Vicious — 31 (Patreon)

Author's note: apparently my brain forgot how scheduling works 😅 the last chapters didn’t go live when they should’ve. I'm uploading them right now — promise they’ll all be up in a few minutes. thanks for not giving up on me, you’re the best 💛

The door opened quietly, hinges sighing into the hush.

“Y/N?”

The voice was calm, sure — Gianna’s.

Y/N exhaled shakily, her fingers unclenching from the blanket. “You don’t have to whisper,” she said, though her voice came out as barely more than one.

Gianna stepped closer, the faint rustle of her skirts brushing against the rug. “Didn’t want to startle you.”

“You didn’t.” Y/N drew her knees up beneath the quilt. “He’s in the cellar, isn’t he?”

Gianna hesitated only a second. “Yes.”

The word landed like a weight. Y/N nodded once, jaw tight. “And the men?”

“I think still breathing,” Gianna said. “For now. I think.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but nothing came out. She knew what that meant. Knew what Harry’s silence would sound like after the screaming stopped.

She pressed a trembling hand to her bandaged temple. “He’s trying to find them — Augusto, Federico, Silas.”

Gianna made a quiet sound of agreement.

Y/N’s throat worked. “And what happens when he does?”

“Then he’ll do what he has to,” Gianna said evenly. “What he’s always done.”

Y/N laughed once — short, bitter, hollow. “You say that like it’s something to be proud of.”

Gianna didn’t answer right away. The bed dipped as she sat beside her, the wood creaking softly. “It’s not pride,” she said. “It’s survival.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. “I’m so tired of surviving.” The words slipped out before she could bite them back. Her chest shuddered. “When they took me, I kept telling myself I couldn’t break — not if I wanted to come home to him. But now that I’m here…”

Her voice cracked completely. Tears spilled hot down her cheeks, and she covered her face with her hands. “Now I can’t stop.”

Gianna didn’t move at first. Then, quietly: “You don’t have to.”

Y/N’s shoulders shook harder, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Gianna reached out and took her wrist, not gently — firmly, like she was reminding her of her own solidity. “You’ve been strong long enough,” she said. “Let him be that now.”

Y/N lifted her head, her eyes still hidden behind tears. “You mean Harry?”

“Who else?” Gianna said. “He’s your husband. He’d burn the world down before he’d let anyone touch you again. You think that kind of love disappears just because it hurts?”

A wet laugh escaped Y/N, broken through her sobs. “You really believe that?”

Gianna’s voice softened, the edge still there but steady. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I don’t have to believe it — I know it.”

Y/N wiped at her face with trembling fingers, trying to breathe through what was left of her crying. “God, he’s going to come up from that cellar covered in blood and think he’s protecting me.”

Gianna rose, smoothing the blanket over her knees. “He is,” she said simply. “In the only way he knows how. But you — you’re the only one who can bring him back from it.”

Y/N turned her face toward the sound of her voice, quiet now. “Then I need to be ready when he does.”

Gianna paused at the door. “You already are.”

The latch clicked softly behind her, and the room was left in stillness — the scent of lavender oil, the echo of blood in the dark below, and Y/N’s heartbeat counting out the distance between them.

The door opened again a few hours later— slow, careful.

Y/N turned her head toward the sound, heartbeat stuttering. For a moment, she didn’t hear anything but the faint shift of fabric and the quiet click of the latch closing behind him. Then — his breathing. Low, controlled, familiar.

“Harry?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. She felt him before she heard him — the air shifting, the weight of his presence pressing closer. Then warm fingers brushed her cheek, tracing the faint salt track left by tears.

His thumb stilled. “You’ve been crying.”

Her throat tightened. “You can tell?”

“I always can.”

Before she could speak again, he leaned down and kissed her. It wasn’t careful — not like before. It was desperate in a quiet way, like he’d been holding his breath too long and only now remembered how to use it. She clutched at his shirt, the fabric still faintly damp from his shower. His skin smelled of soap and smoke and something faintly metallic underneath.

When he pulled back, their foreheads rested together, his breath warm against her lips.

“You showered,” she murmured, voice small, almost hesitant.

He went still. The pause was heavy — enough to make the room tilt with it.

“I had to,” he said finally, voice rough. “You already know why.”

Y/N didn’t press. She didn’t need to. The cellar might’ve been miles below them, but the blood still clung between his words.

She swallowed hard, trying to shift the air between them. “Are you hungry?”

For the first time in hours — maybe days — he laughed. A real one. It started low in his chest and broke out sharp and disbelieving, echoing softly off the walls.

“Christ, Y/N…” He shook his head, still half-laughing as he shrugged out of his jacket. “I come up here after—” He stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. “After everything. And that’s what you ask me?”

She tried to smile, but it came out faint, shaky. “You look tired. I just thought—”

He laughed again, softer this time. “I killed three men tonight.” He said it plainly, like he was telling her the weather. “And you’re worried I skipped dinner.”

“Someone should,” she said quietly.

He froze at that, then huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh anymore. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Maybe,” she said, tilting her face toward him. “But I’m still here.”

That silenced him. He stared at her — at the faint tremble in her chin, the steadiness in her voice despite it. Then, without another word, he stripped the fresh suit jacket from his shoulders and tossed it aside, loosening his cuffs, unbuttoning the pristine shirt he’d only put on to come upstairs.

“Waste of a good suit,” he muttered. “Didn’t even make it past the door.”

Y/N reached for him blindly, fingertips brushing his forearm. “Come here.”

He obeyed. Without hesitation.

When his body sank down beside hers, the mattress dipped under his weight. The faint scent of clean soap mingled with the ghost of iron. She leaned into him, head against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her automatically, his hand finding the small of her back, grounding her — or maybe himself.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Finally, she whispered, “You can’t keep washing it off forever.”

He pressed a kiss into her hair. “I can try.”

And though neither of them said it aloud, they both knew — some things never came clean.

The fire had burned itself down to embers, leaving only the slow tick of the clock and the whisper of wind pressing against the shutters.

Neither of them spoke.

Harry lay beside her, one arm curved around her waist, his nose buried in the hollow of her shoulder. Her skin was warm beneath the quilt, her breath unsteady against his chest.

He waited, eyes open to the dark, until he felt it — the subtle shift in her breathing. Not sleep. Not peace.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath.

She flinched faintly, then exhaled, a tremor catching in her throat. “I can’t,” she whispered.

He lifted his head slightly. “Can’t what?”

“Sleep.” Her voice cracked on the word. “Every time I close my eyes, I hear them. The men. The tape.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He’d buried those sounds deep, but hearing them in her mouth made them new again — sharper.

“I keep hearing what they said,” she went on, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I can hear them laughing. I can hear myself—” Her voice broke. “I can hear myself begging.”

Harry’s chest clenched. “Don’t,” he said, soft but raw. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I can’t stop.” Her breath hitched, a sob swallowed down to a whisper. “Even now, it’s like they’re still here. Like they never left me.”

He pulled her closer, his arms tightening until she was pressed fully against him, his chin resting in her hair. “They’re gone,” he said against her temple. “They’re never coming near you again.”

She shook her head. “You can’t promise that.”

“I already did.”

For a long while, neither spoke. The only sound was their breathing — hers uneven, his steady out of sheer will.

He kissed her hair, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of her tears on her skin. “You’re here,” he whispered. “With me. You’re safe.”

“I don’t feel safe,” she said. “Not when I can still hear them.”

Harry’s breath hitched. For a moment, the words hollowed him out completely. He’d promised her safety, and yet the ghosts of what she endured still filled her nights.

He pressed his lips to her temple, soft and trembling. “Then let me try,” he whispered.

Y/N swallowed hard. “How?”

“By reminding you where you are.”

His voice was low, rough with exhaustion and something deeper — something close to pleading.

He shifted closer, one hand tracing a slow, reverent path up her arm. His touch wasn’t demanding; it was grounding — the warmth of skin, the pulse under his fingertips. He waited, watching her face even though she couldn’t see him.

When she didn’t pull away, he exhaled shakily and brushed his mouth against her forehead, then the corner of her jaw, each kiss deliberate and fragile, like he was learning her all over again.

Her fingers tightened in his shirt. “Harry...”

He paused, letting the sound of his name linger between them. “You’re here,” he murmured. “Not with them. With me.”

The tears came again, quieter this time. She turned into him, her nose brushing his throat. “I keep forgetting how that feels.”

He smiled faintly — the kind of smile that hurt to wear. “Then I’ll remind you as many times as it takes.”

His thumb brushed her chin, tilting her face toward his. When their lips met, it wasn’t out of hunger or desperation — it was a slow, shaking reclaiming of what had been stolen. His kiss was patient, his hand at the back of her neck steady as he drew her closer.

Y/N’s breath trembled against his mouth. She kissed him back — hesitant at first, then with quiet certainty, like she was finding her way through the dark by touch alone.

When he pulled back, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling.

“Still feel them?” he whispered.

“No,” she said softly. “Just you.”

Harry exhaled a sound that wasn’t quite relief — more like a prayer. He tucked her against his chest, his lips at her hairline. The air between them warmed, the world outside forgotten.

In the dark, the ghosts went silent.

The manor woke with a hush again — softer this time, like the house itself was afraid to disturb them. Pale morning light pushed through the curtains, spilling across the tangled sheets.

Harry stirred first.

Y/N’s head rested against his chest, one hand curled in his shirt, as if she feared he’d vanish in his sleep. His arm was heavy around her waist, the warmth of her body soaking into him. For a moment, he stayed still, watching the faint rise and fall of her breathing.

She looked peaceful. Almost.

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, fingers lingering just long enough to memorize the curve of her cheek beneath the bandages. Then, quietly, he bent and kissed her forehead.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured.

Her lips moved, barely a whisper. “You’re leaving.”

Harry froze halfway up on his elbow, caught between guilt and purpose. “Just for a few hours.”

“Work?”

“Something like that.”

She frowned faintly, her brow creasing. “You don’t sound convinced.”

He smiled — small, crooked, tired. “You’d make a terrible detective, you know that?”

“Mm. Maybe. But I know when you’re lying.”

He leaned down again, his breath brushing her lips. “Then let me lie a little longer.”

The kiss was soft — the kind that carried a promise he didn’t know if he could keep. She tasted like morning and salt and something he didn’t deserve.

When he drew back, her hand caught his wrist. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“That’s the problem,” she murmured. “Careful gets you hurt slower.”

He laughed quietly — that low, rough sound that had grown rarer these days. “You’re starting to sound like me.”

She tilted her face toward him. “Maybe I’ve been listening.”

He pressed one last kiss to her lips before sliding from the bed. The floor was cold under his feet, the air crisp with winter light. He tugged on his shirt, fastening the buttons one-handed while glancing over his shoulder — she hadn’t moved, just lay there listening to him.

“Lex and Charlie are waiting downstairs,” he said, pulling on his jacket.

“Another meeting?”

He hesitated at the door. “A lead.”

Y/N sat up slightly, her hands clutching the edge of the blanket. “Augusto.”

Harry didn’t answer, but the silence said enough.

She swallowed, her throat tight. “Then you’re not going to the office.”

He turned halfway, the morning light cutting across his face — the gentleness from moments ago already fading into something harder. “No. Not yet.”

Her breath caught. “Harry—”

He stepped back to her side, crouching until their faces were close enough that she could feel his breath. “I’ll come back,” he said. “I swear it.”

“You’ve made promises before.”

His lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then I’ll keep this one.”

He kissed her again — slow, grounding — and then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, the echo sinking deep into the quiet of the room.

Y/N sat in the silence, her heart thudding in the emptiness he left behind. The faint smell of his cologne lingered in the sheets — smoke and cedar and something sharp underneath, like steel.

She pressed her palm over her chest, feeling her pulse under her fingers.

“Please come back,” she whispered.

But downstairs, the engines were already starting.

The drive to the safehouse was quiet—only the hum of the engine and the faint crack of rain on the windshield. Harry sat in the back seat, eyes fixed on nothing, thumb tracing the scar at his knuckle. Lex was driving, Charlie beside him, a cigarette glowing between his fingers.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Everyone could feel the shift—the difference between rumor and proof.

When they reached the warehouse on the outskirts of London, dawn had only just started to pale the sky. The air smelled of rust and salt. Inside, a single bulb flickered over a table strewn with papers, guns, and half-empty coffee cups.

Lex spread a thin folder open, sliding a photograph toward Harry. “Came through one of Federico’s runners last night. Shipment manifest under a fake company—Lancer Freight. The signature at the bottom?”

Harry glanced down. “Augusto Marin.”

Charlie whistled low. “Bold bastard didn’t even bother hiding his name.”

“Arrogant,” Harry said, voice flat. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying the map pinned to the table. “Where?”

Lex pointed. “Dock 49. Abandoned. Supposed to be condemned after the fire last year.”

“Supposed to be,” Charlie muttered.

Harry’s gaze drifted to the corner of the map where the red X sat like a wound. “Anyone seen him there?”

“Not directly,” Lex said. “But the runner claims shipments have been moving through—night loads, no paperwork. Federico’s mark was on two of the crates.”

“So Augusto’s still working with Federico,” Charlie said.

Harry’s jaw flexed. “Or using him.”

Silence settled. The rain outside thickened, turning the tin roof into a drum.

Charlie finally said, “We could wait. Confirm with the port records before we move.”

Harry looked up at him, eyes cold green under the flicker of the light. “Fine. Tonight”

Lex’s mouth twitched. “I’ll get the men ready.”

Harry stood, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt. “No noise tonight. We go in quiet. We take him alive.”

“Alive?” Charlie asked, arching a brow. “You sure about that?”

Harry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Alive long enough to talk.”

Lex stubbed his cigarette out on the table edge. “Copy that.”

While the others moved to load magazines and check the vehicles, Harry lingered over the map. His fingers brushed the X again, slow, deliberate.

He could almost feel the pull of it—the gravity of unfinished business.

Behind him, Charlie said softly, “You should call her before we go.”

Harry didn’t turn. “If I call her, I won’t go.”

Charlie didn’t argue. He just nodded once and walked out into the rain.

For a moment, the only sound was the storm outside and the faint rasp of Harry’s breath. Then he folded the map, slid it into his coat pocket, and whispered to no one, “Let’s end this.”

Their room started smelling of antiseptic when Dr. Rosen arrived. Gianna helped Y/N sitting up on the edge of the bed , hands steady at her shoulders.

“Easy,” she murmured. “He’s just setting up.”

Y/N nodded, fingers twisting in her lap. Her pulse beat too loud in her ears.

She heard the clink of metal trays, the rustle of gauze.

Dr. Rosen’s voice followed, calm and measured. “Good morning, Mrs. Styles.”

“Morning,” she answered, though it sounded small, uncertain.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Restless,” she admitted. “And ready.”

Gianna squeezed her hand. “He’s been waiting for this as much as you.”

Rosen chuckled softly. “I promise I’m more patient.”

Then his tone gentled. “We’ll take it slow. No sudden movements.”

The first snip of scissors was tiny but sharp in the quiet.

The layers began to loosen. She felt the weight of the bandages lift, one turn at a time, the air cool against skin that hadn’t felt it in days.

Her heartbeat climbed. “Tell me when,” she whispered.

“Almost there,” Rosen said. “Breathe for me.”

She did—inhale, exhale, fingers gripping Gianna’s tighter.

Then the last strip fell away.

For a moment, the darkness didn’t change. It sat heavy and endless, and panic clawed up her throat.

“I don’t—”

“Wait,” Rosen murmured, his hand steady on her shoulder. “Don’t force it. Let your eyes find it.”

A click. The faint metallic sound of a penlight.

A thin beam of brightness cut through the black.

Y/N gasped. The light wasn’t shape or color, just presence—a glimmer breaking through the dark veil.

“Doctor?” Gianna’s voice trembled, halfway between hope and fear.

Rosen leaned closer, his own breath catching. “Pupillary response… yes.”

He moved the light again, side to side. “Y/N, follow it if you can.”

Her lashes fluttered. “I can see it,” she breathed. “Just—just barely, but I can.”

Gianna’s hand flew to her mouth, tears already slipping free. “Oh, sweetheart…”

Rosen smiled, the lines around his eyes softening. “That’s very good. It means your optic nerves are responding. The damage wasn’t complete.”

Y/N blinked rapidly, the faint shimmer of the world shifting, uncertain but there.

“I thought it was gone forever,” she whispered.

“Not gone,” Rosen said. “Only healing. Slowly.”

Gianna laughed through her tears, gripping her hand tighter. “You hear that? You’re coming back to us.”

Y/N let out a broken laugh of her own, the first true sound of relief in days.

She turned her head toward the light, chasing it even when it blurred. “It’s so bright.”

Rosen nodded, gentle. “It will be, at first. We’ll keep the bandages off for short periods, a few minutes at a time. Your eyes need to remember what the world feels like.”