Vicious — 30 (Patreon)

Author's note: Happy Tuesday! I hope you are having a good week. Here is a new chapter of vicious. let me know what you think!

Warnings: 🚨violence, blood, weapons and mention of abuse.

wc: 4.4K

The manor woke slowly.

It wasn’t the kind of waking where curtains were drawn or voices rose bright with the day. Here, morning bled in quiet. The fires burned low, footsteps softened in the halls, and the weight of grief still pressed down like a shroud.

Y/N stirred against the pillows, the linen cool against her cheek. For a moment she thought she might still be in that dark place—where hands had bound her, where silence was punishment, where breath itself felt borrowed. The black behind her eyes hadn’t changed.

But then—warmth.

A hand curved over hers, steady and familiar. A thumb tracing small circles into her skin.

“Harry?” Her voice was raw, rasping from disuse.

The scrape of a chair answered first, then his voice, low but instantly present. “I’m here.”

Relief rippled through her, though it was fragile, tentative. She tried to push herself upright, but her ribs protested, a sharp ache tearing through her chest.

“Easy.” His hand slid behind her shoulders, another bracing her side. “Don’t rush.”

“I can’t just lie here forever.” The words broke more brittle than she meant, tinged with frustration. “I need to move.”

Harry didn’t argue right away. She could feel the weight of his silence—the kind that meant his jaw was tight, his mind already racing through what ifs and dangers she couldn’t see.

“I need to,” she pressed, her hand curling into his sleeve. “Even if it’s just to sit up. Even if it’s just… one step.”

He exhaled, slow, through his nose. Then, finally “Alright. But with me.”

She nodded.

It was clumsy at first. Her muscles trembled from weakness, her legs unsteady beneath her. Harry’s arm anchored her like steel at her waist, his other hand guiding hers to the edge of the bed, then to the nightstand, letting her orient herself.

The world was still dark. The black pressed heavy against her eyes, threatening panic, but she grounded herself the way Rosen had told her—through touch, through sound.

Lavender clung faintly in the air. The cotton of Harry’s shirt was warm under her fingers. The floorboards creaked softly as she placed her bare feet down, the rug rough against her toes.

“You’re safe,” Harry murmured, his lips close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath on her temple. “Just breathe.”

She did. In, out. Anchoring herself with each inhale.

“I hate this,” she admitted, her voice cracking. “Not seeing. Not knowing where I am.”

“You know where you are,” he said firmly. “You’re home. You’re with me.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to believe it, but the dark felt endless.

He guided her carefully, step by step, from the bed toward the armchair near the hearth. His hand never left her waist, his movements slow but certain, as if he’d mapped the route in his head a thousand times.

“Left, love. Just a bit. There.” His voice was steady, quiet, a tether against the panic threatening to swallow her.

Her shin bumped the edge of the chair, and she gasped, flinching.

“Easy,” Harry soothed instantly. “It’s alright. Just the chair. Sit when you’re ready.”

Her hands fumbled against the armrest, wood smooth beneath her fingertips. She lowered herself carefully, ribs aching, breath uneven. When she finally settled, her shoulders sagged, both from exhaustion and relief.

“There you go,” he whispered, crouching in front of her. She felt the warmth of his palm against her knee. “First step done.”

“It doesn’t feel like much,” she murmured.

“It’s everything,” he countered. His voice was rougher now, as if the words scraped against something raw inside him.

Silence stretched. The fire cracked softly, the manor’s bones creaking above.

Her hand moved, searching. He caught it instantly, folding her fingers between his.

“You don’t have to stay glued to me all day,” she said quietly. “You have work. People need you. I don’t want to keep you chained here.”

The word hit something in him—sharp, visceral.

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” he said, low and certain.

She swallowed hard. “Harry…”

“No.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “You’re not a weight. Don’t ever think it.”

Her lips trembled. “I hate that I’m like this. Weak. Dependent.”

He made a sound—low, pained—as if the words themselves cut him. Then his hands framed her face, careful of the bandages, steady even though his breath wasn’t. “Weak?” His voice shook. “Y/N, I’ve watched men with guns in their hands beg for mercy. I’ve seen bosses crawl on their knees. Not one of them was as strong as you are right now.”

Tears burned hot at the edges of her eyes. She reached for him blindly, fingers finding the line of his jaw, the rough stubble beneath her touch. He turned into her palm instantly, like it hurt to go without it.

“I don’t feel strong,” she whispered. “I feel broken.”

“You’re alive,” he said fiercely, his forehead pressing to hers. “That’s all that matters. Let me carry the rest until you can.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not empty—weighted with all the things neither of them could say without unraveling completely.

Then Y/N shifted against the chair, lips quirking faintly. “You know… if this is what being doted on feels like, I should’ve let myself get kidnapped ages ago.”

Harry let out a sharp breath of disbelief, then laughed—really laughed—for the first time in days. The sound rumbled low in his chest, boyish despite the exhaustion clinging to him.

Her smile tugging at her lips. “God, I wish I could see that. Your smile.”

He sobered a little, still grinning though his voice had gone softer. “It’s all yours, love. Every bloody time you want it.”

She tilted her face toward him, searching, and he leaned in—slowly, giving her the choice. When her lips parted just slightly, he closed the distance.

The kiss was unhurried, almost fragile, as though the weight of everything they’d lost pressed against the seam of their mouths. He tasted like coffee gone cold, and salt, and something achingly familiar.

Her fingers curled into his shirt, holding him close. He deepened the kiss only a fraction, careful of her, careful of everything, until the ache in her chest eased just a little.

When he finally drew back, their foreheads touched, breath mingling in the quiet.

“Still smiling,” he whispered, and she felt it in the curve of his lips against hers.

Y/N sat still in the chair by the hearth, listening—her world now a map of echoes and textures. Harry had disappeared for a few minutes. The sound of running water carried faintly from the adjoining bath. She could hear him moving, the low scrape of a drawer, the metallic snap of a cufflink, the faint hiss of a spray bottle.

When the door opened, a wash of steam drifted out before him. She breathed in—cologne, sharp and clean, layered over the faint spice of his skin.

“Harry?” she asked softly.

“I’m here,” he said, voice closer now. She felt the brush of fabric against her arm as he passed, then the warmth of him as he crouched to her level.

He smelled different now—composed, controlled. Ready.

“You shaved,” she whispered, smiling faintly as her hand lifted, brushing over the smooth line of his jaw.

He caught her wrist gently, kissing the inside of it before lowering her hand back into her lap. “Had to look the part. Even if I’m not leaving the house.”

She tilted her head, listening. He was lying. Or half-lying. He was preparing himself for something.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, soft and brief. “I’ll be back soon, love.”

Her hand tightened on his sleeve. “Don’t disappear into the cellar today,” she said, equally soft, but steady.

He stilled. For a moment, she thought he might argue. Instead, he pressed another kiss to her hair, lingering just long enough for her to feel the tremor in his breath.

And then he rose. His footsteps moved toward the door.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

The home office was dim, shutters half-drawn against the thin morning light. Charlie sat hunched over the ledger, pen scratching methodically, a half-empty cup of coffee cooling by his elbow.

The door opened and Harry stepped in, fresh from the bathroom. His shirt clung crisp against his frame, collar sharp, the faint trace of cologne cutting through the air. His curls were damp, combed back, but the shadows under his eyes betrayed the sleepless night.

Charlie straightened automatically. “Boss.”

Harry didn’t answer, just moved behind the desk and lowered himself into the chair. His palms pressed flat against the polished wood, grounding himself in the silence of the room.

The quiet didn’t last.

A knock, heavy and deliberate.

Charlie’s pen stilled.

“Come in,” Harry said.

Lex entered, carrying something wrapped in brown paper, no markings, the edges tied with black twine. He shut the door behind him, jaw tight.

“It was left at the south gate,” he said. “Guard found it not twenty minutes ago. No one saw who dropped it.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to the package. For a long moment he didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The ribbon gleamed faintly in the half-light.

Charlie shifted uneasily. “What is it?”

Lex laid it on the desk. “Feels like a tape. Weight’s right.”

The silence stretched taut. Harry’s hand flexed once against the wood before finally reaching for his knife. The twine snapped under the blade, sharp in the quiet. Paper peeled away, crumpling, until a small recorder slid free.

A strip of ribbon coiled across the desk like something alive.

Harry’s jaw clenched. He didn’t touch the button.

Lex’s voice was low. “Boss—”

“I know what it is,” Harry cut him off, his voice flat but thick at the edges.

Charlie frowned. “You’re not gonna—”

Harry’s hand hovered over the device. His thumb trembled once, then stilled.

The silence before the click was heavier than anything that came after.

Harry pressed the button.

Static crackled, filling the office with a sound that seemed to crawl into the walls. Then—

Her voice.

Y/N’s voice.

Ragged. Broken. Gasping between muffled sobs.

Charlie flinched, the pen in his hand snapping clean in two. Lex swore under his breath.

Harry didn’t move. His jaw locked, his knuckles white as his grip tightened on the recorder.

A man’s laugh followed, low and cruel. “Easy, sweetheart. Don’t bruise up too bad. Boss won’t like it if you’re damaged.”

Harry slammed the stop button. The silence that followed was suffocating.

“Jesus Christ,” Charlie muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Harry stood abruptly, shoving the chair back so hard it scraped across the floor. He turned away from the desk, his chest heaving. The tendons in his neck strained like they might snap.

“Play the rest,” Lex said quietly.

“No.” Harry’s voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges. “Not while she’s under this roof. Not while she’s—”

“Harry.”

The voice stopped him cold.

He spun toward the door.

Y/N stood there, one hand curled into the frame, Gianna beside her, a steadying palm at her elbow. Her face was pale beneath the bandages, but her chin was lifted.

Harry froze. “You shouldn’t—”

“I heard it.” Her voice trembled, but her steps didn’t falter as Gianna guided her into the room. “I know what it is.”

Harry’s chest ached at the sight of her—fragile, but unyielding. “You don’t need to listen to this.”

“I do.” She tightened her grip on Gianna’s arm, steadying herself. “Don’t keep me in the dark more than I already am.”

The plea in her voice cracked something in him.

Gianna helped her to the chaise near the desk. She settled carefully, her fingers twisting in the blanket she still carried from upstairs. Harry moved to kneel beside her instantly, but she shook her head, facing the desk instead.

“Play it,” she said.

Harry’s throat worked. “Y/N—”

“Play it.” Firmer now, though her hands trembled.

His thumb hovered again over the recorder. The weight of the room shifted, everyone holding their breath. Then he pressed it.

Her cries filled the air once more, jagged and raw. The scrape of footsteps. The low taunts of the man holding her.

Then, without a pause, the device clicked again. Static skated across the speakers like cold water. The tape hissed, and another voice bled through, softer this time, as if the microphone had been tucked into a shirt pocket.

It was too close to the recorder — not the roomy echo of a warehouse or yard, but a whisper meant only for the men in the room.

“—the gate won’t be watched until midnight. Take the back passage.”

Y/N went still. Even blind, her body reacted as if she could see the room clear into its angles; her fingers dug into Gianna’s sleeve. The sound of the sentence folded into the office and settled there like a stone.

Charlie made a low sound in his throat. Lex swore under his breath and slammed his palm onto the desk as if to force the words into the wood.

Harry’s face, already weathered by grief, went marble-cold. For the first time since they’d pressed play, he looked small — not as a man diminished, but as a thing blinded by a sudden, sharp betrayal.

“Someone told them when the gate would be empty,” Y/N whispered, the syllables measured though her voice shook. “Someone who knows our routine. Someone who knows this house.”

No one answered right away. The only sound was the blood in their ears and the low, brittle world still vibrating from what they had just heard. The room seemed to contract toward that single, deadly fact: it hadn’t been only Federico’s men, or Augusto’s plan, or Silas’s cruelty. Someone had opened a door from the inside.

A mole,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “In my house. In my family.”

Charlie’s face had gone pale, his broken pen forgotten in his hand. “Boss—”

“They handed her over,” Harry snarled, his words rough, stripped to bone. “One of ours opened the fucking gate and delivered my wife to Federico. To Silas. To Augusto.”

The names tasted like ash, burning as they left his mouth. He pushed off from the desk, pacing a tight line across the carpet, every step a loaded gun.

Lex shifted uneasily, but didn’t move.

Harry spun back, his voice sharp enough to cut. “I brought these men into my walls. Fed them. Paid them. Trusted them. And one of them—” His chest heaved. His hand slammed down on the desk, rattling the empty coffee cup. “—one of them sold her to the very men who would see her hanging from a fucking noose if it got them power.”

Y/N flinched faintly at the sound, Gianna’s hand tightening around hers in warning, but she didn’t speak yet.

Harry’s hands dragged through his curls, tugging at the damp strands as if he might rip out the betrayal lodged in his skull. His voice cracked, raw with fury he could barely hold in.

“They didn’t just betray me,” he rasped. “They betrayed her. They gave her to monsters and listened while she screamed. And I’ll find them. I’ll make them watch as I—”

“Harry.”

Her voice, soft but steady, cut through the storm.

He stilled, shoulders heaving, eyes burning red. His fists clenched so tightly the knuckles had gone bloodless.

Y/N’s bandaged gaze turned toward the sound of his breath. “Don’t lose yourself in this.”

But Harry’s whole frame shook with rage, the words barely dragging him back from the edge. “They put their hands on you. They touched you. And someone inside let them. I will not rest until I know who.”

The room was a heartbeat away from detonating.

For a moment, he just stared at her — at the bandages, the bruises peeking beneath, the way she still trembled but refused to break. His throat worked, but no words came.

Then he turned, abrupt, the chair skidding sideways as he stalked to the door.

“Harry—”

The door slammed behind him, the sound ricocheting through the office like a shot.

Y/N flinched, her fingers curling in Gianna’s sleeve. The silence he left behind was heavier than his fury.

Gianna shifted closer, steady and composed. She didn’t speak at first, just set her hand gently over Y/N’s trembling ones.

The recorder still sat on the desk, ribbon coiled beside it like a threat. Its presence was suffocating.

Y/N exhaled shakily. “He’s going to bury himself in the dark again.”

Gianna’s hand tightened over hers. “Then you’ll be the one to pull him out.”

The cellar stank of iron and rot. The lanterns hissed against damp stone, shadows jerking across the walls as Harry’s boots struck the floor.

Two of Augusto’s men were chained where he’d left them—slumped, bloodied, eyes still burning with defiance. Dogs loyal to their master, even in chains.

Harry stopped in front of them, his fists clenching until his knuckles ached.

The tape was still in his head. Y/N’s screams, ripped raw, begging in that broken voice. The laughter that followed. Augusto’s name. Silas’s drawl. Her pain.

It wouldn’t stop.

He grabbed the first man by the jaw and slammed his head back into the stone. The chains rattled.

“Where is he?” Harry’s voice broke low and violent. “Where the fuck is Augusto hiding?”

The man grinned through split lips, spitting blood down his chin. “You think I’d sell him for my life?”

The sound triggered another echo in Harry’s skull—Y/N gasping, sobbing, choking out his name from the tape.

The world went red.

Harry’s fist cracked across the man’s mouth. Then again. And again. The wet sound of flesh giving way, bone crunching. His hand throbbed, split skin stinging, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

The second man barked something—defiance, insult, he didn’t hear it. Harry spun, his fist burying itself in his ribs hard enough to draw a strangled scream.

“That’s what she sounded like,” Harry snarled, driving another blow into his gut. “That’s what she sounded like when you fucking touched her.”

Their screams filled the cellar now, echoing off the walls, the chains jerking and clattering as they tried to curl away. But Harry didn’t see them. He saw her—blindfolded, bruised, broken in their hands. He saw her body limp in the dark.

“You laughed,” he growled, slamming the man’s head back into the wall, his own face twisted with fury. “You thought it was funny while she begged.”

Blood smeared his shirt, his hands, hot and slick. The prisoners wheezed, coughing red, choking. One whimpered something—mercy maybe—but it only sharpened Harry’s rage.

“Mercy?” His laugh was jagged, feral. “She begged for mercy too.”

He drove his fist into the man’s stomach until his knees buckled, until the chains took his weight. The other tried to twist away, but Harry’s hand clamped around his throat, squeezing until his face went purple.

Y/N’s voice kept bleeding through—screams from the tape, screams from the memory, screams he hadn’t been there to stop.

Harry’s grip tightened until the man’s breath rattled. His vision tunneled, his pulse roaring in his ears.

He wanted them to pay. He wanted them to drown in her pain.

And he didn’t notice, not at first, that the noise in the cellar—their screams, his own ragged breath—had become so loud that he couldn’t even hear himself think anymore.

The manor had gone quiet hours ago. Too quiet.

Charlie paced the hall outside the dining room, arms crossed tight over his chest. The roast on the table had gone cold, the wine untouched. “He should’ve been here by now.”

Lex leaned against the wall, eyes dark, jaw working. “He’s below.”

“He’s always below lately,” Charlie muttered. “But not this long. Not without sending word.”

The silence stretched. Finally, Lex pushed off the wall with a sigh. “Let’s get him.”

The stairwell groaned as they descended into the cellar, the lantern light flickering over stone. The deeper they went, the stronger the smell hit them — copper, heavy and sharp.

Charlie slowed, one hand bracing the wall. “Christ.”

The chamber opened before them.

Harry sat on the floor, his back against the wall, head tipped against the cold stone. His shirt clung to him with blood, his curls plastered damp against his forehead. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths.

In his left hand, a cigarette smoldered low, the ember glowing faint in the dark. In his right, the knife still gleamed wet, resting limply against his thigh.

And sprawled only feet away — what remained of Augusto’s men.

Their bodies were twisted, unrecognizable, soaked in a spreading pool of red that seeped into the cracks of the stone. The air was heavy with it, metallic and thick enough to taste.

Charlie froze in the doorway, bile rising in his throat. “Jesus fucking Christ…”

Lex stepped in slowly, his face hard but his eyes betraying the smallest flicker of unease. “Boss.”

Harry didn’t look up. His gaze was somewhere far away, fixed on nothing. Smoke curled from his lips, thin and shaky.

“What happened?,” Lex said quietly, like they were still at the table above, like the scene before them wasn’t painted in blood.

For a long moment, Harry didn’t move. Then he dragged in a breath, let the smoke slip out slow. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“They laughed,” he rasped.

Neither Lex nor Charlie answered.

Harry turned his head just enough that the lantern caught his face — pale, drawn, streaked with sweat and flecks of blood. His eyes were wild, rimmed red.

“They laughed,” he repeated, softer now, almost to himself. “Sounded just like the tape.”

The cigarette trembled between his fingers, ash falling to the floor. His knife hand tightened briefly, then slackened again, exhausted.

Charlie looked away, swallowing hard. The bodies on the floor were barely men anymore.

Lex’s jaw worked, but his voice stayed even. “It’s done. They can’t hurt her again.”

Harry gave a broken laugh that didn’t sound like him. “They can. As long as they are alive”

The cellar fell quiet but for the drip of blood off steel, the rasp of Harry’s breathing, and the low hiss of his dying cigarette.

Charlie swallowed hard, the stench of blood clawing at the back of his throat. He forced himself to look away from the ruined bodies and back to Harry slumped against the wall.

“Boss,” he said, voice rough, steadying himself. “She’s waiting for you upstairs.”

Harry didn’t move. Smoke curled from the end of the cigarette, drifting into the dark.

Charlie took a step closer, ignoring the stickiness of the floor beneath his boots. “She hasn’t got her sight. You know that. She’s sitting up there in the dark, waiting on you. And you can’t—” His voice caught, then firmed. “You can’t let her see you like this.”

For the first time, Harry’s gaze flicked up. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils blown wide, face pale under the streaks of red.

Charlie held his stare, refusing to look away even though it hollowed him out. “She doesn’t need the monster right now. She needs her husband.”

The words landed heavy, echoing louder than any scream that had filled the cellar.

Harry’s jaw clenched, his throat working as he dragged in a shaky breath. He stubbed the cigarette out against the stone, the ember dying in a faint hiss. His grip tightened once more around the knife—then slowly, deliberately, he let it clatter from his hand.

The sound rang sharp in the silence.

Harry leaned his head back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then, barely audible:

“Help me clean up.”

The bedroom smelled faintly of lavender oil, but the comfort it was meant to bring didn’t reach her chest. Y/N sat propped against the pillows, knees drawn up under the quilt, the bandages scratching lightly against her temples every time she shifted.

Gianna slipped inside with a tray balanced carefully in her hands. The clink of porcelain against wood broke the hush. “Soup,” she said gently. “And bread. Rosen wants you to try.”

Y/N tried to smile but it didn’t hold. Her fingers brushed the rim of the bowl, mapping its heat. “Thank you.”

Gianna lingered, watching her.

Finally, Y/N’s lips parted. “Do you know anything about Harry?”

Gianna’s gaze softened. “Not yet. I’ll find out.”

“Please,” Y/N whispered.

Gianna touched her shoulder lightly. “Eat a little. I won’t be long.” Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

The silence after was oppressive.

Y/N traced the edge of the bowl but didn’t lift the spoon. The manor spoke in its own language around her—pipes groaning in the walls, the faint whistle of wind against the shutters. Too loud, too sharp without sight to soften it.

Time passed. She didn’t know how long.

Then—footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Down the hall.

Her chest tightened, breath caught. “Harry?” she called.

Silence.

The steps came closer.

She pushed the tray away, her hands gripping the quilt. “Gianna?”

Nothing.

Her throat worked, panic rising like bile. “Charlie? Lex?”

The footsteps stopped right outside the door.

Her whole body went still.

The handle turned with a low scrape of metal.

Every muscle in her frame tensed as she braced herself, pulse hammering in her ears.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, voice breaking.

The latch clicked. The door eased open.

She prepared herself—for what, she didn’t know...