Hayden's POV
Time passed, and the house had gone quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you feel something heavy in your chest. My room was dimly lit. The window cracked open just slightly to let the breeze in.
Isaaq was next to me, asleep.
I stared at him.
God, he looked peaceful. Not talking. Not teasing. Just... there. Curled into my sheets like he belonged.
I smiled. What a mouthy little shit when he's awake.
Still, I didn't want to stop looking. He had this softness when he slept. It made me feel calm—and that scared me more than I'd admit.
Then I felt it.
A tingle down my spine. That trained sixth sense—the one Bloodlust hammered into me during the brutal years of combat training. Someone was outside.
I slipped out of bed without a sound.
"I know you're out there," I said once I stepped outside. "You're so fucking annoying."
Sure enough, a guy in a black hoodie stepped into the moonlight. Turtle neck pulled up to hide half his face. Classic Bloodlust disguise.
"Wow," he said. "You are good."
"You weren't exactly stealthy," I replied, already annoyed. "What do you want?"
He held out a file. "Boss sent me. Your next mission."
I didn't move. He added, "And try not to fuck it up like the last two."
I shot him a glare that could turn bones to dust. He flinched.
"Hey," he said quickly. "Boss's words, not mine."
I snatched the file and opened it. A familiar name stared back at me.
Target: Theodore Malrione.
Task: Eliminate.
Then a bunch of photos of Theo were filed in, probably taken while he was unaware.
"What the fuck is this?" My voice was low, sharp.
"Don't ask me. I'm just the guy delivering the message," he said with a shrug. "Also, you're very difficult to find."
I shut the file slowly.
"Well, in that case—how about I give you something to send back to the boss?"
"Sure," he said, smug.
Bad move.
I didn't give him time to blink. My fist hit his jaw so hard he stumbled. I followed with a punch to the opposite side of his face. Then one final uppercut that sent him flying.
He landed hard, coughing, groaning. "Oh shit, Hayden. I almost forgot you were Eden's kid," he wheezed. "Shit…"
I hissed under my breath and slammed the door shut behind me.
What the hell was my brother thinking?
Targeting Theodore Malrione? That was suicide. Even if I somehow managed to pull it off—Isaaq would hate me. Forever.
I sat down. Ran my hands through my hair.
If I refused, my brother would kill me.
If I accepted, Victor Malrione would end me.
Not that I gave a shit about those two but Isaaq.
Isaaq would never forgive me.
Fuck.
I dragged myself back into the bedroom.
Isaaq was still asleep. Face calm. Chest rising and falling.
I stared at him again.
Guilt clawed at my insides. I hadn't even done anything yet, but I already felt like I'd betrayed him.
Theodore was his best friend.
And I was supposed to kill him.
My stomach twisted. My throat was dry.
God… why now? Why him?
Tonight was supposed to be perfect. He finally trusts me. He said he wanted me.
Now all I could think about was the way his eyes would look when he found out.
I lay down beside him slowly, afraid to wake him.
I stared at the ceiling, but all I could see was the nightmare waiting outside this room.
And for the first time in a long time, I was afraid. Not for me.
For him.
What am I going do?
_ _ _
Sleep? That didn't happen. Not when my mind was a hurricane of guilt and anger and the goddamn mission file felt like it was burning a hole in his soul.
I need to distract myself somehow. Get my mind off everything and blow some fucking steam.
So instead, I spent the night with a punching bag.
I beat the hell out of it. Blow after blow, I didn't hold back. My fists connected with that thing like it had personally betrayed me. I could feel the stitches rip, hear the fabric tear, watch the fluffs burst out like stuffing from a gutted animal.
When it finally gave in and collapsed, I stared at the mess for a moment—chest heaving, knuckles raw—then grabbed a broom and cleaned up like nothing happened. Because what else was I supposed to do? Sit still and think?
No fucking thanks.
I needed more. I needed pain, blood, adrenaline. Something to clear my damn head.
So I headed out. Found a shady alley, one of those places people warned you about but came to anyway when they had nothing to lose. I stood there like bait, practically begging for someone to take a swing at me.
I waited. And waited.
Nothing.
I let out a grunt and slammed my fist into the wall. It cracked. Deep. The feeling was... nice. A little too nice. So I did it again. And again. And again.
The hole got bigger. My hands started bleeding. Didn't care. Pain was better than guilt. Pain didn't ask questions.
Of course, all that noise drew attention.
A group of wannabe tough guys swaggered into the alley like they owned the place. One of them pointed at me like I was the intruder.
"You got a lotta guts disturbing our turf like that, punk."
I smiled. Oh, perfect.
Didn't say a word at first. Just smiled. That pissed them off. Good.
"You looking for a fight?"
"I thought you'd never ask," I said, voice low and cold. Then I raised my hand, crooked my finger at him. "Come on."
The idiot lunged. Sloppy.
I dodged. Drove my fist straight into his gut. He dropped like a stone, wheezing and clutching his stomach like I'd knocked the soul out of him.
I tilted my head, unimpressed. "Wait—that's it?"
I looked at the rest of them.
"If you're gonna come at me, do it all at once," I said. "It'll be more fun."
They exchanged glances like morons trying to solve a puzzle. Then they all came at me.
Finally.
They landed some hits, sure. I let them. I wanted to feel it. Then I gave it back ten times harder. Bone-crushing punches, kicks to the ribs, jabs to the jaw, one guy went flying into a trash can. It wasn't a fight. It was a release.
And I wasn't done.
"Get up," I ordered, voice rough, blood dripping from my knuckles.
But they'd had enough.
"Look man, we give! We give!"
"Please—no more!"
I almost landed another hit—until that stupid familiar pain flared up in my head.
Aiden.
That nagging little conscience, the part of me that still gave a shit. The part that sounded like my mom on her worst days and my brother on his best. God, I hated that part of me sometimes.
I hissed, spat on the ground, and walked away.
By the time I got back home, it was morning. The sun was creeping in through the blinds, gentle and annoying. And there was Isaaq—still sleeping. Dead to the world. Face smushed into the pillow, breathing soft and slow.
I stared at him in disbelief. "Oh Isaaq, you dumbass," I muttered. "You'd be killed so easily in your sleep."
I shook my head, couldn't help the small laugh that slipped out.
I went to the bathroom and took a hot shower, trying to wash off the blood, the anger, the guilt. It helped a little.
When I came out, I crawled into bed and pulled Isaaq into my arms. He was so warm. So soft. He smelled like cinnamon and cheap shampoo, and it somehow made me feel like everything was going to be okay, even when I knew it wasn't.
He was mine.
And I was probably going to lose him.
But for now, I held him close.
Because if this was the last good moment I got… I wanted it to last.