Vicious — 29 (Patreon)

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wc — 4.3K

The manor had grown quieter. Not with peace—but with grief. That kind of silence that didn’t just fall over a place, but bled into its walls. Into the floorboards. Into the bones of those who walked them.

The aftermath of war.

Outside, guards still paced the grounds in tight rotations, eyes sharp, hands always ghosting the handles of their weapons. But inside...

Inside, it was worse.

The halls held their breath.

Not a single record played. Not a voice dared rise above a whisper. Even the fireplaces crackled lower, the flames themselves bowing their heads.

Harry hadn’t left the cellar in days.

The scent of blood clung to him like a second skin—metallic, heavy, thick in his hair, beneath his nails.

He hadn’t changed his clothes. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept.

He was a man undone, surviving on vengeance and caffeine and the sheer violence of his heartbreak.

The dungeons had become his sanctuary.

Each prisoner a confession. Each scream an exorcism.

The walls were slick with retribution, but none of it cleansed him. None of it brought peace.

Because no matter how many bones he shattered—

no matter how many bodies he left broken beneath his boots—

nothing could quiet the image burned into the back of his eyes.

Her body.

Hanging limp.

Bruised, bloodied, discarded like she was nothing.

He hadn’t gotten there in time.

He hadn’t saved her soon enough.

And that single failure—

that single fucking failure— was carving out the center of him like a dull blade, slow and unforgiving.

He didn’t speak much. Didn’t sleep. Barely breathed.

The only moments he wasn’t in the dungeon were the ones he spent beside her—ruling an empire with blood on his hands and her fingers clasped between them.

He sat through every fevered tremor, every shallow breath, every low whimper she didn’t know she made.

The man who once commanded mafia bosses now stared at a fragile girl in a bed and begged a god he didn’t believe in to let her live.

And though the underworld still bowed at his feet, Harry bowed at her feet.

It started with a flicker.

A twitch behind her eyelids. Barely there.

Then another.

Y/N stirred, somewhere between sleep and pain, the dark pressing in from all sides.

Everything hurt. Her mouth, her throat, her chest. Her skin felt like it was covered in shattered glass.

But worse than the pain… was the emptiness.

The void where her vision should be.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Nothing.

Only black.

Her lashes fluttered. Her lips parted. Panic began to crawl up her throat—slow, suffocating— until a chair scraped softly nearby.

And then— his voice.

“Y/N?” Rough. Low. Frayed at the edges like it had been shredded from the inside out.

She knew it. Of course she knew it. Even now, even like this, she’d know that voice anywhere.

“Harry,” she rasped—but it came out like sandpaper. Like a ghost of her voice. A beat. Then warmth—his hands, shaking slightly as they folded around hers.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to the back of her hand. “I’m right here, baby.” She wanted to see him. Wanted so badly to see him. But all she got was the black. The same black she thought she’d died in.

“Harry…” her voice broke, splintered. “I… I can’t see.”

The silence that followed was different.

Not like the manor’s silence.

This one was personal.

Sharp. Violent.

His breath caught.

“I know, baby. It’s temporary,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “The swelling’s pressing on your optic nerve. It’ll go down. Just… give it time.”

She tried to nod, but her body felt wrong. Like it belonged to someone else. Like it had forgotten how to be hers.

“Where am I?” she breathed.

“You’re safe. You’re home.”

Home.

The word nearly broke her.

A sob hitched in her throat before she could stop it, her body trembling under the weight of everything she’d endured.

Tears slid down her cheeks before she knew they were there.

But Harry was already brushing them away. Gentle. Reverent.

“I should’ve gotten to you sooner.”

That broke something in her.

Her hand reached up, weak and shaking, searching for him. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt like it was the only thing holding her together.

“You came,” she whispered.

“I’ll always come for you.”

His voice cracked. Not much. Just enough.

He moved like she was made of glass—cupping her face, tucking damp hair behind her ear, his thumb trembling on her cheek.

“Let me help you sit up, sweetheart.”

She tried. God, she tried.

But her body sagged. Gave in.

So he lifted her.

One arm behind her back, the other beneath her knees, carrying her like she weighed nothing, like he had all the time in the world.

She collapsed against the pillows, her body wracked with pain, but his arms never left her.

Of course the pillows were ready.

He’d probably fluffed them a hundred times waiting for her to wake.

His palm cupped her cheek again. “I’m going to take care of you. Just let me. Please.”

The plea in his voice undid her.

She nodded. Or tried to. Her throat trembled.

“I thought I was dreaming,” she whispered. “That I was still there. That you hadn’t found me.”

Harry’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

“You’re not there anymore.” His voice dropped, thick. Barely steady. “You’re with me now.”

There was a pause. Then glass. The soft clink.

“Water. Can I—?” She nodded faintly. He lifted it with steady hands, guiding it to her mouth. Cool relief slid down her throat.

And when she was done—

“Good girl,” he whispered, kissing her temple.

That was it.

She didn’t know when the tears started.

Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the way her body still ached in places she hadn’t realized existed. Maybe it was the blindness—the suffocating dark that clung to her no matter how wide she opened her eyes.

Or maybe it was just him.

The way he held her so gently. The way he whispered her name like a prayer every few minutes just to remind himself she was still here.

“Harry,” she croaked, voice breaking.

“I’m here,” he said instantly, shifting beside her in bed. “I’m right here.”

Her bottom lip trembled as she reached for him blindly. Her hand found his chest, then his shoulder, then the curve of his jaw. He turned into her touch like it hurt to go so long without it.

“I don’t feel like me,” she whispered.

He gathered her into his arms without hesitation. One slow, fluid motion, pulling her right into his lap, cradling her like she was breakable porcelain he would kill to protect.

“You are you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “You’re still my girl. You’re still here.”

But that didn’t stop the tears from coming. They came all at once, spilling down her cheeks in hot streaks, her chest heaving as the sobs started to take over.

“I thought I was going to die there. I thought—”she cried into his neck. “I thought I was never going to see you again.”

Harry didn’t speak. He couldn’t—not yet. His throat was too tight.

Instead, he held her closer. One hand curved protectively over her spine, the other in her hair, fingers weaving gently through the strands like he was grounding himself in the feel of her.

“You’re safe, baby. No one’s ever touching you again. I swear it.” he breathed.

But the more he soothed her, the more the sobs came.

All the hours she’d spent in silence, in pain, in fear—they came pouring out of her now in desperate, messy gasps. And Harry just held her. Let her fall apart. Let her weep into the hollow of his throat until her tears soaked his shirt and her voice went hoarse.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered, over and over. “You’re so fucking brave, love. I’m so proud of you. So proud.”

Her fingers clutched his shirt like a lifeline. “Don’t let go,” she begged, voice cracking.

“Never,” he said fiercely, kissing her temple. “Never, sweetheart. You hear me?”

His hands moved with reverence. One stroked up and down her back in slow, soothing lines. The other cupped her face, thumb wiping away tear after tear with a tenderness that gutted him.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I’d die for you,” he said. “I’d kill for you. I already have. And I’ll do it again if they even think about coming near you.”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Her arms tightened around him and she buried herself in his chest again, her body curling into him like she needed to disappear inside him to feel safe.

There was a soft knock at the door.

Harry didn’t answer.

Y/N was still curled into his chest, her breathing steadier now but her fingers clenched tightly in the fabric of his shirt. He wasn’t going to move—not unless she asked him to.

The knock came again, firmer this time.

“Boss,” a voice said through the door. Rosen. Calm. Professional. “It’s me.” Harry sighed, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s temple before gently shifting her in his arms.

Harry cleared his throat. “Come in.”

The door opened quietly, and Dr. Rosen stepped inside. His sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a bag slung over one shoulder. He paused for a beat when he saw them—Y/N in Harry’s lap, wrapped in a blanket, face pale and still damp with tears.

“Good to see you awake,” Rosen said softly, setting his bag on the nearby table.

Y/N tried to sit up a little, but Harry didn’t let her go. Just shifted so she could lean more comfortably into his chest.

“She can’t fucking see,” Harry said, voice low but strained. “She says everything’s dark.”

Rosen nodded, not surprised, but solemn. “You mentioned it in your message. Let me take a look.”

Harry moved only enough for Rosen to kneel beside the bed. He reached up gently, his fingers cool but steady as he touched Y/N’s chin.

“Y/N? I’m going to check your pupils. Is that alright?”

She nodded again, slower this time.

Rosen took out a small penlight, clicking it on. “I’ll be brief.”

Y/N flinched at the first touch of light, though she didn’t react like someone who saw it—more like someone reacting to the closeness of a stranger near her already overwhelmed body. Harry’s thumb traced gentle circles on the back of her hand the whole time.

Rosen examined her carefully. Silent. Methodical.

When he clicked the light off, he sighed, then looked up at Harry.

“You’ve got post-traumatic optic neuropathy,” he said. “There’s a fair amount of swelling behind her eyes—more on the left side. Caused be blunt force.” His voice lowered slightly.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around Harry’s.

“But will it go away?” Harry asked, his voice low and dangerous. “Will she see again?”

Rosen looked to Y/N now, his expression softening.

“It’s possible the vision loss is temporary,” he said carefully. “The optic nerve is swollen, not severed. But the truth is… we don’t know yet. The swelling needs to come down before we can make that call.”

Y/N said nothing, her face calm but still. Too still.

“How long?” Harry growled. “How long do we wait?”

“A few days. Maybe a week,” Rosen replied. “We’ll monitor the inflammation. If it starts to recede and she gets even a little light perception back, that’s a good sign. If not… we’ll have to explore other possibilities. Physical therapy. Long-term care.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Harry turned to her immediately. “Hey. Hey.”

“You will get better,” he whispered fiercely. “You hear me? You’re going to see again. I don’t care what it takes—I’ll burn down every fucking hospital in this city until someone finds a way.”

Her lips quivered, and she reached blindly for his face. He let her find it, let her touch his cheek, her thumb brushing the faint stubble there.

“I’ll give her something to ease the headaches and help reduce the swelling,” Rosen said gently. “She needs rest. Fluids. Quietness”

Harry nodded once, sharp.

As Rosen moved back to pack up, there was another knock.

Before Harry could respond, the door creaked open.

Lex stepped in first, followed by Charlie. Both of them froze the second they laid eyes on Y/N.

She was barely propped up, wrapped in a blanket, her face pale and visibly bruised. Her lips were dry. The way she blinked into nothingness was… haunting.

Lex’s jaw locked. Charlie looked down quickly, pretending to cough into his hand.

“Sorry,” Lex said, clearing his throat. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Harry didn’t move from where he was seated, one arm wrapped protectively around Y/N’s shoulders. “What is it?”

Charlie spoke first. “It’s the Mayfair club. The new guy we posted to the front was late switching shifts. Someone slipped a girl in with a camera.”

Harry didn’t blink. “Did she get anything?”

“No,” Lex replied. “Security caught her before she made it to the lounge. We’ve already wiped the phone and dumped her across the river. But… it’s the third time this month. People are testing us.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

“Then why the fuck are you here?” he snapped, voice low but venomous. “Go fix that shit. I don’t want to hear another fucking word about it today.”

Lex straightened. “Understood.”

“Unless someone’s dead or the place is on fire,” Harry continued coldly, “don’t come near this room again. Not today. Not tonight. Not until I say.”

Lex and Charlie exchanged a quick glance, both of them smart enough not to push back.

“We’ll handle it,” Charlie said quietly.

Without another word, they slipped back out into the hall, the door shutting softly behind them.

The room went quiet again—just the soft, wheezing hum of the oxygen machine near the wall and the rasp of Y/N’s breath.

Y/N was still curled into him, but she didn’t resist when Rosen moved closer with the gauze. She flinched slightly when his fingers brushed her temple, but Harry’s hand never left hers.

“Just relax, sweetheart,” he murmured against her hair. “It’s just Rosen. He’s helping.”

The bandaging was careful and slow. Layer after layer of soft gauze wrapped gently around her head, shielding her eyes in darkness—but this time, it was darkness with purpose. Controlled. Healing.

Rosen, then stood up, adjusting his sleeves.

“She needs something warm in her stomach,” he said, looking to Harry. “Even just soup. Small sips to start.”

“I’ll get it,” Harry said immediately, already reaching for his phone to text someone from the kitchen.

“And a bath,” Rosen added. “Later tonight, if she’s up for it. A warm soak will help the pain in her legs, maybe ease some of the tension in her back. But be careful—”

“With the ribs,” Harry finished, already knowing.

“And the left shoulder,” Rosen confirmed. “the joint is weak. No pressure, no sudden movements.”

Harry’s entire frame was tight, eyes locked on Y/N, still ghost-pale beneath the layers of bandage.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said, voice low. Dangerous in its promise.

Rosen gave a small nod, gathering his things. “I’ll check in tomorrow. Text me if anything changes.”

As the doctor left, Harry reached for the blanket and pulled it higher over Y/N’s shoulders. He watched her carefully, the rise and fall of her chest, the tremble in her fingers.

And then he leaned down, pressing his lips to her bandaged forehead.

The room had dipped into a late‑afternoon hush—the kind of dim, drowsy quiet that settled after grief had wrung everyone dry. A thin line of orange light slipped through the curtains, but it didn’t reach her bandaged eyes. Harry sat in the chair beside the bed, fingers threaded through hers, tracing slow circles on her knuckles while he read the markets on a silent phone in his lap.

Y/N cleared her throat. “Harry?”

He dropped the phone, instantly alert. “Yeah, love?”

“You… you don’t have to stay.” Her voice was small but steady, like she’d rehearsed it in her head a dozen times. “I know you have work—people who need you. I don’t want to… take up all your time.”

For a second he just stared, as if the sentence itself didn’t make sense in English. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

“I’m serious,” she whispered. “I can rest on my own. If you have meetings or clubs to deal with—”

“Stop.” His voice cut through the quiet. Not loud, but final. “You’re my wife.” The word landed heavy, reverent. “Where else would I want to be?”1

She shifted against the pillows. “I just… don’t want to be a bother.”

Something in him went very still. Offended was too mild a word; wounded flared behind his eyes. “A bother?” He released her hand only to cup her cheek—careful of the bruises—tilting her face toward him even though she couldn’t see. “You are not—will never be—a bother.”

“Harry—”

“I run an empire, Y/N. Clubs, ports, five hundred men ready to bleed on command.” His thumb traced the corner of her mouth, voice roughening. “And I’d burn every bit of it to ash before I let you spend one minute thinking you’re an inconvenience.”

She swallowed, lips trembling. “I just hate feeling helpless.”

“You’re alive.” His forehead pressed to her bandages, eyes squeezing shut. “That’s all that matters. Let me do the rest.”

She had eaten. Just a little. Just enough to make the silence feel heavier.

So when Harry suggested a bath, she flinched.

“I don’t know if I can,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry didn’t push. He crouched beside the bed, thumb gently tracing the back of her hand. “It’ll help with the pain,” he said quietly

She hesitated, jaw tight. Then she gave the smallest nod.

The steam from the bathroom had begun to curl into the bedroom when Harry reappeared. He walked slowly to her side, voice low.

“Water’s ready. Come on, sweetheart. It'll help.”

Y/N didn’t move.

She looked small in the center of the bed, drowning in the oversized shirt that Harry had put on her earlier. Her hands were clenched over the sheets, her lips pale. Her bandaged eyes blinked toward the sound of his voice.

“I don’t know if I…” Her voice cracked. “Harry, I don’t want you to see me like this.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just walked to her. Sank to his knees in front of her, fingers brushing over her wrist.

“I already have,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “No. Not really. You haven’t seen…”

Harry placed his hand gently on her thigh. “I want to take care of you. Please let me.”

She hesitated—then finally gave a slow nod.

He gathered her into his arms, lifting her with careful strength. She winced as her ribs shifted against him, but he held her steady, whispering softly into her hair until the tremble passed.

The bathroom was dim, lit only by the soft sconces over the mirror. The tub was full, steam rising off the surface like a soft veil. The scent of lavender clung to the air.

He sat her on the cushioned bench.

Her hands trembled as he reached for the hem of her shirt.

“Harry—”

“You don’t have to hide from me.”

“I don’t want you to look at me differently.”

His eyes searched her face. “There is no version of this where I look at you and see anything less than what you are to me.”

She nodded again, slowly, and lifted her arms.

Harry peeled the shirt up and over her head.

And then he saw her.

He saw everything.

Her ribs—discolored, swollen, and bruised black and green. The bandages across her chest told him exactly where they had broken. Her shoulder, still purple and elevated from the botched reset. Her stomach, streaked in yellowing bruises and fresh red contusions. Her hips—God, her hips. Fingerprints were still vivid, raw and violent. Her arms bore lash-like bruising. Her fingers were splinted, fragile. And her feet—

Burned.

The gauze was clean but red at the edges, the burns angry and fresh beneath. The shape of her pain was written across every inch of her body.

And Harry had never felt so still in his life.

He had to blink. Had to breathe.

Because the inside of him had gone deadly silent.

He moved to kneel in front of her again, gently taking her hands in his.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice raw but sure.

She let out a breath that was almost a sob. “Don’t lie—”

“I’m not.” His fingers tightened just slightly. “I’ve seen you bare and smiling and glowing in the sun. I’ve touched every inch of your skin and kissed you until you couldn’t breathe. And seeing you now—like this—it doesn’t change what I feel. Not even a little.”

She bit her lip, hard.

“These scars…” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of a bruise just above her hip, “…they only make you more beautiful to me. Because you survived. Because you’re still here.”

Her chin trembled. “I feel ruined.”

Harry looked up at her then. “You’re not ruined. Don’t speak about my wife like that ”

Carefully, he kissed her ribs—just beside the break. Then her collarbone. Her hand. Her thigh. Each kiss soft, reverent, as if he were praying.

With calm hands, he helped her into the tub, guiding her body with infinite care, mindful of every splint, every wrapped toe.

The water welcomed her with warmth. She sighed, tears slipping silently from beneath her bandaged eyes.

Harry stayed beside her, silent for a long moment.

Then, softly: “I wish I could go back and take it all for you. Every second.”

She shook her head.

“I mean it.”

He reached for a clean cloth. Dipped it into the water.

And he began to wash her. Gently, lovingly. As if she were something fragile and sacred — and to him, she was.

Y/N lay quiet in the bath, her bandaged fingers resting along the porcelain edge. Her hair floated behind her like a dark halo. The scent of lavender mingled with silence.

He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Just bathed her. Tenderly. With the kind of patience that made her feel more human than broken.

But then, after a long pause, his voice broke through the quiet—low, rough.

“There was this time… when I was about fifteen,” he murmured, dipping the cloth again. “My mum had died the year before. My dad was… the way he was. Cold. Distant. Didn’t know how to deal with grief—so he buried it in anger. In business.”

She listened, breath shallow.

“I’d gotten into a fight at school. Some boy said something about her—nothing big, not really. Just… disrespectful. But I snapped.” He gave a soft huff of a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Broke the kid’s nose. Nearly knocked his tooth out. The school called my dad. I thought—fuck, maybe this time he’d care.”

He rinsed the cloth and brought it to her shoulder again, softer now.

“But he didn’t even look at me when I walked through the door. Just said, ‘Handle it. Don’t get caught next time.’ Then he poured a drink.”

Y/N could hear the edge in his voice now, the ache buried beneath years of trying not to care.

“I went up to my room and cried. First time I had in months. But it wasn’t about the fight. It was because I realized right then—no one was going to save me. No one was coming. That kind of pain…” He paused, voice quieter. “It hardens something in you.”

Her heart ached for the boy he had been.

But he wasn’t finished.

“That pain was nothing,” he whispered, “nothing, compared to the night they took you from me. I still hear your scream”

Her breath caught.

“I heard you scream my name like your life depended on it. And I fucking couldn’t.” His voice cracked, fists curling. “They dragged you. You were kicking, crying, reaching for me… and I couldn’t move.”

He wasn’t looking at her. Just kept tracing the wet cloth across her skin as if he could undo what had been done to her.

His hand stilled.

“I’ve been shot before. Tortured. Burned. Nothing ever hurt like that moment.”

A single tear slipped down her cheek. He leaned forward, catching it before it fell further, thumb brushing tenderly along her jaw.

“I’ll never let anyone take you from me again.”

Then, with reverence, he pressed a kiss to her palm.

And stayed there, holding her hand in the water, until the silence felt like peace.