That was the night he became who he is. That was the night he took control. They say he slaughtered them all with his ownhands. They say he made an example of every man who entered that house uninvited.
They don’t talk about what happened to my mother.
No one talks about what happened to my mother.
That night reshaped us both.My mother survived, but only in the most technical sense. Her body healed in a matter of weeks; her soul never followed. For a short while, my father pretended to care. Maybe guilt flickered somewhere deep inside him before it died completely. He tried everything—doctors, therapists, endless consultations. Nothing reached her. Only the drugs did. They wrapped her in distance, numbed her enough to survive, and stole whatever remained of the woman she’d been.
And me? I didn’t vanish like she did. I turned numb, but not soft. My numbness had teeth. It became armor—sharp and brutal, forged in that blood-soaked night. I was five when I learned the world was hell. The images burned themselves into my skull, and I knew nothing would ever touch me that deeply again. I wasn’t just wounded. I was born from it.
The night they nearly raped Valeria, it all came back. That hallway. That smell. That silence. And for the first time since I was five years old, I was scared again. But Maksym arrived before it was too late. He saved us. And now, sitting on the floor of my room, I wanted him with a desperation that scared me—I wanted him to kill my father, to tear this house apart so my mother and I could finally breathe. But I knew better. I knew he wouldn’t do it. Some lines even he wouldn’t cross.
I curled tighter on the floor, sobbing now into my knees, my voice hoarse, my nails clawing at the rug like I could rip the memory out of my head by force.
They took her from me again.
They’ve been taking her from me my whole life.
16
My Undoing
—Maksym—
The sun was already up when I stepped onto the balcony, hair still wet from the shower, steam curling off my coffee, cigarette smoldering between two fingers. I stood barefoot, sweatpants low on my hips, hoodie unzipped over my bare chest, watching the street two stories down with the kind of strange calm that didn’t visit me often.
I felt… good.
Suspiciously fucking good.
For a minute, I just stood there trying to name it. This lightness in my chest. This raw, electric quiet that wasn’t rage orrestlessness or violence brewing under the surface. Just peace. Foreign and uncomfortable, like wearing someone else’s skin.
And then I saw her in my mind again—soaking wet from the storm, eyes rimmed red, voice trembling when she asked me to kill Felix. The smug fuck who’d been handed everything and still needed to take more. Her shoulders had been shaking, but her voice… it was steel.
She had come to me. Asked me. Begged me.
And instead of doing the one thing she wanted, I gave her something else.
I gave in.
My grip tightened around the mug as I stared into nothing, my tongue dragging slowly across my upper lip while the memory slammed back into me. Her skin—soft, warm, fucking made for my mouth. I could have kissed her for hours. And that goddamn red lingerie… it nearly knocked the air out of my lungs, like she somehow knew it would wreck me.
If only she had any idea how many nights I’d spent imagining burying my face between her thighs. And still, none of those filthy fantasies came close to the real taste of her. My cock hardened just thinking about it, remembering the way her body gave in around me, inch by inch, the sharp gasp she let out when I filled her completely and she felt it for the first time.
Then the worry hit and my dick went soft just as fast. I knew she wanted it. I knew she begged me to keep going, told me not to stop. Still, the thought kept clawing at my head—did I hurt her?
I didn’t want to. I fucking tried not to. But it’s not easy for me. It never was.
Since I lost my virginity at fifteen, I hadn’t touched a woman like that. Not with care. Not with hesitation. Not like it mattered. Every girl since had either wanted it rough, or didn’t care either way. And to be honest, I never gave a damn.
She flipped something inside me I never knew was there. Turned me into a man who wanted to touch slow, kiss deep, bury himself in her like it was a privilege. And now the memory won’t leave me alone — her wet heat, her pulsing tightness, the way we locked together. Like I was made to fuck her. Like she was made to be filled by me.
Every time I tried to step back, she closed the distance like it insulted her. And now she was under my skin, in my bloodstream, twisting around the places I thought were already dead. I didn’t even know what the hell I was feeling. It was pressure. Ache. Something close to dread but not quite. Something hot and electric that made my hands twitch and my chest tighten.
I blew out a long stream of smoke, shook my head, muttered, “Fuck.”
If anyone could hear my thoughts, I’d lose my entire fucking reputation. The Reaper, brought to his knees by one girl. They’d rename me something stupid. Cuddle Reaper. Or worse.
Thank God I don’t have friends.
