I straighten slowly and drag my thumb along Nathan’s cheek, wiping away a smear of sweat with a gesture that might almost look comforting if it weren’t for the way my grip tightens around his jaw.
It isn’t comfort.
I’m savoring the fear.
“You’re going to help Julian breathe again,” I murmur, my voice low and steady as I watch the panic flicker across his face.
I don’t touch the gun yet. Not because I’m feeling merciful—mercy is for the saints and I’m made of darker things. But because a clean death is too kind. Nathan Grant doesn’t deserve fast. Doesn’t deserve dignity. He deserves to sit there, duct-taped and trembling, and listen to the ghost of the boy he broke howling from my mouth.
He tries to look brave. Keeps jerking at the tape around his wrists like a man who thinks he still has options. But every pull just tightens the grip, every twitch just feeds me more reason to speak slower. “You want to know what happened to him?” I say, crouching in front of him again. I drag the motel chair closer by the legs so it groans loud enough to make him flinch. “You want to know what you made?”
His eyes widen behind the tape.
“You made him disappear.” I say it like a fucking sentence. And it is. “You took a boy with talent in his veins—fastest skater in the fucking league, playmaker, golden boy—and you turned him into a ghost. You fucked him in secret, told him to keep it quiet, told him to shut up and smile for the cameras while you kissed your wife and iced your fucking conscience.”
Nathan shifts in the chair, tries to growl something. I backhand him again, hard enough to remind him whose voice matters.
“You knew that tape would kill him,” I whisper. “Did you smirk for the camera on purpose? I bet you did. I bet you knew someone would find it eventually. And when they did? You watched him throw his whole goddamn life away to protect you. He didn’t place a bet. He didn’t take a dime. He lost on purpose, in front of millions, just so your perfect little family wouldn’t fall apart.”
Nathan’s breathing picks up, but I keep going. “He was clean before you. No drugs. No spiral. No addictions.” I let the words cut. “But after you? After the ban, the press, the fucking humiliation? He started using. Coke. Painkillers. Anything to quiet the noise. You know what he does now when the voices get too loud?”
Nathan shakes his head.
“He begs for pain.” I say it low, dark, full of every bitter thing I’ve been swallowing since I met Julian. “He goes door to door asking people to hurt him. He scratched his own skin open three nights ago, just to feel something real. You left him shaking, alone, drug-starved. And he still watches that video, Nathan. Still plays it. Still punishes himself with it. You know what he said when I asked him why?” I lean forward, until my mouth is near his ear, voice flat and lethal. ‘Because I miss it.’”
Nathan recoils like I slapped him with fire. Good. Bleed from the insidefirst.
“He misses being wanted, even if it was fake. Even if it cost him everything. Because you were the only one who touched him like he meant something. And now he thinks being a secret is the best he’ll ever have.”
Misha’s gun clicks behind me, just a reminder that we’re not on a clock—but patience is running thin.
“You know what else you did?” I ask, stepping in closer. “You gave him PTSD so bad he flinches opening his locker. There’s nothing inside—just gear. But he stares like it might bite him. Like it might kill him with what’s inside. And you know why?”
Nathan doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe.
“Because that's where he found it,” I hiss. “And now it holds the silence he was left with.”
He jerks once. like he can't handle the truth, but I want it to hurt more.
“You made him a joke. A cautionary tale. A fucking target. And the worst part?” I rise to my full height, looking down on him. “He still defends you. In his head. Like maybe you didn’t mean to. Like maybe it was his fault.” I drag the tape off his mouth with one fast rip. He cries out, his head jerking. “Tell me,” I say quietly. “Did you mean to destroy him?”
Nathan’s breath stutters through the torn-open space where the tape used to be, mouth trembling, jaw shaking like he’s trying to swallow the fear before it spills. Pathetic. He thinks if he looks broken enough, I’ll hesitate. If he cries at the right angle, I’ll feel something like pity. Julian cried, and I didn’t pity him—I wanted to kill the world for touching him. Nathan’s tears? They’re just lubricant for the lie he’s about to choke on.
“I—no—no, I didn’t—” he gasps, voice cracking hard. “I was blackmailed.”
I laugh—a low, humorless sound that tells him exactly how stupid I think he is. Even Misha snorts from the bed like he can’t believe the audacity. “Blackmailed?” I echo, leaning in, fingers sliding under his jaw to force his head up. “Try again.”
“I swear—I swear on my kids—I didn’t want him to lose the game—”
I squeeze, nails digging into his skin just enough to shut him up. “You’re not listening. I don’t give a shit about your kids. I’m asking you what you did.”
He starts sobbing harder. I see the moment he believes this might save him. He thinks if he looks pathetic enough, I’ll ease up. He thinks his tears have weight. Julian cries like thunder. Nathan cries like a wet paper towel.
“Who blackmailed you?” I ask, letting go of his jaw only so I can slap the tape roll against my palm, rhythm slow, promising. “Give me a name or I’ll carve it out of your ribs.”
“I—it wasn’t blackmail,” he finally stammers, his voice crumbling like rotten plaster. “I—fuck—I didn’t want to lose my contract, my endorsements. They… they came to me—”
Of course they did. I hear it crack open in his voice, the truth he never wanted to admit spilling through the seams, the rot at the center finally showing. “Who,” I repeat, the word slow and deliberate, each letter its own commandment.
