The door shut behind us with a soft click.
Nine took one step into my room—then collapsed into me like a dying star.
His weight caught me off guard, and I stumbled back, but my arms closed around him out of instinct. He shook violently in my grasp, his fists tangled in my shirt, his body hot and clammy with exhaustion and something worse.
His breath hitched.
Then came the first sob.
"Why," he choked out, "why did you let him hurt me?"
My chest caved inward.
He wasn't talking about some faceless stranger. He was talking about the boss. About the cattle prod, the bruises, the eyes that watched him cry like it was a show.
I had known.
Not the details, not the full extent—but I had known what Nine was made for. What they used him for. The silence in the bond, the glassy look in his eyes whenever I saw him again. I told myself I couldn't interfere. I told myself I was building toward something. That waiting was survival.
But he didn't understand that. He just knew I hadn't come for him.
"I thought—" I tried, voice scraping the back of my throat. "I thought I was protecting you by waiting for the right time—"
He twisted in my arms, lifting his face to mine. It was red, wet with tears, eyes swollen and wide. "You felt me."
I froze.
"You felt me, and you still didn't come."
I couldn't lie to him.
So I didn't.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, voice shaking. "I should've—I should've—"
"He made me kneel on rice," Nine interrupted, his voice barely audible. "Hours. My knees went numb. Bled."
My hands moved on their own, curling protectively around his frame, trying to steady him. But nothing could hold back the tremor in his voice.
"He pulled my hair back when I cried. Smiled. Said it made me look beautiful." Nine swallowed, a sound like he was choking on glass. "So I tried not to cry. I really tried."
He looked at me then, completely broken. "But he made me anyway."
Every word dug into me like claws. My wolf, Nyx, writhed in my chest, howling through the bond, furious and ashamed.
Nine's voice broke again. "He used the cattle prod just to hear me scream. Just to watch."
I reached for his face, cupping his cheek with shaking fingers. "Nine—"
"I didn't want to think about you," he whispered. "Because thinking about you made it worse."
I flinched.
He buried his face in my shoulder, his next words muffled but clear enough to gut me.
"You're my Alpha," he said. "And you let him."
Something snapped in me.
I wrapped my arms around him tighter than before. Not possessive—desperate. "I should've stopped it. I don't have an excuse. I just— I thought if I waited, if I played it smart—"
"I don't want smart," Nine cried. "I wanted you."
The bond between us pulsed, throbbed like a bruise. He wasn't shielding anymore. He was open, raw, pouring his pain into me—and I deserved every jagged piece of it.
"I hate him," I whispered. "I hate him for what he did to you. But I hate myself more for letting it happen."
His hands fisted against my chest.
"Do you still want me?" he asked, and it was a child's question. Small. Afraid. "Even after—after all of it?"
"Always."
I didn't say it like a promise. I said it like a vow, carved out of bone and blood and guilt. I kissed his hair, held him like he was the last good thing in a world full of rot.
He didn't answer.
Eventually, I lifted him into my arms, and he didn't resist. Just leaned into me, weak and trembling, tears soaking the hollow of my throat. I brought him to bed, settled him beneath the covers like he was something sacred, not broken.
He clung to me even in sleep.