💜🫶🏻💜

Rain pressed softly against the windows of Blackwood Manor, turning the glass into wavering sheets of silver beneath the storm-dark sky. The weather had rolled in sometime during dinner, thick clouds swallowing the moon whole until the estate seemed suspended in endless midnight despite the early hour. You could still hear the faint remnants of conversation drifting from somewhere deeper in the house—low laughter, the clink of crystal, the muted rhythm of a piano playing from one of the west sitting rooms—but the noise had dulled considerably since most of the guests and relatives had retreated into smaller circles for the night.

The manor always changed after dark.

During the day, Blackwood felt curated. Every portrait hung at the precise angle, every candle lit deliberately, every smile sharpened into something performative beneath the weight of old money and older expectations. At night, however, the house stopped pretending to be civilized. The long corridors became cavernous and cold. Shadows gathered thickly in corners where the candlelight failed to reach. The old wood groaned beneath shifting foundations as though the estate itself was alive and restless beneath its polished exterior.

Tonight, the atmosphere felt suffocating.

You stood outside Titus’ study with your arms folded tightly across your chest, staring at the line of amber light beneath the door while your pulse thudded unevenly against your ribs. You had almost turned around twice already. The first time because you suddenly felt foolish for being this upset over a man you barely even liked. The second because some small, ugly part of you feared Titus would agree with your father.

That possibility hadn’t truly existed in your mind until dinner.

Before tonight, Titus had always been the safest person in the room for you. Chester commanded obedience through sheer force of presence, and most of the family fell into orbit around him accordingly, but Titus had always existed slightly apart from that gravitational pull. He listened before speaking. He noticed things other people ignored. When you were younger and terrified of thunderstorms, it had been Titus sitting outside your bedroom door with a blanket around his shoulders until you fell asleep again, not your father. When you’d cried after your first formal dinner because Chester had corrected every minor mistake you made at the table, Titus had stolen pastries from the kitchen afterward and sat with you on the back staircase until you stopped sniffling hard enough to breathe properly.

He had always felt like yours in a family that rarely belonged to anyone but itself, which was precisely why this hurt so much.

You finally lifted your hand and knocked before you could lose your nerve entirely.

“Come in,” Titus called. 

His voice carried through the heavy oak door with the same steady calm it always did, and for one fleeting second, relief loosened the knot between your ribs. Titus had always been the easier one to approach for some reason. Chester and Ursula commanded rooms simply by existing in them, but Titus listened. Even when he disagreed with you, he let you speak. 

At least, he used to. 

The door creaked open with a small groan that echoed against the hallway. 

The study smelled like cedarwood, old paper, and smoke from the dying cigar resting on the ash plate. Titus sat behind the broad mahogany desk with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, salt and pepper curls slightly disheveled as though he’d spent the last hour dragging frustrated hands through it. Several folders lied open in front of him alongside ledgers and handwritten notes in his slanted precise script.  

He glanced up when you entered, the stern concentration in his face melting around the edges. 

“There you are,” he said. “I was wondering where you disappeared to after dinner.” 

You closed the door behind you carefully. “Avoiding Father, mostly.” 

A quiet huff of amusement left him as he leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking softly under the weight. “That makes two of us.” 

Normally, that would have made you smile; tonight, it only tightened your throat further like a noose. Titus must have noticed your silence and lack of a response. His posture straightened slightly, attention homing in in a way that reminded you unpleasantly of a predator scenting blood in the water. 

“What happened?” 

You crossed the room slowly, stopping near the fireplace instead of sitting. The fire’s gentle roar pressed against your skin, but your hands still felt ice cold. 

“Father spoke to me after dinner,” you said slowly, testing the waters. 

Titus’s expression flatted. “And?” 

You hated that type of reaction, hated that the mere mention of your father immediately changed the type of conversation into something more business-like and nothing of sibling confidant. 

“He’s serious about the arrangement with Arthur.” 

The fire crackled softly as you waited for his response. 

He exhaled through his nose and reached for the crystal tumbler near his elbow. “I assumed he would be.” 

You stared at him, eyes wide and almost glowing. “That’s all you have to say?” 

“What exactly would you like me to say?” 

“I don’t know, Titus.” Frustration crept into your voice through your teeth. “Maybe that it’s all insane? I mean, arranged marriages are so not 21st century.” 

His hazel eyes stared back at you without a twitch. “It isn’t insane. It’s strategic.” 

The word landed like a slap. Strategic. As though you were simply a merger, a contract, an acquisition. All like this wasn’t your life in discussion. 

You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “You sound just like Father.” 

“That doesn’t make me inherently wrong.” 

“Arthur barely knows me.” 

“He’s been around this family for nearly a year.” 

“That isn’t the same thing,” you argued, eyes closing for a moment longer than a normal blink, hands grasping at the air with pure frustration. 

Titus studied you for a long moment before setting the glass back onto the desk with a quiet clink. “Sit down.” 

You obeyed more out of exhaustion than willingness, sinking into the leather armchair while Titus studied you in silence. The storm outside intensified, rain now striking the windows hard enough to sound almost aggressive. Somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour.

He eyed you carefully, realization lighting behind his eyes like a lightbulb. “You don’t like him.” 

You looked toward the fire. “I don’t know him enough to dislike him.” 

“But.”

Your teeth caught you bottom lip. The problem was that there wasn’t anything concretely wrong with Arthur Sterling. That almost made the entire discussion worse. If he had been cruel or arrogant or overtly unpleasant, maybe someone would have listened to your resistance instead of dismissing it as nerves. 

Arthur was polished, educated, and handsome in a clean, forgettable sort of way. He knew when to laugh during Chester’s stories and how long to hold eye contact during conversations. He never interrupted, never raised his voice. He sweet talked your older sister in a polite way, and he jested with Titus about politics and violence like it was the weather. 

He also looked at Blackwood like a man staring at the gates of heaven. And every time he looked at you, you felt like part of the prize. 

“He doesn’t care about me,” you finally admitted. 

Titus’s brow furrowed faintly. “That’s not true.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I know he volunteered for the game.” 

Your laugh escaped sharper than intended. “Exactly.” 

One of his eyebrows rose. “You think that makes him selfish?” 

“I think it makes him dangerously ambitious.” You leaned forward, finger pressing against the dark wood as you spoke. “No sane person volunteers for this family, Titus. If I’d been given a choice to be born into this, I would have picked not to.” 

The confession lingered between you in a way that made Titus’s jaw shift. 

“That isn’t fair,” he stated. 

“No?” Your eyes met his. “You really think some man risking his life for the Danforth name is romantic?” 

“It definitely proves commitment.” 

You rolled your eyes. “He wants the power.” 

“That’s a cynical way to look at it.” 

You stared at him in disbelief. “You cannot honestly believe this man is doing any of this because I’ve bewitched him, because he’s deeply in love with me.” 

Titus didn’t answer right away; his silence itself felt telling. 

You sank back into the chair, exhaustion beginning to seep into your bones. “Father already decided this is happening.”

“He hasn’t forced an engagement.” 

“No, just arranged every piece around it until refusing becomes impossible.” 

“You know that’s not the same thing.” 

A bitter smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Easy for you to say.” 

The second the words left you mouth, regret followed thickly. Titus’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly. “You think I’ve never had expectations placed on me?” 

You shook your head. “That’s not what I mean.” 

“Isn’t it?” He leaned back slightly, crossing his legs and throwing an arm over the propped on. “You think Father gave me freedom? Every decision I make reflects this family.” 

“But at least your decisions are still yours.” 

He snapped your name. “You’re making a very dangerous interpretation.” 

You rubbed at your temple slowly, suddenly tired in a way that wouldn’t leave after a night’s worth of sleep. The conversation wasn’t going the way you’d imagined. When you’d stood outside the study door, you’d pictured Titus scoffing at the arraignment, maybe teasing you slightly before promising he’d speak to Chester. At the very least, you thought he’d understand why the entire situation made your skin crawl. 

Instead, he was sitting across from you calmly defending the whole ordeal, silently defending him.  

Your eyes narrowed with apprehension. “You like Arthur.” 

“I think he’s capable,” he said after a moment. “I think he’s intelligent. I think he handles pressure well. I think most men would’ve run the moment Father explained the conditions attached to courting you, and Arthur didn’t.”

Your stomach twisted painfully. “Congratulations to him, I guess.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“Then what are you trying to say, Titus?” Your voice was subtly rising. “Because right now, it sure sounds like everyone in this house has already decided he deserves me more than I deserve the choice to choose.” 

Titus’ patients finally seemed to thin slightly. “You are not being sold off to some stranger, so stop acting like it.” 

A barked scoff flew through your lips. “Aren’t I?” 

“No.”

“He sits at Father’s right hand every night at dinner.” 

“Because Father is evaluating him.” 

“Like livestock.” 

“Enough.” The sharpness in his tone cut through your chest. 

You fell silent, hands twisting against the other in your lap, eyes cast downward. Titus rarely snapped at you. Even now, he looked more frustrated than angry, but the sudden steel in his voice still stung. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose briefly before speaking again, thankfully calmer this time. “You’re turning this into something uglier than it is.” 

“Am I?” you shot back. 

“You’re acting like he’s manipulative for wanting a future with you.” 

“No, I’m acting like there’s a difference between wanting me and wanting access to this family.” 

“And you’ve decided it’s impossible for him to want both?” 

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. There wasn’t a way that you couldn’t properly explain it without sounding paranoid. Your finger rubbed anxiously against the seam of your sleeve. 

“I just don’t trust him.” 

“Based on what?” 

“Instinct.” 

Titus exhaled softly and looked away for a moment, his jaw clenching before he returned his attention to you again. “Fear can make instinct unreliable.” 

“I didn’t come for strategy,” you seethed. 

His head titled ever so slightly. “Then why did you come?” 

“I thought you’d understand.” 

“I do understand.” 

“No,” you snapped. “You understand Father’s perspective.” 

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“It feels like it.”

Titus’ expression hardened slightly then, not anger exactly but the first visible crack in his patience. “You think I’m against you because I’m being realistic?”

“I think you’re treating this like a negotiation instead of my life.”

“And I think you’re letting panic cloud your judgment.”

The words struck hard Your chest tightened painfully as you stared at him across the desk, suddenly feeling much younger than you wanted to. “You really think I’m overreacting.”

“I think you’re scared.”

“Of course I’m scared.” Your voice rose despite your efforts to stay calm, echoing slightly against the tall walls of the study.

The fire popped sharply in the silence afterward.

You stood abruptly from the chair and turned away before Titus could fully see the tears beginning to burn behind your eyes. Outside, rain lashed violently against the windows now, wind howling low around the estate like something grieving.

You continued, voice quieter than it had been. “I’m scared because Father already decided what happens to me before asking what I wanted. I’m scared because some man I barely know is willing to die for this family’s approval. And I’m scared because the only person I thought might actually care how terrifying that feels keeps defending him.”

Behind you, Titus stood as well. “You think I don’t care?”

“I think you care more about whether he’s capable than whether I’m happy.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Then why does it sound true every time you talk about him?”

You finally turned back toward him, and something in your expression must have startled Titus because the frustration in his face faltered slightly.

“You really think he’ll survive, don’t you?”

Titus hesitated, and suddenly it became painfully obvious that he had been evaluating Arthur this entire time not as your potential husband, but as a potential Danforth. Measuring competence. Endurance. Intelligence. Survival. Your fear had never entered the equation the same way.

“I think he has a better chance than most,” Titus finally decided on.

You laughed softly, though the sound held no humor whatsoever. “Wow.”

Titus stepped forward slightly. “That wasn’t meant to upset you.”

“But it did.”

“You’re twisting my words.”

“No.” You looked at him steadily despite the sting gathering behind your eyes. “I’m hearing them exactly the way you mean them.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is this family.”

His jaw clenched sharply at that. “You think I enjoy this?” he asked. “You think any of this is easy for me?”

“At least you still get choices.”

“You have choices too.”

“Do I?” Your voice cracked slightly around the words. “Because it feels like everyone already decided what happens next except me.”

Titus dragged a tired hand down his face, exhaustion finally beginning to bleed visibly through the composure he’d maintained all evening. “You expect me to fix things I can’t fix.”

“I never asked you to fix anything.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No,” you said immediately. “I asked you to listen.”

“I am listening.”

“You’re managing me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Frustration flashed hot across Titus’ face then, sharpened by concern and exhaustion and responsibilities neither of you had ever properly learned how to talk about.

“I’m not your father,” he said coldly.

Silence swallowed the room whole. Rain hammered violently against the windows while the fire crackled low behind you, but suddenly those sounds felt impossibly far away. Because that wasn’t the point.

You had never wanted him to be your father.

You had only needed your brother; and right now, he was nowhere to be found. 

_______________________

The storm hadn’t stopped. 

Hours into the hunt, rain still battered the grounds of Blackwood Manor with relentless force, turning the sprawling estate into something cold and vicious beneath the dark. Mud swallowed footprints almost as quickly as they appeared. Bare tree branches clawed against one another in the wind like skeletal hands scraping across bone. Somewhere deep in the forest surrounding the property, hunting dogs barked intermittently before their sounds vanished into the distant thunder. 

The game always transformed the estate into something monstrous. 

By daylight, the manor stood as a monument to wealth and legacy, all polished marble and candlelit grandeur. During the hunt, however, the illusion peeled away entirely. The Danforths became what they truly were under the expensive clothing and smiles: predators preserving their bloodline through violence dressed as tradition. 

And Arthur had adapted to it disturbingly well. 

You stumbled as he dragged you through the forest, your boots slipping against wet earth while branches snapped beneath your feet. His hand clamped painfully around your upper arm, fingers digging hard enough to bruise through the soaked fabric of your coat. A knife pressed against your throat remained steady despite the uneven terrain, the sharp edge biting just enough to remind you what would happen if you resisted again. 

Warm blood already slid down the side of your neck, mixing with the rainwater and a few tears. 

He’d cut you once, and the realization still hadn’t fully settled in your mind yet, perhaps because some small part of you remained trapped in disbelief. Hours earlier, this man had stood beside you in the drawing room wearing an immaculate suit while Chester discussed family expectations over champagne. He had smile at you across the dinner table. Held your hand. Spoken softly about a future together. 

He drew the card, and sometime between then and now, Arthur had stopped pretending. 

The moment was still fresh in your mind. 

You’d been walking through one of the old servant tunnels that sat under the west wing while distant gunshots echoed through the estate above. You thought you were alone before a hand wrapped around your wrist in gripping possession. Everything after that unraveled quickly. 

Arthur demanded to know how inheritance worked within the Danforth family. Whether marriage guaranteed voting power. Whether Chester intended Titus and Ursla to remain the primary heirs even after your marriage. At first, you’d thought stress had simply broken something loose in him until he’d smiled when he talked about what the Danforth name could become under the “right leadership” and not what it already was, but what it could become. 

Suddenly, every uneasy instinct you’d buried for months had come roaring back to life. 

“You’re shaking,” Arthur murmured near your ear now as he forced you deeper between the trees. “You should come down. I haven’t decided whether to kill you yet.” 

Your stomach twisted so hard you nearly gagged. 

Rain dripped from his dark hair across his forehead, his expensive suit ruined beyond repair with mud and blood and soaked fabric clinging tightly to his frame. He no longer looked polished. The carefully crafted charm had rotted away entirely over the course of the hunt, leaving something hungry and ugly to shine through. 

You now understood that this was probably who Arthur had always been, the rest just simply a performance. 

“You’re insane,” you hissed. 

Athur chuckled darkly. “No. Your family is insane. I’m adapting.” 

Lighting flashed overhead, illuminating the forest in brief sliver light. For a split second, you caught sight of blood smeared along Arthur’s sleeve that didn’t belong to either of you. One of your cousins, maybe. One of the staff. You didn’t know anymore and didn’t want to. The hunt had unraveled hours ago. 

Athur slowed suddenly near a clearing deeper int the woods before stopping entirely. The knife pressed harder against your throat, drawing a sharp inhale through your nose. 

“Call him,” Arthur demanded. 

Your pulse stuttered painfully. “What?”

“Titus.” His grip tightened around your arm. “Call your bother.” 

Cold dread slid violently down your spine. “No.” 

He leaned close enough that you could smell rainwater, sweat, and gunpowder clinging to him. “You’re going to do exactly what I say because right now, your brother is the only thing keeping you alive.” 

“It’s against the rules. Besides, you won’t survive without me.” 

A smile pulled at Arthur’s mouth, thin and downright cruel. “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said all night.”

You swallowed hard, throat bobbing painfully against the knife. 

Beyond the trees, footsteps crunched through wet leaves, and Arthur heard them too. His entire posture sharpened instantly. 

“Titus!” you shouted before you could think. 

Arthur jerked you backward violently, knife biting deeper against your neck as thunder cracked overhead. “Careful,” he warned softly. “I’d hate to damage something valuable.” 

His words barely finished leaving his mouth before movement exploded from the darkness. Titus emerged from the trees like something carved from the storm itself. Mud streaked across his black coat, and soaked dark curls clung to his forehead, rain sliding down the sharp lines of his face. His chest rose heavily with sharp breathing, eyes immediately locking onto you before shifting toward the knife pressed against your throat. 

His expression changed in a heartbeat.

Now, you’d seen Titus angry before. You’d seen him cold, ruthless, violent even. 

This was something else entirely. 

The fury that settled across his face didn’t even look human. 

Arthur must have noticed it too because his fingers painfully dug into your wrist bone with a strength you hadn’t felt before. 

“Well,” Arthur called over the storm, voice strained despite his best attempt at composure. “There is he.” 

“Titus,” you breathed, eyes glossed over. 

His hazel eyes flickered toward yours at the sound of your voice. The sight of blood along your neck made his face tighten with terrifying intensity. Arthur caught on too quickly. 

“Easy,” he warned, dragging the knife slightly higher under your jaw. “I wouldn’t come any closer.” 

Against the warning, Titus put a boot forward, slowly and deliberately. “Take your hands off her,” he said, voice cold and on the edge of losing it. The lack of volume was more frightening than shouting would have bene. 

Arthur laughed nervously. “I don’t think you understand the position we’re in.” 

“I understand it perfectly.” 

“No,” Arthur replied. He pressed the knife even harder. “You really don’t.” 

Pain stung across your throat as another thin line of blood slid downward into the collar of your coat. Titus watched the red run, watched you bleed for a purpose he should have picked up on. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. 

Athur exhaled slowly, clearly trying to regain control of the situation. “Let’s speak honestly for once. Chester’s getting old; the family needs stability. Vision. Someone willing to modernize things.” 

Titus remained silent as rain dripped steadily from the ends of his hair while he stared at Arthur with an expression so devoid of warmth it sent a shiver down your spine. Arthur mistook your brother’s silence for invitation. 

“I know how this family works,” he continued. “Marriage gives me access, but not enough authority. Nothing long term. That all remains with you.” 

“And?” Titus prompted. 

Arthur gulped. “And we can help each other.” 

The sheer insanity of the conversation made you laugh despite the knife still held against your throat. 

“You let us walk out of here,” Athur said, “and when Chester steps down, the power will be divided evenly.” 

Titus’s face remained unreadable. “You think I’d hand this family to a man holding my baby sister hostage?” 

Arthur’s grip faltered slightly at the word sister just enough for you to feel the shift.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” Arthur snapped. “That alone proves I’m being reasonable.” 

Titus tilted his head slightly, studying your captor with horrifying calm. “No. It proves you’re stupid.” 

Athur’s composure cracked. “You don’t get to act all superior now. Your entire bloodline is built on slaughter.” 

“And yet somehow, you still managed to become the worst person here.” 

The knife dug more painfully into your neck, reopening the clotted wound. “Enough.” Despite himself, Athur’s voice wavered, panic now lacing his tone. He was finally starting to understand something deeply important. 

Titus was not negotiating; he was waiting. 

“You kill me,” Athur continued, “and she dies too.” 

For the first time since he’d stepped into the clearing, you noticed the strain of guilt on Titus’s face. Because suddenly and clearly, you knew exactly what he was seeing: your tear-streaked face, your blood against your skin, the terror you’d tried to explain to him in his study days ago. 

You’d been right, and Titus let you see that he knew before rage swallowed him whole again. 

Poor Arthur Sterling never saw Titus move. One second, he stood several feet away in the rain; the next, he was on him. It happened brutally fast. Titus slammed into Arthur hard enough to send all three of you crashing into the mud. The knife jerked away from your throat as Athur shouted in shock, Titus grabbing his wrist with enough force you heard the bone crack before Arthur even screamed. 

Then, Titus hit him. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Again and again and again and again. 

Arthur tried to scramble backwards, but Titus caught him by the collar and drove him hard into the ground. Rain poured relentlessly around them while Arthur struggled frantically beneath Titus’s grip, blood spilling from what looked like every orifice of his face. His once straight nose sat crooked under globs of blood and spit and snot. The sight made your stomach turn. 

“Titus—” you gasped. 

He didn’t even seem to hear you; all his restraint had vanished completely. 

“You touched her,” Titus snarled through clenched teeth. His fist rose again and slammed hard into Athur’s cheek. Your brother leaned over and took hold of the dropped knife; lips close to the man’s ear. “I’ve killed for less.” 

The knife sunk deep into Athur’s stomach before twisting and being tugged upright. The squelch alone sent bile creeping up your throat as Titus seemed to be unaffected as he all but gutted the man right there and then. For a moment, the entire forest seemed to stop breathing.

You stood trembling several feet away while Titus remained crouched over the now still body, chest heaving harshly with ragged breaths. Rain streamed down the side of his face alongside the splattered blood. His hands shook from adrenaline so violet it barely had anywhere left to go. His face turned, and his eyes met yours, the rage vanishing so quickly. 

“Titus,” you whispered. 

He pushed up and crossed the distance between you instantly. His hands reached for your face before stopping like he was suddenly terrified of hurting you further by accident. “Let me see.” 

“I’m okay.” 

“You’re bleeding.” 

“Tis but a flesh wound.” 

He said your name softly. “Let me see.”

You tilted your head carefully while Titus examined the cut along your throat with shaking hands. Up close, you could see the horror settling into the lines of his face the longer he looked at your spilled blood. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out suddenly. 

You blinked up at him in surprise. “Titus—”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated thickly. “You were right about him.” 

Emotion crashed through you so hard your heart clenched. And before you could stop yourself, your hands grabbed fistfuls of his soaked coat like a scared child. Because in this moment, that’s what you were: a scared little girl who wanted the comfort only her older brother could bring. 

Titus didn’t hesitate to pull you against him. His arms wrapped around you so tightly it bordered on desperate, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other locked around your shoulders as though he intended to physically shield you from the entire world. Rain soaked through both of you, cold and relentless, but Titus stayed there holding you in the middle of the storm like letting go might just kill him. 

“You’re safe,” he murmured against your hair, voice still unsteady with fury and guilt and relief tangled together. “I got you; I got you.” 

_______________________

The bathroom attached to Titus’ room was unbearably warm compared to the storm outside. 

Steam curled faintly through the air from the basin of hot water resting on the marble counter, carrying the sharp scent of antiseptic and iron beneath it. Beyond the tall windows, rain still battered the manor without mercy, but here, the noise sounded distant, muffled by thick walls and heavy silence. 

You sat on the edge of the counter in one of Titus’s oversized sweaters with your damp hair pushed back from your face while he stood between your knees carefully cleaning the blood from your neck. 

The cut hadn’t been deep; Arthur had never intended to kill you immediately, but only threaten, manipulate, and control. When you thought about him, your stomach churned every time it surfaced.

Titus seemed to share the sentiment. His jaw had remained tight ever since returning to the manor, expression carved into something quiet but no less severe. You could see the restraint sitting beneath his skin every time his thumb brushed too close to the wound, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly afterward. 

“I’m fine,” you murmured for what was probably the fourth time. 

Titus dipped the cloth back into the water before answering. “It’s still bleeding.” 

“It’s barely bleeding.” 

“It’s still your blood.” 

You eyed him carefully beneath the soft golden light overhead. He’d changed clothes sometime after the hunt, though a faint smear of dried blood still lingered near his wrist where he’d apparently missed it while washing up. His hair remained damp, now from a shower instead of the pouring rain, dark curls falling messily across his forehead in a way they never would during family dinners or formal gatherings downstairs.

You thought he look tired. 

“Titus.” 

“Hm?” 

“You’re glaring at my throat.” 

His eyes lifted, caught between annoyance and embarrassment. “I’m not glaring.” 

“You absolutely are.” 

“I’m assessing.” 

A laugh escaped you quietly, small and tired but genuine enough that his face softened for the first time all evening. “There,” he said. “That’s much better.” 

You cocked your head. “What is?” 

“You laughing.” He wrung the excess water from the cloth before tilting your chin slightly higher with careful fingers. The touch was impossibly gentle for someone who’d broken a man’s face and buried a knife into the same man’s stomach barely hours earlier. “I should’ve listened to you.” 

You paused before answering. “Yeah. You should have.” 

To his credit, Titus didn’t argue. A faint huff of humor left him instead, almost self-depreciating. “You know, most people would pretend to comfort me after I admitted fault.” 

“You’ve had enough people agreeing with you your entire life.” 

“That’s unfortunately true.” 

The corner of your mouth lifted faintly as Titus finished cleaning the last steak of dried blood from your skin before stepping back slightly to examine his work. He scowled again at the sight of the thin cut. 

“I’m killing the next man who even dares to look at you.” 

You snorted loudly. “That seems excessive.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know. That’s the concerning part.” 

He set the cloth aside before folding his arms loosely across his chest. “As long as I’m head of this family, you’re never being courted again.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” 

“No suitors. No engagements. No mysterious wealthy men with political ambitions. I’m ending the entire practice.” 

“You can’t keep me from dating,” you said, lips pushing into a pout. 

“Watch me.” 

Despite everything—Arthur, the hunt, the blood that stained your favorite sweater—you laughed again, fuller this time. Titus eased at the sound, tension finally slipping from his shoulders in small increments. He reached up and brushed his thumb carefully beneath your jaw. 

“I mean it,” he said softly. “No one—and I mean no one—touches you again unless you want them too.” 

You leaned forward before thinking too hard about it, pressing your forehead lightly against his shoulder. Titus exhaled quietly and wrapped his arms around you, steady and warm and certain in a way the rest of the world never seemed to be. 

Outside, the storm continued raging against the manor. 

But inside, Titus held you like nothing would ever reach you again. 

🏷️ titus taglist: @panic-in-the-multiverse

THEN: PERPETRATORS, 2008

“Congratulations to the class of 2008!”

Everyone cheered. The graduates on the football field, and the crowd of family and friends in the bleachers, erupted with applause and shouts. Your class stood up in celebration, caps launching into the warm evening sky like a flock of birds taking flight. Laughter and screams of joy echoed all around you, mingling with the smell of freshly cut grass and the faint tang of sunscreen.

Everyone moved around, hugging loved ones, snapping pictures, or searching for friends, while you just stood in place, letting the moment sink in.

“We did it!”

Arms wrapped around you from behind, lifting you off the ground in a sudden spin. You laughed in surprise, the thrill making your stomach flip, before realizing it was Deran.

“Hey, Congrats!” you laughed

“Congrats to you too!” He set you down and pulled you into a hug, the warmth of his presence grounding you amid the chaos.

“Is your family here?” you asked once he let go, scanning the bleachers.

“No”

“What? Where are they?”

“We don’t really do this kind of stuff,” he said with a shrug, kicking at the grass beneath his feet.

“Really? You’re not hurt?” you asked, noticing he seemed perfectly fine despite the commotion.

“Pfff, no,” he said, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “It’s just high school.”

“I know,” you said, a small frown tugging at your lips. “But it’s a huge milestone. It’s the start of the rest of our lives.”

He smiled faintly, as if understanding the weight behind your words. Around you, the evening air shimmered with excitement and possibility, and for a moment, everything felt open and endless.

“Hey, I’m here sharing this moment with my best friend. That’s all I need.”

Before you could respond, Craig barreled in, tackling his younger brother with a grin. “Congrats, knucklehead!” he said, giving him a playful noogie. Deran laughed, squirming, and shoved him off, both of them collapsing onto the grass in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Then Baz and Andrew appeared, weaving their way through the crowd of cheering graduates and proud parents. The sight of them, casual, unbothered as always was so out of place among the caps and gowns that you almost laughed.

“Will you two ever grow up?” Baz muttered, rolling his eyes, though there was the faintest curl of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Craig was the first to stand, brushing grass from his jeans as he reached down to pull Deran up beside him.

“What are you guys doing here?” Deran asked, but his grin gave him away. He didn’t wait for an answer, just dragged them both in with Craig, arms locking tight until the four of them were a single, messy knot of shoulders and laughter.

“Smurf made us come, since you’re the—”

“Baby!” Smurf interrupted, catching Deran’s face in her hands and planting a kiss on his cheek. “My baby graduated high school! I’m so proud!”

Every brother knew better. She was proud, sure, but mostly she was here to show face, take some credit, and remind everyone that Deran’s success reflected on her. Her theatrical grin and the way she wiped at her imaginary tear told the real story.

While she held onto Deran, Craig and Baz drifted your way. Craig slung an arm loosely over your shoulder, pulling you into a friendly side hug before Baz followed, brief but warm.

“Congratulations, Angel,” Andrew said as he stepped forward, his voice softer than theirs. A small, almost shy smile tugged at his lips as he held out a bouquet of flowers.

You blinked in surprise, glancing from the bouquet to his face. The sincerity in his eyes made your chest tighten. “Thank you,” you said quietly, taking the flowers from him.

“Hope these are okay,” he murmured, shifting a little as if he wasn’t sure he should have brought them at all.

“They’re perfect. Really. Thank you,” you replied, hugging the bouquet closer, their fresh scent grounding you in the swirl of celebration.

From behind Andrew’s shoulder, you caught Smurf’s eyes on you. Her smile hadn’t faltered, but the tilt of her head and the calculating glint beneath her lashes made your stomach twist. She was watching. Not just you, but the way Andrew looked at you, the softness he rarely showed anyone.

You hear your name being called above the crowd. Turning, you spot your family waving wildly, their faces lit with pride.

“I gotta go,” you say to Andrew and the rest of the Codys, your smile lingering even as your pulse quickens with anticipation.

Deran steps forward first, pulling you into a quick but tight hug. “Hey, I’ll call you later, alright? We’re hanging out this summer before you leave. No excuses!”

“Yes! I’ll see you later,” you reply, grinning as you pull away. “Bye!”

You wave to the Codys one last time, flowers clutched to your chest, before hurrying toward your family. Relief and excitement swell in you all at once, the weight of the day dissolving as their arms open wide. Finally, you slip back into their embrace, surrounded by the familiar warmth that feels like home.

—-

The summer of 2008 was a blur of sun and salt. You spent your days with Deran and his brothers sprawled out on the beach, letting the tide chase your ankles, or stretched by the pool at their house while laughter carried into the warm evenings. Oceanside became a rhythm you memorized—the crash of waves, the heat of the sand, the smell of salt in the air. You tried to soak up every second, every corner of California, knowing all too well that soon you’d be leaving it behind for a while.

By the time summer began to wind down, the days with Deran and his brothers grew fewer. They always had something pulling them away, calls they couldn’t ignore, errands that never seemed to end. You didn’t ask questions. Still, you held onto the moments you did get with them, tucking them away like snapshots before it was time to leave Oceanside behind.

Then one night with Craig and Deran changed everything you thought you knew.

The three of you were driving back from the movies, the night air rushing through the open jeep, the smell of popcorn and soda still clinging to your clothes. The roads were nearly empty, streetlights flickering past in a steady rhythm, when Craig’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Without hesitation, he slipped it out and pressed it to his ear, one hand steady on the wheel.

“Hello? What?! Now? Can’t this wait? But—”

You watched the color drain from his face, his easy grin collapsing in an instant.

“FUCK! FINE!” Craig’s voice exploded in the confined space, raw and jagged. He slammed the phone shut and hurled it across the dash. It struck the windshield with a sharp thunk, rattling the glass and making you flinch back in your seat.

The silence afterward was thick, suffocating.

“What is it?” Deran asks, voice tight, eyes flicking between Craig and the road ahead.

“Change of plans, we can’t go home… Something came up. We gotta go,” Craig mutters, voice low and clipped, jaw tight as his hands choke the wheel.

“What? Now?” Deran whispers back, eyes darting toward you, uncertainty flashing across his face.

“Yes. Now.”

“But we can’t—”

“We don’t have a choice, Deran,” Craig grits out, teeth clenched as he jerks the jeep hard around a corner. The engine growls, the whole car lurching with the movement.

Deran leans closer, voice sharp but hushed, like he’s trying not to let you hear. “We should drop her off.” His glance flickers to you, almost pleading.

“Drop her where?” Craig hisses, throwing a quick look at him. “There’s no time. Unless you want to dump her on the side of the road—”

“No, no we’re not doing that” Deran shakes his head, tension etched in every line of his face. “So what, we’re just gonna keep her in the car?”

“That’s about our only option right now,” Craig mutters, eyes locked on the road. “She’ll be safe, out of the way.”

A beat of silence, only the rumble of the engine between them. Then Craig adds, clipped, almost biting: “This is your friend, Deran. You make the call.”

“What’s wrong?” you ask quietly, voice small against the hum of the engine.

Craig grips the steering wheel tighter and exhales slowly, a sharp, controlled sigh.

“We gotta take care of something,” Deran says, his tone low, clipped, carrying an edge of tension he doesn’t bother explaining. His eyes flick to Craig, holding just long enough to make the message clear.

Craig’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking as he glances at you in the rearview before locking eyes with his brother again. He doesn’t argue—he doesn’t have to. The silence says it all. Deran made the call. You were staying in the car.

“Okay…” you murmur, unsure if you should press further.

Craig drives on without another word. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, pressing in from all sides. Every corner of the jeep feels tighter, every shadow outside darker.

The farther you go, the streets change. The glow of streetlights thins, replaced by deep pools of shadow. Pavement cracks rise like scars, weeds sprouting through jagged lines of concrete. Old buildings loom on either side, leaning awkwardly, their windows shattered or boarded up, like forgotten teeth in a decaying jaw.

The world outside seems abandoned, dangerous, and your stomach twists. Every jolt of the jeep over the broken asphalt makes your pulse spike, and your mind races with questions you don’t dare voice. You feel small, trapped in the vehicle, at the mercy of the brothers and whatever “thing” they’re racing toward.

Finally, the car slows in front of a large, rusted warehouse.

“You’re joking right? You have to take care of something here?” Your voice wavers as you peer out the window. 

“We’ll be back soon.” Craig unbuckles and swings the door open, slamming it shut behind him.

A wave of déjà vu hits you—memories of that day Craig got hurt flashing sharply in your mind. Your chest tightens. You don’t like this. Not one bit.

Halfway out the door, Deran stops and glances back at you. His eyes are hard, unwavering. “I need you to stay in the car,” he says, voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument.

You nod, hesitant. “Okay…”

“No. Not just okay.” His voice snaps sharper now, insistent, each word carrying weight that brooks no argument. “You stay in the car. No matter what. Stay put until you see us come back.”

“Deran—”

“Promise me, Angel”

There’s a desperation in his tone that shakes you. “…I promise.”

“Lock the doors,” he instructs before shutting his own and disappearing down the narrow path between two buildings.

And so you sit. You wait. Minutes drag, heavy and oppressive. Then more. Half an hour passes, and the air inside the car feels stifling, thick with unease.

What could they possibly be doing out there? Are they okay? Are they hurt? Every scenario your mind conjures twists your stomach into knots.

Despite your promise, concern wins. Your hands shake slightly as you unbuckle your seatbelt and step out. The air is colder. Quiet, except for the distant hum of the city.

You walk slowly, nerves on edge, down the narrow path between the two rundown warehouses. Gravel crunches under your shoes.

Up ahead, you spot a faint glow, light spilling out through a crack in one of the massive sliding doors. It’s just open enough for a sharp sliver of light to cut through the suffocating darkness.

Then you hear it.

The smack of a fist. A grunt. A choked groan of pain that reverberates hollowly through the metal walls, bouncing off the corrugated steel and scraping against your nerves.

Your heart lurches violently, skipping a beat. Blood rushes in your ears.

What was happening? Were they getting hurt? Was this… was this worse than you feared?

You have no clear plan, no safe way in, but you do the only thing you can think of. Your hands tremble as you fumble for your phone, your fingers slick with sweat. You press it tightly against your ear, as if the thin barrier could shield you from the sounds, the dread, the helplessness.

“Hello?” Andrew’s voice comes through, calm, casual, unaware. The contrast twists the knot in your stomach tighter. Panic and urgency mix into a cold, sharp edge that makes it hard to think.

Your eyes dart toward the crack in the sliding door, the faint glow spilling from it. Your grip on the phone tightens, knuckles whitening, and you try to steady your breathing, though your chest heaves and your pulse races like a drum in your ears.

“Andrew…I need help,” you stammer, voice shaking, barely more than a whisper.

“Woah, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” His tone sharpens instantly, concerned cutting through the casual edge it had before.

“Something’s wrong… I don’t know where I am…”

“You don’t know where you are?” His voice grows urgent, edge tight with worry.

“Andrew, please, I… I think Craig and Deran are in trouble,” you whisper, trembling, gripping the phone like it’s your only lifeline.

“What do you mean they’re in trouble?”

You inch closer, each step heavier than the last. You peer through the crack.

“I was with them. They drove to a warehouse and told me to wait in the car—”

“Wha-”

“I promised Deran I would stay put in the car but they’ve been gone a while and so I’m looking for them and I think…” The words die in your throat.

Because through the crack in the warehouse door, you see him.

Deran.

Not tied to the chair. Not bleeding. Not the one you thought you were here to save.

He’s standing there, shoulders squared, blood glinting on his knuckles. The sound you heard, the brutal smack of flesh, it was him. He steps back, shaking out his hand as the man slumped in the chair groans, his face ruined, barely recognizable.

Craig slowly circles around the guy in the chair as he watches Deran ruin him. Baz is nearby crouched down with a duffle bag counting wads of cash, a gun on the floor beside him. And then Andrew.

The phone is still pressed to his ear, gun in hand. His eyes lock directly on the crack in the door…on you.

“Oh my god—” The cry rips from you as you stumble back, breath snagging in your throat. Your gaze locks on the sight before you, not just a scene, but a crime unfolding in brutal clarity.

“Fuck,” you hear Andrew mutter, both through the phone and in person, sharp and alarmed.

Too late.

Three heads snap up in unison. Baz. Craig. Deran.

All of them lock eyes on the cracked warehouse door

You slap your hand over your mouth. Your heart stops. You try to back up, to melt into the darkness. 

You pull the phone away from your ear, your hands shaking as your arm drops to your side. 

“Angel!” Deran’s voice is sharp. Alarmed.

You take one shaky step back. Then another. 

Your heart’s hammering so hard it hurts. You want to run, you need to, but your mind is blank, frozen, scrambling to process what you’re seeing. Every detail of the scene presses in, sharp and unbearable, leaving you paralyzed with shock.

You drop your phone. Your limbs move before your brain catches up. Panic takes over.

You bolt.

“Shit—SOMEBODY GRAB HER!” Baz’s voice roars behind you.

You freeze, whipping your gaze left, then right, panic clawing at your chest. Each breath comes sharp and uneven as your mind scrambles for an answer. Do you run back to the car? Make a break for the street? Every option feels like a trap.

But what if they’re faster? What if they catch you before you even take a step? The possibilities slam into you, sharp and terrifying, and your legs feel like lead, your body caught between instinct and fear.

You make a split-second choice and take off down the narrow path between the warehouses running towards the streets opposite from the car. The gravel slips under your shoes. 

You don’t know where you’re going, you just run.

Run like your life depends on it.

Because maybe… it does.

You know you shouldn't have seen that. You weren’t supposed to know. You stepped into their world, and now you know too much.

Then—

A hand clamps down hard on your arm, yanking you back with enough force to nearly knock you off your feet.

You let out a startled yelp, twisting around and slam right into someone’s chest. Solid. Unforgiving.

Your breath catches.

And then you look up.

It’s Andrew.

His face is inches from yours. Cold eyes blazing, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” Andrew’s voice cuts sharp, laced with raw anger.

The Andrew you’d spoken to on the phone just moments ago…soft, measured, careful, was gone. In his place stood someone darker, unrestrained, unpredictable.

Tears spring to your eyes before you can stop them, hot, fast, and helpless. Your body trembles beneath the weight of adrenaline and fear. You try to speak, but no words come out. Just a broken breath.

Andrew’s eyes flicker with a mix of anger and something deeper, frustration, maybe even fear. 

Before you can answer, you shove him and go stumbling back against the cold, rough metal surface of the warehouse wall. The impact jars you, breath hitching in your throat.

You’re a wreck, sobs tearing out of you as tears stream unchecked down your cheeks. Your chest heaves, voice breaking as you fight to force out words that won’t come.

You’d never been afraid of Andrew. Not really. His reputation for intimidation belonged to other people, never to you. But this… this was different. For the first time, terror gripped you in a way you couldn’t shake. 

Andrew knew eventually you were going to see who they truly were. What they did. What they were capable of.

He just didn’t think it would be now.

Not like this. Not tonight.

His jaw tightens as his eyes lock on you. You tremble, pressed against the warehouse wall like prey cornered by a monster. Seeing you shrink from him guts him in a way nothing else ever could. And that, watching you like this, snaps something inside him. His fury isn’t directed at you. It’s at the situation, at the chaos closing in around you both.

He slams his fist against the wall beside your head, not at you but still, you flinch, and the sound rips through the night like a gunshot. 

“Goddammit!” Andrew snaps, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. His eyes are wild, panic and fury battling for control.

You slid down against the metal wall, legs giving out beneath you. Curling into yourself, you wrapped your arms around your knees and buried your face against them.

You made yourself small, tight like a ball as if folding inward could protect you from everything that had just happened.

But it couldn’t. Not from the way your hands were still shaking. Not from the way your chest aches like something inside you had cracked open.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block it all out, the fear, the image of the boys, the beaten man.

Andrew forces himself to take a slow breath, forcing the storm inside him to settle. He knows he needs to stay calm, steady, together for you.

“Hey,” he says softly, crouching beside you, his hand reaching out as if to steady you. He can’t bear to see you like this, trembling, overwhelmed.

“I’m not going to hurt you, okay,” he whispers, his hand hovering helplessly in the space between you, unsure if reaching out would only make it worse.

“You expect me to believe that?!” The words tear out of you, raw and trembling as you press yourself tighter against the wall, as if distance could save you.

And he can see it, written plain in your eyes. You don’t believe him. You’re scared. Scared of him. Scared of all of them.

Footsteps pound against the dirt and gravel as Baz, Craig, and Deran come walking over from the far end of the warehouse, their faces pale, adrenaline already high.

The boys crowd around you, their presence closing in as you remain pressed against the wall. Andrew stands in front of you, his body shifting slightly to the side near the slide—but he stays close.

“Angel—what the hell…I told you to stay in the car!” Deran shouts the second he sees you, his voice tight with panic. He rushes toward you, eyes wide, breathing hard. His hands are clenched at his sides like he’s trying not to fall apart—or hit something. Maybe both.

“Why the fuck did you get out of the car?!” he snaps, voice cracking. “I told you to stay put! You promised me!”

You’re still sobbing, chest hitching with every breath, shoulders trembling violently. Tears streak your face, hot and unrelenting, as you struggle to force the words out through the panic lodged in your throat.

“I—I got worried! You and Craig were taking so long! I thought… I thought something happened! That you two were hurt!” Your voice cracks, shaking under the weight of fear and desperation.

Baz’s shout cuts through the charged air, raw and furious. “You two thought it was the best idea to bring her and leave her in the fucking car?! Are you two fucking stupid?!” His face is twisted in anger, veins prominent on his forehead, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“You didn’t give us much of a choice—or any other options! You told us to be here, and we showed up! We did what we had to do!” Deran’s voice is fierce, trembling with a mix of frustration and fear, echoing off the metal walls of the warehouse.

“I warned you!” Andrew snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through the room as he steps into Deran’s space, chest rising and falling hard. “I told you this would happen if you kept her around! You didn’t listen—and now look!” He jerks a hand toward you, his glare burning into Deran. “Look at her!”

“What do we do?” Craig says, quieter than the others but it hits harder.

Because that’s the question no one wants to answer.

The guys had never dealt with anything like this before. Normally, it didn’t matter who they had to throw under the bus, who they cut loose to keep themselves safe. But you weren’t just anyone. To them and especially to Deran, you mattered. And that changed everything.

Baz is the first to snap.

“She saw too much,” Baz growls, pacing like a predator. “We can’t just let her walk away like nothing happened. What if she talks?!”

“She’s not gonna talk!” Deran yells, his voice cracking with desperation.

Baz spins on him, fury flashing. “Look, I get it—she’s your friend. Fine. But this is business. And she’s a liability. A huge fucking liability, Deran! She saw what we did. She knows now. That puts all of us at risk!”

“I won’t tell—I didn’t mean to see it—please, I didn’t mean to—I promise I won’t say anything!” Your words spill out in frantic, trembling bursts.

“When Smurf finds out—” Baz says.

“No! We can’t tell her! She doesn't need to know! She can’t find out about this, ever!” Deran panics, picturing the consequences if Smurf discovers what happened and what might happen to you.

Baz’s eyes lock on you, unreadable and hard. “At the end of the day, it’s her or us. We do what we have to do to survive.” He glances at Deran, then back at you, his voice steady, sharp. “When it comes down to it… we’ll always choose our own. If that means she gets hurt… if that means she’s gone… so be it. Nothing matters more than family. Nothing.”

The words hit you like ice. Baz doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch. He would discard you, treat you like you were nothing without a second thought. All in the name of keeping themselves safe. You feel your chest tighten, panic clawing at your throat. Your mind races, scrambling for a way out, for any sign that someone, anyone, might protect you. But in that moment, the truth is clear: to them, you are a liability. A risk. Something expendable.

But Deran… Deran is the only one standing between you and their ruthless logic. He looks torn, haunted, the pull of family pulling at him, but he knows where he stands. His stance is with you.

“Do you hear yourself right now?!” Deran snaps at Baz, voice shaking with both anger and desperation. He knows exactly what Baz means, but this isn’t right. You’re innocent, caught in this mess because of him, and it’s his fault. He won’t let you suffer for it. Not for a second. He’d fight his own brothers if he had to.

“Could you live with yourself if you actually did that… to Angel?” His words cut through the room, a challenge and a plea all at once.

Baz stops pacing, his eyes cold and sharp as knives. “Deran,” he growls, voice low and dangerous. “Do you think putting her first changes anything? It doesn’t. You know the rules, liabilities get dealt with. Always. Family comes first, no exceptions.”

“This is on me, alright? Not her!” He jabs a finger at his own chest, eyes blazing. “She didn’t ask for this. Don’t drag her ever more!” 

He takes a step closer, the air between them heavy. “If you really want to risk all of that for her… make sure you’re ready for what that choice costs.”

Before anyone can say anything else, Andrew’s voice cuts through the tension.  He steps forward, positioning himself in front of you like a shield.

“Enough.” His voice cuts through the chaos, low and deadly calm, but it carries the weight of authority no one dares ignore.

Baz freezes, eyes narrowing, while Deran takes a small, shaky step back, relief and fear mingling across his face. Andrew’s gaze locks on Baz first, then sweeps to you, assessing, protective, unyielding.

“No one’s touching her,” Andrew says, each word deliberate, measured. “Not tonight. Not ever.” His voice cuts like steel, final, absolute. It’s not a question. It’s a command, an unshakable law in the room. Every eye shifts to him, even Baz’s, sensing the weight behind it.

“She’s not a threat, Baz. She’s scared. She’s just a kid.” His gaze sweeps over you, protective and unyielding, as if daring anyone to challenge him.

“Pope—” Baz starts, his tone sharp, bristling with defiance. “We can’t just—”

Andrew knows. He knows exactly what liabilities are, exactly how they’re handled and usually, he takes care of them without hesitation. But you… no, you’re the exception. Someone worth protecting, no matter what it takes.

Andrew turns on him, slow and precise, eyes locking with his in a way that makes the air itself seem to harden. “I said no.” His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t have to be. 

Baz glares, teeth clenched. “You think just because you say so, that changes anything? Rules are rules, Pope. You’re blind if you think this—”

Andrew’s jaw tightens, his voice low and steady, each word laced with menace.

“You’re not touching her.” He leans forward just slightly, eyes locked on Baz like a predator ready to strike.

“You try anything, anything at all, I’ll fuck you up. You know I will.”

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. Baz doesn’t back down, not really but even he doesn’t push it further. Not when the Pope's in this state.

“And what about you?” He turned to Craig, already knowing where Deran and Pope stood. Deep down, he hoped Craig would be the one to back him.

Craig owed you, after he got injured, you’d helped him. You didn’t understand the world they moved in or the things they did to make a living, and you certainly didn’t deserve to be caught up in it. None of this had anything to do with you. You were innocent.

 “Come on, Baz, none of that is necessary. Just… step off, alright? Let’s not make this messier than it already is.” Craig says

Baz’s eyes snapped to his brothers. His jaw tightened, and after a long, tense sigh, he shook his head. Without another word, he turned and walked back in the direction they had come from.

Despite everything, they had defended you, protected you, but it didn’t change the fact of what you had witnessed. Your crying slowly subsided as they argued over you, leaving only a hollow ache in its place.

Andrew held out his hand. “It’s okay,” he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring.

You hesitantly took his hand and stood up, hugging yourself as the cool evening breeze brushed against your skin. Without a word, Andrew shrugged off his jacket and gently draped it over your shoulders, the warmth of the fabric a small comfort against the chill.

He stared at you for a long moment, his gaze steady and filled with concern, as if silently asking if you were really alright.

“Take her home. We’ll take care of things here,” Andrew said firmly to his younger brothers, his tone leaving no room for argument. Then, without another word, he turned and followed the path Baz had taken, leaving you the three of you. 

—

When Craig pulled up to your house, you didn’t wait for the car to fully stop. You yanked open the door and stepped out, your heart still racing. You fumbled with the gate, pushing it open and rushing toward your front door.

Behind you, you could hear Craig moving quickly, the car door slamming shut as he hurried after you.

Your hands trembled as you dug for your keys, fumbling to find the right one.

“Angel, wait please” Deran called, grabbing your arm gently but firmly.

You spun around, backing toward your front steps. “Don’t touch me!”

He froze mid-step, palms up like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. “Just let me explain!”

“I don’t want to hear it, Deran!” Your voice cracked, your hands trembling at your sides. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”

His expression shifted, like he’d been punched. “You know me—”

“Know you?!” you laughed, sharp and bitter, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. “I don’t know you at all!” 

You took another step back, your back practically up against the front door. 

Deran looked at you, his jaw clenched like he was holding back a thousand words.

“You do know me,” he said, quieter now. “You do.”

But you just shook your head, biting back the sting in your voice. “No. I thought I did. And that’s the part that hurts the most.”

“I knew I should’ve kept my distance and stayed away from you when I found out what was in that damn duffle bag—” you said, your voice shaking, the words heavy with guilt and fear.

“What?” Deran’s voice cracked, disbelief and anger tangling as he stepped closer, eyes narrowing on you like he was trying to read the truth from your face.

“I saw it,” you admitted, hands trembling as you clenched them at your sides. “The money… the jewelry… the gun. The duffle bag you hid under your bed.”

Deran froze, as if your words had landed a blow he never saw coming. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, jaw tightening as fear and frustration warred behind his eyes. “You… you saw that?” His voice dropped, hoarse, almost wounded. “Why didn’t you say anything? You should’ve told me.”

“And what would that have done?” you snapped, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

His mouth opened, then closed again, as if he didn't even have an answer. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.

“I didn’t know what to think,” you whispered, voice raw. “I told myself I was imagining things. That it couldn’t be real. That you couldn’t possibly…” The word lodged in your throat, sharp and cruel. You couldn’t bring yourself to call him a criminal, not when a part of you still wanted to believe in him.

Your chest rose and fell unevenly as you shook your head. “I didn’t want to see it. I kept telling myself there was another explanation. Because the second I admitted the truth…” Your voice cracked, and you wrapped your arms around yourself. “The second I admitted the truth, it meant the person I thought I knew—the person I—” You choked, stopping the word before it could escape.

Deran’s jaw tightened, fists clenching at his sides. For a heartbeat, his expression flickered—anger, regret, fear—before settling into something guarded.

“Angel,” he murmured, voice rough, like gravel. “It’s not that simple.”

You let out a sharp, brittle laugh. “Of course it’s not. Nothing with you ever is.” You swiped at your eyes, throat aching. “But you could’ve trusted me. You could’ve told me the truth instead of letting me figure it out in the worst possible way.”

“Would you have still been friends with me if I had told you… what my family and I do? What we’re capable of?”

You froze. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway. His jaw clenched, voice breaking low. “Would you?”

Your chest heaved as you shook your head slowly, tears spilling. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I want to say yes, but… God, Deran, how could I? Knowing everything? Watching you throw your life away and pretend it’s normal?”

Deran’s eyes flared, frustration and desperation breaking through his usual restraint. “This is normal! This is my normal! It’s all my brothers and I have ever known!” His fists clenched, knuckles white, as he stepped closer. “You think I want it to be like this? You think I chose this life? I didn’t!”

“You’ll never understand,” he snapped, voice tight with pain.

Your chest tightened, stomach twisting with fear and anger. “Then why drag me into it?” you asked, voice trembling.

Deran’s jaw worked, eyes flickering between guilt and defiance. “You’re the only person I’ve got that’s real. Not caught up in all the bullshit. I didn’t want to lose you… even if it meant lying, even if it meant keeping things from you. You’re the one person in my life that makes me feel like I can be… someone better.”

You took a step back, shaking your head, hands trembling. “Better? You’ve already ruined everything I thought I knew about you. And now I find out… you and your family… you’re criminals?”

He flinched at the word, but his voice stayed low, almost desperate. “I was always real with you about me… everything I told you is true. I just left out my family. I didn’t want you to see that side—the messy part that could drag you down. I thought I was protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” you spat, disbelief and hurt twisting your voice. “By lying? By letting me trust you while hiding that you and your whole family are involved in… in that? You’ve destroyed my trust in you!”

Deran’s shoulders sagged, the fight fading into guilt. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I just… I wanted you in my life. Losing you—it’s the last thing I could bear.”

You shook your head again, stepping back, shaking off the tremor in your hands. “ I don’t even know if I can trust you again—or be your friend at all.”

Deran’s jaw tightened, a flicker of panic crossing his features. “Angel…” 

“I never want to see you again. You and your family—just stay the hell away from me!” you snapped. With that, you quickly unlocked the door and slammed it shut, the sound echoing like a verdict.

—

You had just gotten out of the shower, only in kick-around shorts and an oversized t-shirt, your hair still damp. Your eyes were swollen and puffy from crying so much, the events replaying endlessly in your head. It felt like a nightmare you couldn’t escape, even as you tried to get ready for bed.

Suddenly, a hand clamped over your mouth, an arm snaking around your waist and yanking you back against a solid chest. You gasped, screaming into the palm covering your mouth, your heart lurching as panic surged through you.

“Shh—it’s me. It’s me” a voice whispered urgently in your ear.

Andrew.

Your hands flew to the arm around your waist and the one covering your mouth. Your chest heaved, rising and falling in a panicked rhythm.

“I’m gonna let you go,” he said slowly, “but you can’t scream.”

Slowly, his hand lifted from your mouth.

You stumbled away from him the second he let go, pressing yourself into the farthest corner of the room. Your eyes were wide and streaked with tears, your chest heaving. Every nerve screamed, but you kept your voice low—your parents were asleep, and you didn’t want to wake them.

“You need to leave,” you whispered sharply, trembling. “You can’t be here. You need to go!”

“No.”

“Andrew—”

“My jacket.”

“What?”

“My jacket.”

A surge of fury cut through your fear, sharp and heated even as you lowered your voice. “You broke into my house to get your jacket back?!” you hissed, your words barely above a whisper.

You pushed off the wall, moving toward your bed. Snatching the jacket up, you hurled it at him. “Take your jacket and get out!”

Did he really want the jacket back? No. He could have cared less. But it gave him an excuse to come see you, after everything that had happened at the warehouse.

You wanted him gone, now, the sense of safety in your own home shattered completely.

“Just… leave me alone, please,” you whispered.

Andrew’s eyes flickering with something between guilt and frustration. He held the jacket awkwardly in front of him, as if it were a shield. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmured, voice low, careful not to raise it.

You didn’t move, “Then why are you here, Andrew? After everything at the warehouse, after what I’ve seen… why?”

He swallowed hard, jaw tight, and glanced toward the door before meeting your gaze again. “I just… I needed to make sure you were okay. I couldn’t just leave things like that. Not after everything.”

Your voice cracked. “You thought it was a good idea to break into my house! Just to… what? Check on me?”

Andrew ran a hand through his hair, his usual confidence gone, replaced by tension. “I know it’s stupid—”

You shook your head, backing slightly, body trembling. “Stupid? Andrew, this is terrifying! And such an invasion of my space, of my trust!”

“Okay… okay. I get it. I’m leaving.” He took a careful step back toward the door, the weight of the unspoken words heavy in the air.

“Don’t come back,” you said, your chest heaving, anger and fear twisting in your gut. “I never want to see you again.”

You didn’t speak, didn’t even watch him leave at first. You made your way to your bed, you turned off your lamp and sank onto it, tears spilling freely as you curled up under the covers. 

He stopped in your doorway when he heard the soft sobs, unable to bear leaving you like this.

You knew he was still there. Even without looking, you could feel it—the weight of his stare pressing into your back, the faint scrape of his shoes shifting against the wooden floorboards. The silence stretched heavy, broken only by your uneven breathing.

You didn’t trust yourself to look at him, didn’t trust yourself to speak. But you could sense him drawing closer, each step quiet but certain, until his presence loomed at the foot of your bed.

“Angel.”

The sound of your name from his lips made your chest tighten. You buried your face deeper into the pillow. “Just go away, Andrew.”

“No.” His reply was immediate, steady, almost stubborn.

Your throat burned, eyes raw from crying. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” you whispered, though your voice barely carried in the dark.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, the mattress dipped under his weight as he sat carefully on the edge, careful to stay on top of the covers. The faint smell of cigarettes and saltwater clung to him, grounding and suffocating all at once.

You hugged the blanket tighter around yourself, torn between recoiling and leaning closer. Every part of you screamed he wasn’t safe, not really, not after what you’d learned about him. And yet, the quiet certainty in his voice, the unshakable way he anchored himself there, chipped at the edges of your fear.

“I’m not leaving,” he said finally, softer this time, “not until you fall asleep.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing him away, but the dip in the mattress and the steady weight of him sitting there refused to let you forget he was still beside you. Every nerve in your body buzzed, torn between panic and something dangerously close to relief.

Minutes dragged. Your sobs quieted, though your chest still hitched with every breath. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, only stayed, a shadow anchored to the edge of your bed. The silence between you wasn’t empty; it pulsed, heavy with everything unsaid.

Against your better judgment, your voice slipped out, small and cracked. “Why are you doing this?”

He let out a slow breath, one hand rubbing over his jaw. “Because I can’t stand to see you like this. I don’t care if you hate me, I’m not walking out. Not yet.”

Your throat tightened. The anger, the fear, the aching confusion twisted all at once, and you wanted to scream at him, shove him out into the night. But your body betrayed you, your shoulders sagging, exhaustion pulling harder now that you weren’t alone in the dark.

You shifted slightly under the covers, still not daring to look at him. “I don’t want you here,” you whispered, though the words lacked bite.

“I know.” His voice was quiet, almost resigned. “But I’m staying anyway.”

Your eyelids grow heavy, each blink longer than the last. You fought it, but the weight of sleep pressed harder, dragging you down. And through it all, you could feel him there, unmoving, watchful, steady.

When you woke the next morning, you wished it had only been a dream. But the heaviness in your chest told you otherwise. The Codys were criminals. No amount of denial could soften that truth anymore.

Andrew was gone. The space on the mattress where he’d sat was empty, but a folded note lay on the blanket beside you. Your stomach tightened as you reached for it.

For simple words were written 

I’m sorry for everything 

And that was the last time you heard or saw Andrew Cody. 

LYA Tag: @obfuscateyummy @princesssunderworld @jumpingjackalope @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @alexandrathegreat3 @cozyfanficnook @livingavilaloca @oldmanbunnylover @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @child-of-the-amis @cheekeym8s @aj3684 @sunfairyy @ravenouswild @feverxxdream @naxxsstuff @baileythepenguin @britt217 @wittyogredemon @lumpypoll @harmonetta @gigidacoolest @the-jess-life

He doesn't chuckle at your joke, doesn't do more than shyly try to cover himself up a little, as if hiding away something that he broke after being explicitly told he shouldn't touch it.

He's honestly half expecting you to yell at him, invalidate his feelings and tell him what he's doing exposing himself to the line of fire is stupid or reckless.

But you don't?

"Gimme that," you hold out your now gloved hand.

He hands over the q-tip begrudgingly, body slightly relaxing as you step around him and roll the tip in the ointment jar again.

"You're not mad?" his voice is uncharacteristically soft.

Your brow scrunches in confusion. "Why would I be mad someone shot at you?"

There's a tinge of anger in your voice, and he can almost convince himself that it's directed at whoever dared try to hurt him.

He shrugs, as much as the purpling on his back will allow. "It's not exactly a...safe hobby."

You chuckle. "Yeah well, we all have weird hobbies, who am I to judge?"

Your nonchalance starts to scare him but the prospect of a new morsel of information that he can pick at takes precedence.

"We do?"

You still for a split second and he simply knows he pulled correctly.

"Y-yeah..." you clear your throat. "Shen collects Pokemon cards, Ellis runs marathons, Dana’s really into WWE, Robby…he's practically married to that stupid bike, you volunteer to get shot at—”

“And you?”

You smile, heart beating a million miles per second.

“I…am a perfectly well adjusted adult that likes to order takeout and watch trash tv after a long shift.”

He scoffs. “Yeah right."

You chuckle, setting the q-tip down and picking up a piece of gauze and scissors.

"Don’t worry, I’ll find out on my own.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh. “I mean, there’s nothing to find out, so…”

“Sure there isn’t.”

You don’t dignify that with a response, securing the gauze to his back before discarding your gloves.

You really shouldn’t have poked the bear, should’ve given him some lame, fake hobby that way he would not have spent the last two weeks hounding every single person that knew you just a little bit better than him for information.

Luckily, no one bit. And he was offering a lot of money for even the smallest morsel of information.

Fortunately for him, he wouldn’t have to work so hard to find it. Unfortunately for you, you really should’ve taken him seriously.

It happens at shift change three weeks later.

You’re there earlier than him, all of the student doctors huddled around you conspiratorially at the hub as you all whisper in hushed tones.

He pretends he doesn’t see it, gives you space and instead walks over to leave his bag in his locker, waiting for them to come to him.

And like a grizzly bear in the middle of a river patiently waiting for jumping fish, they all come to him in a swarm.

At first it's the usual chatter, excited to go home, running a bubble bath, nothing out of the ordinary.

But then he sees it.

Tucked and hidden beneath the arms of every single woman you know, and Whitaker, there’s a book.

It looks normal enough. Maybe you started a book club, hell knows Walsh tried that a few years back with zero success.

But then he notices something stranger.

None of the books have cover art. Only a title and an author name.

Jack knows nothing about books but even that’s weird to him.

So he waits patiently, saying hello, pretending to check his messages until one of them puts their copy down and he's able to take a quick picture of it.

Bingo.

You're already working the floor when he returns, unfortunately, which only gives him more time for the snowball to turn into a full blown avalanche.

He's actually giddy all through handoffs with Robby, the satisfaction of knowledge so close he can practically taste it.

The adrenaline from it keeps him going until the early hours of the morning when he finally has the chance to sit down and open up google.

Whatever he's already imagining is nothing compared to the sweetness that is connecting the dots.

At first he thinks he's projecting, maybe you're just working with the author, nothing major. You've never mentioned writing before, at least not directly to him or in passing.

But then he finds a TikTok from Dr. J where she's promoting a novel and it's enough for him to know.

He doesn't pounce right away with this information, however.

Instead he waits, patient and calculated, all the way until the launch of book one a month later.

He's not invited, obviously, but he doesn't need to be.

He preorders his copy and it arrives the day before the party, which you’ve taken off so you can go.

Meanwhile, he spends the entire shift reading, obviously disguising the cover with a sleeve from another book, one of Robby’s adventure ones.

To say he’s hooked would be an understatement.

Who knew you were this good? He certainly would’ve never guessed that you would be the one to write a book. He always guessed Javadi.

It isn’t until he gets to the first turning point that he’s introduced to the main love interest.

And boy does he let out a loud and boisterous laugh that has the entire ED coming to a stop.

He makes his move the next afternoon.

You're gonna be taking off for two weeks on a national tour, nine cities. And of course you’re starting it in Pittsburg.

The day shift has been posting stories congratulating you all day, which he knows because Trinity did him a solid a few months ago and introduced him to the joyous world of “fake” Instagram accounts.

He knows exactly where to go. Makes sure to be last in line before it gets cut off.

He’s in line for a total of twenty minutes. He can feel you visibly relax as you notice there’s only one more person left.

“Hi, who should I make this out to…”

Your voice trails off as your gaze lifts to meet his Cheshire smile.

“Motherfucker.”

“That’s no way to treat your fans,” he smirks, holding out his copy for you to sign.

Your eyes narrow, annoyance overflowing. You snatch the book from him, focusing on the blank page and start signing it.

“You know, when you said you had a weird hobby,” he starts, teasing and slick. “I never thought it was attached to a five figure deal.”

You scoff. “You make just as much working with SWAT.”

He chuckles. Touché.

You slam the cover shut, handing him the book back.

He grabs it but you don’t let go. You stay there, taunting the other for what feels like a short eternity.

Until Jack brings forward his other arm that had been hiding behind his back.

A bouquet of lilies, pink and white, your favorite.

You stammer, your grip faltering enough so that he can take the book from you and tuck it under his arm as if it’s an afterthought.

He steps forward, pressing the flowers forward until you finally snap out of your haze and grab them.

Tears swell in your eyes as you hold them close to your chest.

“Congratulations, sweetheart.”

You beam, cheeks heating up at the pet name.

“Thank you Jackie.”

“Do you want go get dinner?” He asks, suddenly timid. “Officially.”

The smile you give him is so bright it could rival the sun.

“I would love to.”

He waits while you say goodbye to the event organizer, take pictures with staff and literally take the time to thank every single person still standing.

By the time you’re done, he wraps an arm around your waist and walks you out of the little independent bookstore where the event was held.

“So…” he starts, pulling you closer into him. “This Jackson character—”

“Oh my god shut up!” You shove him, hard, but neither of you can help the burst of laughter that escapes you, your bodies drifting back to each other as you keep walking, hands interlaced together as he continues to tease.

a/n: your honor i love them

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