. I want to ask something light, but all I have is honesty and curiosity.

So, surprising even myself, I ask, “Did you always want to be in publishing?”

She lets out a real laugh, unguarded and warm. It’s a sound I could get used to. “You’re asking about my childhood now?”

I shrug one shoulder, a faint smile touching my lips. “Seems fair.”

She smirks, curling her legs up under her on the chair. “I used to write terrible stories in middle school. Like, painfully dramatic vampire love triangles. I had a blog. One follower. It was Eli. But I thought maybe one day, I’d write something that mattered. Or help someone else publish something that did.”

I can’t help the small, genuine smile that forms. “Didn’t peg you as a vampire girl.”

“Oh, I was tragic about it,” she confesses, her eyes sparkling. “Trench coats. Bad eyeliner. Journals filled with quotes that weren’t even mine.”

I chuckle, a low, real sound that feels foreign but good.

She studies me for a moment, then leans in slightly, her voice softening. “And you? What did you think you’d be, before… you know.”

I don’t answer immediately. The memory is old, covered in dust. But she waits, giving me the space I need.

“I wanted to be a cellist,” I finally say.

Her eyebrows lift in genuine surprise. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Darius paid for lessons after the trial. Said I needed something to keep me human, something with structure and beauty that wasn’t about survival.”

“Do you still play?” she asks.

“Not in a long time.”

There’s a pause, and then her voice drops, becoming softer, more intimate. “I’d like to hear you sometime.”

The words land with a weight she probably doesn’t intend. They touch a part of me I’ve kept locked away for years. I nod again, but I don’t make a promise. Some things are too fragile to be spoken into the light just yet.

We finish our coffee in a silence that isn’t heavy or awkward. It’s comfortable. It feels earned.

And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t feel the urge to be the first one to leave it.