Chapter Text
Rays Pov
The sunlight slicing through the gap in my curtains felt less like a new day and more like a personal assault. I groaned, burying my face deeper into a pillow that smelled faintly of cheap gin and regret. My head didn't just ache; it felt like someone was using an ice pick to rhythmically tap against the inside of my skull.
God, never again, I lied to myself—the same lie I told every Sunday morning.
With a shaking hand, I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, squinting at the blinding glare of the screen. No notifications. No texts. Nothing from the one person I actually wanted to hear from.
I swiped to my favorite's and hit the name that always sat at the top: Mew.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. I held my breath, the silence in my room heavy with the sound of my own thudding heart. Then, the clinical, upbeat tone of the automated greeting kicked in.
"You've reached Mew. Please leave a message after the—"
I hung up before the beep, tossing the phone onto the mattress with a hissed curse. He was avoiding me. Or he was busy. And "busy" usually meant Top. The thought felt like a fresh bruise being pressed.
To distract myself, I dialed the hostel. Mila picked up on the second ring, her voice a sharp contrast to my misery.
"Ray? You sound like you've been run over by a truck," she chirped.
"I'm fine, Mila. Just... a long night," I rasped, rubbing my temples. "How's the hostel? Did the roof cave in while I was out?"
"Everything's under control. The remains of last night's party are being hauled out as we speak. A few broken glasses, one mystery stain on the rug, but we've seen worse. You're lucky I like you, Boss."
I let out a dry, pained chuckle. "I'll give you a raise in another life. Listen... did Mew stop by?"
There was a brief, pregnant pause on the other end. "He was here for a bit this morning to grab his bag," Mila said, her tone softening with that annoying pity I hated. "But he didn't stay. Top came to pick him up. They looked like they were in a hurry."
My stomach did a slow, sickening roll. I squeezed my eyes shut. "Right. Top. Of course." I cleared my throat, trying to inject some steel back into my voice. "If he comes back, tell him to call me. Tell him it's important."
"Ray, honey, maybe give it a rest for today?" Mila suggested gently, before shifting gears. "And don't forget—you have that community service shift this afternoon. Your father called the hostel twice, looking for you. He said if you skip another day and annoy the judge again, he's not cleaning up the mess this time."
The mention of my father was like a bucket of ice water. The "great man" who cared more about his public image than his son's existence. The only reason I was scrubbing floors at a community center and cleaning graveyards was that he wanted to "build my character"—a polite way of saying "keep me out of the headlines."
"He can rot," I muttered. "I'll be there. I'm not giving him the satisfaction of another lecture."
"Good. Drink some water, Ray. See you tomorrow."
The line went dead. I stared at the ceiling, the silence of the room closing in on me again. I looked at my phone. My thumb hovered over Mew's contact again. I knew I shouldn't. I knew it made me look desperate, pathetic, and weak.
I hit 'Call' anyway.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"You've reached Mew. Please leave a message..."
I didn't hang up this time. I just sat there, listening to the silence of the recording, my eyes burning with a mix of tequila-fueled exhaustion and a heartbreak I refused to name.
I fell back into a restless sleep, drifting through fever dreams of blurred neon lights and Mew's laughter, only to wake up in the mid-afternoon with the sun mocking me from a different angle. The first thing I did—like a goddamn addict—was check my phone.
Nothing. Not even a "k" or an accidental emoji.
The silence from Mew was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest until I felt like I couldn't breathe. I dragged myself out of bed, splashed cold water on my face until my skin stung, and headed out. I had a debt to pay, and not the kind you can settle with a credit card.
The DUI had been bad. Really bad. I could still hear the screech of tires and the shatter of the headlight. My father, ever the strategist, had swooped in not to save me, but to save his precious reputation. A few bribes, a few "favors" to the police chief, and instead of a cell, I got a mop and a pair of garden shears. My sentence: cleaning the community centre and the local graveyards.
The graveyard was suffocating silent when I arrived. I hauled my oversized, ridiculous apron over my head, the heavy fabric feeling like a lead suit. I knelt in the dirt, hacking at weeds with a bitterness that felt productive.
But my mind wouldn't stay on the dirt. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them. Mew and Top. I imagined Top's hand on the small of Mew's back. I imagined Mew looking at him with that soft, trusting expression he used to reserve for me. The images were like acid, eating away at my resolve until my vision blurred with a mix of sweat and hot, angry tears.
I'm nothing to him, I thought, ripping a stubborn vine from a headstone. Just the mess he had to outgrow.
Suddenly, the gravel crunched behind me.
Before I could even process the sound, a small, frantic blur of white lace collided with my back. I gasped as a tiny body scrambled under my large apron, tucking herself between my kneeling legs and the thick fabric. She was trembling so hard I could feel her heartbeat through my clothes.
"Hey! Hey, little girl, what are you doing?" I hissed, my heart leaping into my throat.
I tried to peel the apron back to see who she was, but her tiny hands gripped my knees with a terrifying strength. She was hiding as if her life depended on it.
I looked toward the cemetery gates and felt my blood turn to ice. Three men in sharp, oppressive black suits were sprinting through the tombstones. They weren't looking for a lost child; they were hunting. Their eyes scanned the rows of graves with a predatory intensity I recognized all too well. They looked exactly like the wolves my father kept on a leash.
Instinct took over. I didn't know who this kid was, but I knew those suits. And I knew I hated them.
"Stay down," I whispered, my voice barely a breath.
I grabbed a large, overturned wicker basket I'd been using to collect dead leaves and signaled the girl to crawl under it. She didn't hesitate. As she tucked herself into a small, shivering ball, I pressed a finger to my lips. Shhh.
I lowered the basket, threw a handful of dry vines and dirt over the top to make it look like a pile of refuse, and went back to hacking at the weeds just as the men reached me.
"You!" one of them barked. His shadow fell over me, cold and wide. "Did you see a girl? About this high, white dress, pigtails?"
I didn't look up immediately. I wiped sweat from my forehead with a dirty glove, letting out a long, exhausted sigh like a man who hated his life. I wanted to look as pathetic and unimportant as possible.
"A girl?" I drawled, finally glancing up with a look of pure annoyance. I pointed toward a thick grove of trees near the far east wall, the complete opposite direction of where I'd parked my car. "Yeah, she ran past about a minute ago. Scared out of her wits. What did you guys do, growl at her? She was hauling ass toward the road."
The men didn't even thank me. "East wall! Move!" the lead guy shouted into a lapel mic. They pivoted and sprinted away, their heavy boots thumping against the hallowed ground.
I waited. One minute. Two. I watched until their silhouettes vanished past the mausoleums.
I stood up quickly and lifted the basket. The girl looked up at me, her eyes huge, glassy, and filled with a haunted silence that broke something inside me. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just looked at me like I was her last hope.
"Come on," I said, my voice shaking.
I didn't care about the community service. I didn't care about the judge or my father's lectures. I scooped her up, ignoring the mud she was getting on my apron, and ran. I reached my beat-up car at the curb, tossed my shears into the backseat, and buckled her into the passenger side.
I floored it, the tires screaming on the asphalt as I sped away from the graveyard, my heart hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated terror.
The graveyard was a blur in my rearview mirror as I wove through side streets, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white. I didn't stop until I found a quiet, shaded alley miles away from that tombstone-filled nightmare.
The silence that followed was broken by a soft, hiccupping sob.
I looked over, and my heart did a painful little flip. The girl was trembling, her small shoulders shaking as the adrenaline finally wore off. I'm a stubborn guy, a cynical guy, and right now I'm a very hungover guy—but I'm not a monster. I've always been a sucker for kids, maybe because they're the only ones who haven't learned how to lie yet.
"Whoa, hey, none of that," I said softly, reaching over to awkwardly pat her head. My hand was still shaking a little. "You're safe. Those scary penguins in the black suits? They're gone. They couldn't catch a cold, let alone us."
She didn't answer. She just blinked at me, her eyes like huge, dark saucers. No name, no "thank you," nothing.
"Not a talker, huh? That's okay. Silence is underrated," I muttered, looking at her messy pigtails. "But I can't keep calling you 'Kid.' You look like a... Peanut. Yeah. You're small, and you were hiding in a shell under that basket. Peanut it is."
For the first time, a tiny, almost invisible ghost of a smile touched her lips. It was a small victory, but it felt better than any drink I'd had in a month.
I looked at her lace dress. It was ruined—torn and streaked with the grey mud of the cemetery. If those suits were still patrolling, a "girl in a white dress" was a flashing neon sign. I pulled over at a dusty roadside stall and sprinted out, grabbing the first things I saw: a simple yellow sundress and a little denim baseball cap.
A few blocks later, I found a sleepy café on the outskirts. I walked in, holding Peanut's hand firmly, trying to look like I belonged there and not like a guy who'd just committed a kidnapping-by-rescue.
"Excuse me," I said to the waitress, flashing the tired, charming smile that usually got me out of trouble with my hostel guests. "My daughter had a bit of a tumble in the park. Can we use your washroom to clean up?"
The waitress looked at my muddy apron, then at the quiet, wide-eyed child, and her expression melted. "Of course, honey. Right down the hall."
Inside the cramped, bleach-scented washroom, I found myself being surprisingly gentle. I used wet paper towels to wipe the graveyard grime from her cheeks and helped her change into the yellow dress. I tucked her pigtails up under the denim cap, hiding the most recognizable thing about her.
I looked at our reflection in the cracked mirror. She looked like a different kid—just a normal girl on a Saturday outing with her disheveled, questionable father.
"There," I said, tapping the brim of her hat. "Now you're undercover, Peanut. You hungry?"
She nodded vigorously, her stomach letting out a growl that was surprisingly loud for someone so small.
"Alright then. Let's get some pancakes. My treat."
Watching her eat was the most peaceful I'd felt all day. For a moment, the image of Mew and Top faded. The ache in my head retreated. It was just Peanut against the world. But as she finished the last of her syrup, the weight of reality started to settle back into my bones. I couldn't keep her. I was a guy who lived in a hostel and couldn't even keep his own life together.
"Listen, Peanut," I said, leaning across the sticky table. "I can't just take you back to my place. Your parents are probably losing their minds. Do you know where you live?"
She didn't speak, but she reached for her wrist. Hidden under the sleeve of her new dress was a high-end, rose-gold smart watch. The screen was spider-webbed with cracks, and the strap was caked in dried mud. She tapped it, but the display only flickered a pathetic green before dying completely. With a small pout, she unbuckled it and handed it to me.
I turned it over, and my breath hitched.
Scratched into the back of the metal casing was an address. It wasn't just any address. It was in one of the most exclusive, high-security districts in Bangkok—the kind of place where the gates are guarded by men with bigger guns than the ones I'd seen in the graveyard.
I whistled low, the gold cold against my palm. "Wealthy family, huh? No wonder those guys were so desperate to find you."
I handed the broken watch back to her, my mind racing. If she lived there, her father wasn't just some businessman. He was someone who could probably have me erased from existence for touching his daughter's hand.
"Tell you what," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'll buy you a new one—a better one—later. But for now, I have to get you home. It's getting late, and this city gets mean after dark."
I stood up, feeling the first real prickle of fear. I was about to walk into the lion's den, and I didn't even have a stick to defend myself with.
Everything was a ticking reminder that I was playing with fire. I was halfway to that high-end address, my mind already rehearsing how I'd explain hiding a billionaire's kid in a wicker basket, when my phone exploded.
The ringtone for the hostel's landline blared through the car, shattering the quiet. I clicked the Bluetooth, my voice tight. "Mila? This better be a 'we won the lottery' call."
"Ray! You need to get here now!" Mila's voice was frantic, the sound of crashing plates in the background. "The health inspectors are here, and someone—I'm positive it was one of the goons Force sent over to 'check' on you—left a crate of expired seafood in the middle of the kitchen. They're threatening to pull our license right now!"
"Those bastards," I hissed, my knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. Force had been trying to squeeze me out of that property for months. "Don't let them sign a single paper, Mila. Do you hear me? I'm ten minutes away."
I glanced at the passenger seat. Peanut's head was lolling against the window, her long lashes resting on her cheeks like dark fans. She was out cold, finally claimed by the exhaustion of being hunted through a graveyard. I looked at the road ahead—the path to her mansion—and then back at the route to my hostel.
I couldn't leave her in the car, and I couldn't drop her off at a high-security estate while my life's work was being dismantled by a crate of rotting shrimp.
"Sorry, Peanut," I whispered. "Detour."
When I pulled up to The Safe Haven, I didn't wake her. I moved with a gentleness that felt foreign to me, unbuckling her seatbelt and hoisting her onto my shoulder. She was so light, a tiny slip of a thing, her small hands instinctively clutching my shirt even in her sleep. She smelled like the lavender soap from the cafe and the dusty sun of the afternoon.
I stormed into the hostel kitchen like a hurricane. I was a mess—hair disheveled, a dirty apron still tied around my waist, and a sleeping child balanced on my hip. I pointed a trembling finger at the lead inspector, who was holding a clipboard like a holy relic.
"That crate isn't mine," I snarled, my voice low so I wouldn't wake Peanut. "Check the delivery logs. My signature isn't on that manifest, and if you check my CCTV from 4:00 AM, you'll see a black SUV dropping that 'gift' off at my back door. You want to shut me down? You do it. But you'll be hearing from my father's lawyers—and mine—by sunrise. I'll make sure this 'random' inspection is all over the news."
The mention of my family name usually made my skin crawl, but today, I used it like a blade. The inspector blanched, looking from the high-end watch on my wrist (which I'd forgotten was there) to the sheer, stubborn fire in my eyes. He backed down, muttering something about a "re-investigation" and "procedural errors" before scurrying out with his team.
As the tension cleared, Peanut stirred. She blinked at the bright fluorescent lights of the kitchen, her little face scrunching up. I expected her to cry, to scream for her father, or to be terrified of the noisy hostel environment.
Instead, she reached down and grabbed my hand. Her tiny fingers locked around my thumb with a grip that said she wasn't going anywhere. As I walked around the hostel, checking the rooms and calming down the startled guests, she followed me like a silent shadow, her feet pattering right behind mine.
Mila walked in, wiping sweat from her forehead. She stopped dead, her jaw didn't just drop—it practically hit the floor. Her eyes bugged out as she looked at me, then at the tiny girl attached to my hand.
"Ray? Since when did you become a babysitter? Who is this little princess?"
Peanut immediately ducked behind my legs, peering out warily like a baby deer. I felt a strange, protective surge in my chest. I didn't want Mila knowing the truth—the fewer people who knew I had a missing heiress, the better.
"She's my niece," I said, standing tall and flashing Mila a mischievous, do n't-ask-questions smile.
"Your niece?" Mila looked like she'd been hit by a bus. "Ray, I've known you for years. I didn't even know you had family besides your 'illustrious' father. Where the hell did she come from?"
"You don't know everything about me, Mila. Keeps the mystery alive, doesn't it?" I chuckled, heading for the door as Peanut trotted faithfully beside me. I paused at the threshold, the old bitterness over Mew bubbling back up to the surface. "Keep the place running. And... if Mew comes around, tell him to call me. If he's not too busy with his new 'bodyguard' to remember his friends."
I walked back to the car, Peanut's hand still tucked in mine. I had saved my hostel, but the sun was out. The "lion's den" address was still in my pocket, and I knew that sooner or later, the man who owned the princess was going to come looking.
The massive iron gates of the estate looked like the serrated teeth of some prehistoric beast, yawning open to swallow me whole. I didn't know this was the heart of the Empire. To me, it was just a fortress of cold stone and excessive security that felt far too much like my father's house.
"We're here, Peanut," I whispered, my voice thick.
A strange, heavy ache settled in my chest. I'd spent the last few hours protecting this silent little girl in her yellow sundress, and now I had to hand her back to a world that clearly required walls this high to keep the nightmares out.
As I stepped out of the car, the security cameras swiveled with asynchronized, predatory hiss. Within seconds, the gates swung wide, and a line of men in black suits—the same "penguins" from the graveyard—spilt out like a stain. At their centre stood a man who looked like he'd been carved out of obsidian.
I didn't flinch. I didn't care about the dozen red laser sights currently dancing across my chest like lethal fireflies. I was exhausted. My head was pounding, my heart was a shredded mess because of Mew's silence, and my only goal was to get this kid inside. I held Peanut's hand tighter and started the long walk up the paved driveway.
I ignored the bodyguards as they rushed forward, their faces a frantic mask of relief and terror. To me, they were just obstacles. We reached the massive mahogany doors, and they flew open before I could even raise a hand to knock.
A man stepped out.
He had her eyes—the same deep, haunting dark brown—and the same sharp curve to his jaw. But where Peanut was soft, he was jagged. He didn't look like a grieving father; he looked like an avenging god who had forgotten the meaning of mercy. His silk shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his hair was a mess, and the aura of pure, unadulterated violence radiating off him was enough to make the air vibrate.
I opened my mouth to explain. I wanted to tell him about the men in suits, the wicker basket, the yellow dress, and the pancakes.
SLAP.
The blow was a blur. The sound of his palm meeting my cheek echoed off the marble pillars like a gunshot. My head snapped to the side, and for a second, the world went white. I stumbled back, the metallic, salty taste of blood instantly filling my mouth.
"You kidnapped my daughter, you stupid, worthless thing!" the man roared. His voice wasn't a shout; it was a low, terrifying growl that vibrated in my very bones. "Who sent you? Was it Kant? Was it Ayan? How much did they pay you to touch what's mine?!"
Someone—one of the guards—reached forward and ripped Peanut away from me.
"I didn't—" I gasped, trying to steady my vision, my hand going to my burning, throbbing cheek.
But he wasn't listening. Driven by a cocktail of panic and Alpha rage, he lunged. His heavy boot caught me squarely in the chest. The force sent me flying backwards onto the jagged gravel. The air left my lungs in a painful, wheezing whistle, and I felt the skin on my palms tear as I tried to catch myself.
"Rubbish!" he spat, towering over me, blocking out the light. "You think you can play hero and walk into my home after taking her?"
Then, a sound pierced through the ringing in my ears. It wasn't a quiet sob. It was a raw, hysterical shriek that tore through the evening air.
"RAY! RAY!"
My heart stopped. She had spoken. The silent girl, "Peanut", who hadn't said a word all day, was screaming my name. I felt a dizzying surge of confusion—how did she know? Then I remembered Mila calling me at the hostel. She was smart. Too smart. She had memorized my name. And that made me really happy.
She fought like a wild animal, twisting out of the arms of the guard who held her. She scrambled across the gravel, throwing her tiny body over mine, shielding me from her father.
"Go! Run! Run, Ray! Go away!" she wailed, her small hands pushing against my bloodied chest, trying to force me to get up and flee. She was terrified—not of the men in suits, but of what her father was going to do to me.
I was bleeding, my ribs felt like they were sparking fire, and I was staring death in the face, but hearing her scream for me made me want to tear her father's throat out.
"Rayna, no!"
A shorter man—the one with the kinder eyes stepped in. He was gentle but firm as he scooped the thrashing, sobbing girl into his arms. She kicked and fought, her screams for "Ray" turning into jagged, heartbroken gasps as he carried her away. "It's okay, Princess, we've got you," he whispered, though his eyes remained fixed on me with a look of wary pity.
The Alpha didn't look at his daughter. He kept his eyes on me, his face a mask of pure fury. He raised his foot again, aiming for my head this time, ready to finish it.
I closed my eyes, waiting for the impact.
But it never came.
I raised my head and saw a hand clamped onto his shoulder, stopping the blow mid-air.
"That's enough, Sand!"
The command was cold, cutting through the red haze of violence like a blade of ice. I blinked through the sweat and blood stinging my eyes, looking up at the man who had stopped the blow. He was tall, sharp-featured, and radiating a calculated authority that felt different from the raw, volcanic rage of the man towering over me.
Then it clicked. My brain, slow from the concussion and the tequila from the night before, finally put the pieces together.
Sand.
The name felt like a death sentence. This wasn't just some wealthy, overprotective prick—this was the head of the Charawat Empire. I was sitting on the gravel of a man who owned the police, the politicians, and half the underground in this country. I had been wandering around the city, buying pancakes and cheap sundresses for a mafia princess.
God, I really am an idiot, I thought, a hysterical bubble of laughter threatening to rise in my throat. My father always said my "hero complex" would be the end of me. I guess today was the day he finally got to be right.
I looked at them—the three of them—the brothers. The news always spoke of them in hushed, terrified whispers: Sand, the undisputed Alpha; Emir, the one who had just carried Rayna away; and the man standing between me and a cracked skull—Yok. The strategist. The one who supposedly saw the world in move and counter-move.
Yok stepped firmly between us, his shadow shielding me from Sand's heat. "Look at her, Sand. Look at the dress. Look at the girl," he said, his voice level. "This doesn't look like a kidnapping. The girl isn't scared of him; she's scared for him. Calm down before you do something we have to bury."
Sand was vibrating with a terrifying energy, his chest heaving like a cornered beast. He looked at Rayna—who was still wailing my name, her voice breaking into jagged, desperate sobs—and then he looked down at me.
I didn't beg. I didn't look away. My lip was split, and my ribs felt like they were being squeezed in a vice, but I'd spent my whole life being looked down on by "powerful" men. I glared back at him, my eyes burning with a pure, unadulterated defiance that seemed to catch him off guard.
Sand straightened his suit jacket, the motion slow and deliberate, though his eyes never left mine. They were dark, bottomless pits of intent.
"He's not leaving," Sand said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He turned to a man standing by the door, who was holding a tablet. "Nick. Take him to the backyard room. Lock it. I'll deal with this 'stupid hero' myself once I've silenced my daughter."
Two more suits—White and Black, if the names fit the grim expressions—moved in. They grabbed me by the arms and hauled me up with zero regard for my aching chest. My feet dragged through the gravel for a second before I found my balance.
I looked at the pristine, white driveway, then up at the sprawling, cold architecture of the mansion. I turned my head and spat a thick glob of blood right onto the perfect, expensive gravel at Sand's feet.
"Nice house," I croaked, my voice raspy and tasting of iron. I forced a jagged, mocking smirk onto my face despite the pain. "Too bad monsters live in it."
The grip on my arms tightened until I thought my bones might snap, and they began dragging me toward the back of the estate. Behind me, I could still hear Rayna's fading screams for "Ray," a sound that haunted me more than the threat of whatever Sand had planned for me in the dark.
The "backyard room" wasn't a guest suite. It was a reinforced stone structure tucked away near the edge of the estate, the kind of place designed so that screams would be swallowed by the thick walls. Nick shoved me inside. It was cold, the air tasting of stale shadows and old concrete.
"You really should have just left her at the gate," Nick muttered. For a split second, I saw a flicker of something like pity in his eyes—the look you give a stray dog before it's put down. Then he slammed the heavy steel door, and the click of the lock echoed like a gavel.
I slumped onto a wooden chair in the centre of the room, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. I looked down at my hands. They were still stained with the graveyard dirt from when I'd first scooped up Peanut. My mind was a chaotic mess—I thought of Mew, probably tucked safely and warmly into Top's arms right now, and then I thought of the monster with the cold eyes who had just split my lip.
How did I get here? I wondered, a dry, bitter laugh catching in my throat. My luck was a broken compass, always spinning me toward disaster. Please be okay, Peanut. Just stop crying and go to sleep.
I was sitting there, trying to breathe through the fire in my ribs, when the door creaked open. Sand walked in. He didn't just enter; he prowled, circling my chair like a wolf that had already tasted blood.
"I've done my homework," Sand said, his voice a low, clinical hum. He stopped in front of me, his expensive leather shoe grinding down on my bruised hand. "A drunkard. A disappointment to your father. A man who runs a flophouse for losers. You're nothing but a spoiled brat playing at being a rebel."
I hissed as the bones in my hand groaned under his weight, but I forced my eyes up to meet his. "And you? You're a man so pathetic his own child won't speak to him. A stupid, hollow monster. I'd rather be a drunkard than you any day."
Sand lunged. His hand clamped around my throat, and he slammed the chair back until it was precariously balanced on two legs. I was staring at the ceiling, gasping for air, with his face inches from mine.
"Careful," he whispered, his breath smelling of expensive tobacco and rage. "In this house, I am God. And I don't like being talked back to."
"Too bad," I wheezed, my face turning a dark shade of red. "I don't take orders from idiots like you."
It was the truth. The reason my father and I were eternally at war was that I was born without a 'submit' button. I hated men like my father, and Sand was just a younger, more lethal version of the same rot.
"Where did you take her? Who sent you?" Sand screamed into my face, his composure finally snapping as he ground his heel harder into my hand. "Do you work for Ayan? Was it a setup? Tell me what you did to her!"
I didn't answer. I took the pain, leaning into it. I'd been beaten by my father's "discipline" since I was a kid; Sand's interrogation was just another Tuesday to me. When the pressure on my throat loosened slightly, I gathered the metallic-tasting saliva in my mouth and spat a glob of blood onto the pristine floor between us. I flashed him a wide, bloody, mocking grin.
"Are you angry, Sand? Is that what this is?" I chuckled, the sound wet and jagged. "Are you mad because after five years of silence, the first thing your daughter did was scream my name?"
Sand's eyes flinched. I'd hit the nerve.
"Why all this beating? You're affected," I taunted, my voice dropping to a cruel whisper. "She didn't run to you. Not once. And me? I had her for six hours. In six hours, I made her smile. I held her hand. I even bathed her and changed her because her 'powerful' father let her get hunted through a cemetery. You're so pathetic, Sand. So incredibly stupid. I finally get why the news never has anything nice to say about you."
Sand's face twisted into a mask of pure, unbridled annoyance—and underneath it, a flicker of genuine hurt that he couldn't hide fast enough. He looked like he wanted to snap my neck, but my words were a different kind of violence, one he wasn't prepared for.
I leaned my head back against the stone wall, the cold seep of the masonry a sharp contrast to the burning heat in my throat. I looked at the man who called himself a king and felt nothing but a jagged, sharp-edged pity.
"Her name is Rayna, right?" I rasped, the name feeling sacred in my mouth compared to the way Sand barked it. "I called her Peanut, and I bet she likes it better. It sounds like someone who isn't afraid of the dark. Unlike you."
Sand's eyes turned into black voids. My words didn't just annoy him; they were stripping him bare in his own house.
"You don't get to name what's mine," he hissed.
He didn't use his boot this time. He used his fists. The first blow caught me across the jaw, sending the chair spinning and slamming me onto the concrete floor. I didn't scream. I wouldn't give him that. I just tasted more copper and felt the world tilt.
He was on top of me in a second, his knees pinning my shoulders down. He wasn't a "boss" anymore; he was a frantic, terrified father disguised as a butcher.
"Who sent you?" he roared, a punch landing in my ribs. I felt something click—a rib giving way. "Did you lure her out? How did you get past my men?"
Thud. Another blow to the stomach. I curled inward, gasping for air that wouldn't come. The pain was a blinding white sheet, wrapping around my brain, but through the haze, I realized something terrifying. Sand wasn't doing this for sport. He was doing this because he would truly, honestly kill the entire world if it meant keeping Rayna safe. He was a monster, yeah, but he was a monster built out of a twisted, desperate love.
"No one... sent me," I managed to choke out, coughing up a spray of red that speckled Sand's white silk shirt. I looked him in the eye, my vision blurring, a mocking, broken smile still etched on my face. "I'm just the guy... she chose. You hate that... don't you? That she saw me... and saw a human... but she looks at you... and sees a cage."
Sand's face contorted. It wasn't just rage; it was a soul-deep agony. My stubbornness was a mirror he didn't want to look into.
"Shut up!" he screamed. He grabbed my hair, slamming my head back against the concrete. "I'll break you! I'll tear that hostel down stone by stone! I'll make sure your father watches you rot!"
He was losing it. The "Absolute Power" was crumbling because a hungover guy with a split lip wouldn't bow. He started hitting me again—fast, frantic blows that I stopped trying to block. I felt my body going numb, the edges of the room fraying into darkness.
I thought of Rayna in her yellow dress. I hoped she was safe and sleeping soundly. I hoped she couldn't hear her father turning into the beast she feared.
"She... smiled... for me," I whispered, my voice finally failing.
The last thing I saw was Sand's face—not the face of a God, but the face of a man who had lost everything while standing in a palace. He threw his head back and let out a raw, animalistic scream of frustration and fury that vibrated through the floorboards and into my very bones.
"TELL ME THE TRUTH!"
His voice was the last thing I heard before the darkness finally surged up to swallow me whole, leaving me floating in a cold, silent void where the Sand Empire couldn't reach me.