by Tate James
"Come on, you big wuss," I scolded myself as I stood there staring at the dry shower cubicle. "It's a fucking shower. You're alone. No way to drown."
Except logic and trauma occupy two totally separate areas of the brain, and no, they don’t talk. No matter how calm and rational I got myself, when I reached out to turn the shower on, the trauma side slammed front and center.
"Fuck off," I snarled at the irrational fear flooding my body when the shower spray soaked my wrist before I could pull it out.
Leaving the water running, I turned back to face myself in the mirror.
Slowly, I undressed myself and muttered motivational verbal abuse at my reflection, pepping myself up for taking this next step in busting through my damage. Ultimately, though, I decided that I was just making myself more anxious.
So, I drew a deep breath and got into the shower.
My stool was still in there, but I was strong enough now to stand on my own feet. So I bit my cheek and let the water cascade down my back. Not so bad. It was just like when I was in there with Lucas, minus his soothing voice and gentle hands.
I gave myself a small, mocking laugh as I relaxed. I'd gotten so worked up in my head about it, and it wasn't even a problem at all. This was fine. That panic attack on the first day must have just been because I'd just woken from a flashback about being drowned.
Buoyed with that confidence, I shifted further under the water, tipping my head back to get my hair wet. Then a stream of water sluiced over my face, and I instantly regretted my choice.
Flashbacks hit me hard and fast, speeding between one another in a jumble of fear, suffocation, and pain. Not just contained to the drownings, this time I was treated to a whole tangled-up montage of the torture highlights, and for one desperate moment I wondered if this was the breaking point. One quick flash of clarity, of knowing how badly my mind was spiraling out of my control, and I wondered if maybe there was no coming back this time.
Strong hands grasped my wrists, and I fought back, screaming and thrashing, but it was no use. I was too weak, too damaged. I was no match for Chase's superior strength, and he picked me entirely up off the ground, crushing me to his chest as he walked.
But his touch wasn't rough or cruel.
Chase... fuck. No. It wasn't Chase. I'd escaped that psychotic fuck. I'd gotten free.
"Zed," I gasped between harsh breaths. It was a question more than a statement, and he must have heard that in my voice.
"Yeah, baby, it's me. You're safe. Just take some slow breaths, okay? Can you do that?" His words were low and calm, soothing.
Damn him straight to hell, all I felt for him in that moment was relief. Love. My arms were banded around his neck, my shoulder injury forgotten as I held him close and trembled through the fading memories.
He didn't push me away, either. One of his arms was tucked securely around my waist, holding me against him as the other rubbed circles on my back. He just held me and gently talked me down, helping me regain my sanity piece by piece. Just like he'd done countless times before.
I'd once said to Lucas that without Zed, I doubted I'd have kept even a shred of my humanity. And it was true. He'd kept me grounded while I massacred my father's gang and my fiancé's family. He'd tethered me to humanity throughout five years of ruthless killings and violence. And now here he was, pulling me from the brink of total despair. Again.
Yet this time, it was tainted with the ache of his betrayal.
As soon as I felt like I was back in control of my own mind, I pushed out of his lap. We were sitting on the edge of my bed, and I pulled a sheet up to cover myself as I cast my gaze away from his prying eyes.
"Sorry," I croaked, having seen the bloody scratches on his cheek and forearms. "I'm fine now."
Zed gave a vexed sound and didn't move from his position. We were still close enough that my bare leg pressed against his thigh, but I was too physically exhausted to move any further.
"You're the furthest thing from fine, Dare." There was an edge of something in his tone that boiled my blood. Pity.
Instantly furious, I snapped my gaze back to glare death at him. "What the fuck would you know? You're the one who handed me over to him all wrapped up in a nice, neat bow. Everything that happened to me? Is your fault, Zed. You did this to me just as much as he did." I was so mad I was shaking. "How dare you look at me with pity. Shouldn't you be off somewhere with your old friend, toasting your successes? Why are you even still here? Or is this part of the game? Save me, just to bask in how utterly fucked up he left me?"
Zed didn't try to defend himself. He didn't even look shocked by my accusations. Just... resigned.
Then after a tense moment, he gave a short nod and left the room.
I blinked at the open door in confusion, wondering what fresh hell he was playing at now. Then he came storming back in with a Glock 19 in his hand, and I stiffened with fear.
He didn't aim it at me, though. He just came back around to the side of the bed where I sat and held the gun out butt first.
"Take it," he told me in a clipped tone.
I stared down at the gun, then back up at him with suspicion. "Excuse me?"
"Take it!" he shouted, and curse it all to hell, I did. My fingers wrapped around the grip like I was reuniting with an old friend, and Zed released his hold on it to take a step back. "Now. Shoot me."
My brows hiked. "Excuse me?" I was repeating myself, but that's how thoroughly off balance he'd left me.
"You heard me, Hades. Shoot me." He stretched his hands wide, his chin tilted up in stubborn defiance. "You're Hades. You don't suffer betrayals or insubordination from fucking anyone. If you truly believe everything you just said to me, this should be easy. Shoot. Me."
The breath caught in my chest and my fingers tightened around the gun. He was absolutely right; I should just shoot him. It's what I'd have done to anyone else, isn't it? So why hadn't I done it?
"You can't do it, can you?" he taunted, his gaze steady and confident as I stared back at him. "You can't do it because you know that's not what happened. You fucking know how much I love you, Dare." His voice cracked, and raw pain shone through his eyes. "You know I will spend every damn second for the rest of my life regretting the choices that got us here and desperately trying to make this up to you. But you need to hear me out."
I swallowed the hard lump of emotion trapped in my throat and shook my head. "I don't need to do shit for you, Zed."
His jaw clenched and his eyes flashed with determination. "You're not doing it for me, Dare. You're doing it for you. Get all the facts, then if you still don't believe me... you pull the damn trigger."
My pulse was still racing from my panic attack in the shower and my shoulder ached from being used, but my hand was steady on the gun. If there was one way to make me feel more like myself, it was to put a gun in my hands. Zed was no idiot; he knew what he was doing.
"Or pull it now," he pushed. "But this ends now. I've given you time and space, but you're hurting yourself now. That's where I draw the damn line."
My brow creased. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Zed nodded to my shoulder, and I gave it a lightning-fast glance, just long enough to see blood seeping up through the dressing. Shit. How badly had I been flailing when he pulled me from the shower?
Drawing a deep breath, I let it sweep through me in a weak attempt to calm my mind. It worked... sort of.
"Fine," I snapped, tightening my jaw. "So be it."
I squeezed the trigger.
The shot was deafening in such a confined space, making my ears ring and my weakened arm kick ever so slightly on the recoil. Damn it, I needed to get back into a gym sooner rather than later.
"What the fuck was that?" Zed exclaimed, eyeing the destroyed TV. A perfect bullet hole pierced the center of the screen, a spider-web of fractures radiating from it.
I shrugged and placed the gun down on the bedside table with my medication. "Checking if you were bluffing."
> His brows hitched. "You thought I would give you blanks?"
"I don't know what to fucking think anymore, Zed," I admitted with a tired sigh. "Grab my shirt from the bathroom; I'm not having this conversation sitting here naked."
He went to do as I asked but muttered something about it being dirty. Instead, he tossed me a towel to dry off and disappeared out of the room. He returned a minute later with an almost identical button-down shirt in a soft shade of gray that he held out to me.
"I should have fucking known that was your shirt," I mumbled, tugging it onto my good arm, then wincing as I wrestled my shitty one through the sleeve. "Neither Cass or Lucas would own Hugo Boss."
I buttoned just a few buttons, leaving the neck open and nodding to the stack of dressings Lucas had left for me. "Pass me one of those."
Zed picked up a dressing from the pile as I carefully peeled the old one off. But instead of passing it to me, he batted my hand aside and applied it himself. Thankfully, it was one with adhesive sides, so it was a quick and easy process.
"Are you ready to shut up and listen now?" he asked when he was done.
His face was only inches away, his broad frame leaning over me in an imposing yet unthreatening way. I clenched my teeth, prepared to be hit with an onslaught of memories of my own delusions starring Zed. But they didn't come, and I slowly released my breath.
"Fine," I whispered. "Start from the beginning."
He gave a small nod, shifting away to sit on the edge of my bed, close enough to touch if I wanted to. Not that I did.
"Alright," he agreed, rubbing a hand over his short-cropped hair. "So we start on the night of the massacre."
Somehow, this didn't surprise me in the least. Deep down, I'd known that was where this story began. The Timberwolf massacre.
14
Zed didn't immediately start spilling his story. Instead, he sat there for several moments, staring out the window like he was trying to collect his thoughts. Then he gave a weary sigh and let his shoulders slump.
"Do you remember what happened after that night?" he asked softly.
I frowned. "Of course I do. How could I not?"
He arched a brow at me like he wasn't so sure of that. "You remember how badly messed up I was? How Chase had stabbed me sixteen times with my own fucking knife and you saved my ass? Then after you shot him, you dragged me out of the cursed Lockhart mansion like I weighed nothing. Like you had a sixth sense that the whole place was about to go up in flames."
I shook my head. "I didn't. I just knew I needed to get you help. You were half dead when I got you out to the lawn." I pinched the bridge of my nose, recalling memories I'd long since buried. "You said some shit about it all being worth it, then you choked on your own fucking blood and I thought that was the end."
He flashed me a grin. "Nah, can't take me down that easy." He paused, his smile slipping as his eyes turned serious. "Do you know what the last thing I heard was? Before I woke up in the hospital?"
I wet my lips. "I can guess."
His eyes held mine captive, a lifetime of shared history passing between us. "Did you mean it?"
It was the first time I'd ever told Zed that I loved him.
"You know I did," I whispered, feeling my heart breaking all over again. How could he have betrayed my trust after everything we'd been through together?
Zed closed his eyes a moment, a long exhale shuddering through him. Then, when he opened his eyes again, it was with a certain measure of calm restored.
"When I woke up in the hospital, you weren't there," he continued.
Guilt twisted my stomach, even though we were talking about an incident from more than five years ago. "I had to finish our plan. Gather up the remaining Timberwolves and offer them the choice to stay or go, just like we’d agreed."
He nodded. "I'm glad you did; I wouldn't have had it any other way. But while you weren't there... someone else was. Someone who had evidence of everything we'd done and was threatening to use it if I didn't cooperate." He swiped a hand over his face, cringing. "Turned out the FBI had been heavily involved with the Lockharts. They had an inside man placed somewhere in the family’s security team, and his surveillance caught everything from the moment we entered the Lockhart compound."
I stared at him with a frown of disbelief. "So you just... rolled over?"
Zed gave a sharp, harsh laugh. "Hell no. I told them where to shove their evidence and threatened to come for the little douchebag trying to extort me as soon as I was able. I was pretty confident we could find a way to erase their tapes if we put our minds to it."
Now? Yes, we could. Back then? I doubted it. Maybe if we’d physically broken in and stolen the recordings, but we’d definitely lacked the IT department that the Timberwolves currently employed.
"So what changed?" I prompted. Despite everything, I was eager to hear the whole story. To understand how we’d gone so far off the rails.
Zed gave me a tired look. "The next day a different agent came to me with an upgraded offer. Work undercover for them and provide evidence on other gangs, and they'd offer immunity."
My eyes widened, and my lips parted in shock. "You sold us out to save your own ass? Jesus, Zed—"
"Not for me, dipshit. For you. They told me that if I took the job, that you and only you would be off limits. The case against you that had been started would be tossed out, and you'd be safe." His eyes implored me to see the truth in his words. That he had whole-heartedly believed he was protecting me. "All I could hear in my head was you telling me that you loved me, Dare. They offered me a chance to protect you not just against the crimes we'd just committed, but against everything we hadn't yet done. I couldn't say no to that."
My mind reeled, struggling to process the choice he'd made. "And... you just believed them?" I whispered. "No FBI agent could make that promise. Not against future crimes. How could you seriously have just taken them at their word?"
He gave a self-deprecating laugh, swiping a hand over his face. "Because the offer came from the one person who knew how to manipulate me better than anyone on earth." He hissed a breath through his teeth, shaking his head. "My mom."
"What?"
"Yeah." He grimaced. "I know. So much for being dead, huh? Turns out she’d been working for the FBI the whole damn time. Dad blew her cover, so she shot him and 'disappeared' so she could go back to her real life—without the fake name, fake crime family, fake son." His voice was so sharp it could cut glass, and against all my better instincts, I reached out to place my hand on his.
"Zed... I don't even know what to say." I frowned, chewing the edge of my lip. "You should have told me. The second you found out, you should have told me. We could have worked shit out together."
His sad gaze dropped from my face down to our hands. "I know," he admitted, turning his hand over beneath mine so we were palm to palm. "I fucked up, and my only excuse was that I trusted her. I trusted, even though she’d abandoned me, that she would protect you. Above all else, Dare, I only wanted to protect you."
As badly as I was hurting, I believed him when he said that.
Because wouldn't I do the same for him? If the shoe had been on the other foot and they’d approached me with an offer to protect Zed... yeah, I'd have taken it in a heartbeat.
"This is a lot," I murmured, retracting my hand from his. "Can I just get a minute to process?"
He gave a swift nod, standing up from the edge of the bed. "Of course. I'll... I'll just be downstairs… whenever you're ready to hear the rest."
When he was gone, I allowed myself a moment to flop back against the pillows and blink up at the ceiling. I didn't know what exactly I'd thought his explanation would be... but his mom being alive and the one who'd coerced him into the FBI? That I hadn't expected.
It hurt that he hadn't immediately told me. But given the situation at the time... We'd just executed dozens of people we'd known our whole lives, Zed had been stabbed sixteen times by his best friend, and he would have been
heavily dosed up on painkillers in the hospital. Yeah, I could understand why he’d made a shitty choice under those conditions.
It wasn't even a shitty choice to accept the deal with the FBI. I'd have done the same for him, a hundred times over. But he should have told me about it.
He’d been dealing with so much, with his mom... Fucking hell, I just wished I could have been there to support him through that. Where had I been? Why hadn't I noticed something was wrong?
I cast my mind back to that time, recalling long-buried details. In the aftermath of that bloody night, so many things had happened so damn quickly. Archer, Kody, and Steele had bought their freedom from the Reapers with blood and fear, and I’d provided the insurance they needed by handing Archer half of the black market trade routes for Shadow Grove. I'd gone headfirst down the rabbit hole of my new life, eating, sleeping, and breathing Hades. I'd shut off my humanity as much as possible just to survive the awful things I'd done.
And Zed? He’d been in hospital recovering from what should have been multiple death sentences. When I'd finally made it in to see him almost a week after the massacre, he'd been grim when he told me about some possible long-term damage from an injury to the nerves in his arm.
He'd been discharged not long after and immediately slipped into his role as my second-in-command. Together, we were unstoppable. We'd planned it all down to every detail, and it ran flawlessly. Within two months, we had fully secured our seat of power. The Timberwolves, for public knowledge, were extinct. And we were well on track to building up our empire in the shadows.
Then Zed had gone for surgery on his damaged nerves, followed by a three-month stint in a rehab facility in New York.
Taking a harsh breath, I strapped my sling on, because my shoulder was killing me, and left my room in search of Zed. I needed way more answers than I currently possessed.
I found him downstairs in the living room, a crystal tumbler in his hand and an open bottle of Scotch on the table near his foot.
"Good thinking," I muttered, pouring myself a healthy triple in the empty glass beside the bottle. I hadn't taken anything for pain in close to twelve hours, and my ribs were making it known.
