TW: descriptions of depression, suicide. Graphic violence. This chapter is not edited. Please continue at your own risk.

— Chapter 80 —

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About three golden rules in life Chains was absolutely sure of.

"I've gotta say, Ash. This really takes the cake. Every word that just came out of your mouth was so fucking stupid that I'm not even sure I heard you correctly. So I'm going to need you to say that all again—in my good ear, this time."

Rule number one: if you saw some sorry mother-fucker getting thrown into a back alley late at night by a shadowy figure, you didn't see a shadowy figure at all. You sure as hell didn't see Chains, and you definitely didn't see a shiny balisong knife in his hands.

As a matter of fact, you didn't see shit.

The ginger-haired Mayhem biker he'd corralled behind Crave wasted no time in trying to put space between himself and the dark silhouette ghosting towards him. Flat on his ass, Ash gripped at the muddied cement beneath him and scrambled backward. He could hardly see through the pouring rain—but his attackers blue-grey eyes seemed to glow with a particularly sharpened rage.

"You're crazy, man," Ash spluttered. "You didn't hear me say nothin'."

A shriek of grating steel cut through the air. Chains had the point of his butterfly knife digging into the nearby wall, its blade squealing as he tore into the weathered stone like hot butter. He revelled in the way Ash squirmed at the sound.

"Really?" He planted his boot on Ash's chest—trapping him. "That's a relief, then. For a moment there I thought I heard you confess to trashing a friend's place and bashing a bartender that I happen to be good friends with. His name's Elliot. But I don't need to tell you that, do I?"

Ash laughed incredulously.

"So what if we did!" The biker slurred through his teeth, "What the hell does it matter to you?!"

Rule number two: there exists a universal truth that only three groups of people are incapable of lying. Drunk people, drugged-up people, and nuns. You don't fuck with nuns.

Crouching down, Chains forced Ash's freckled face into his hand and brought his knife to eye level.

"You're going to tell me everything," the Stray Dog rasped. "After that, I'll decide whether or not I'm going to cut out your tongue."

"I ain't telling you shit!"

"Wrong answer."

A howl ripped through the air as Chains tore his blade through the skin by Ash's lips. Bleeding onto his crooked teeth, the biker shuddered a few panicked breaths.

"The next one's going to need stitches," Chains warned. "Your call."

"Jesus, fuck! Okay!" Prying his face from the Stray Dog's hands, Ash rushed to explain, "We were just following the kid's orders, man. I swear. All I did was get handed the keys. None of us knew that little blondie bartender would be there."

The kid. Han.

Chains' blood simmered beneath his skin. He could still remember the echo of gunfire, the fall of a body, the unblinking eyes of a dying friend. And it filled him with more rage than grief could make way for.

Ash let go of a snivelling laugh. "He screamed real pretty, though. Almost as pretty as that voice of his."

Chains' anger cracked like a glow-stick.

Fucking stupid piece of shi—

Knuckles collided against bone. Once, twice, three times, then he lost count. At that point, he was beating down blindly. He'd lost a best friend. He'd lost the Chief, and he'd lost his family—the Stray Dogs—in only a matter of days. Chains didn't have the patience for pacifism anymore. He needed to let off steam in the only way he knew how.

Golden rule number three:

Why break the rules when you can break a few bones instead?

That one was his personal favorite. It just had a way of making life... simpler. So much simpler, in fact, that he'd gotten it tattooed from his elbow to his wrist as an everlasting principle to live by.

He didn't stop landing blows until Ash's blood was soaking down his palms. Until the biker's head had fallen back limp, but not completely unconscious.

"Shooter gave you those keys, didn't he?" Chains hissed. The name poisoned him to speak. "You two are best fuckin' buddies, so tell me—how long have you known, hm? How long have you known Shooter was running for them? Do you know where he is?"

And why didn't I see through him sooner?

After all, that was the root of all of this. Chains hadn't seen through the facade sooner. He'd gotten soft. He'd trusted Shooter beyond a doubt, and for that, the person most like a father to him was dead.

Edge had to know that. He had to believe that Chains was the reason for the Chief's body sitting six feet underground. Chains had to look his best friend in the eyes every day from now on, forever wondering when that Band-Aid would be ripped off. When Edge would finally gain the sense to throw him away.

All of this shit rested on his shoulders.

"Does all that shit really even matter?" Ash burbled through the blood in his mouth. "Shooter played you, man. Your Chief is dead. You think Shooter's wasting his time trying to come to terms with that? Because he isn't. He's running the Stray Dogs while you're sitting around wallowing in your own self-pity. Edge is powerless to stop any of this—so why're you running with him?"

"Because loyalty is worth more to me than anything you double-dealing fucks could offer."

The Chief's voice echoed somewhere in a far-off memory. Sometimes it's the very difference between life and death. Survival and suffering.

Running a hand through his silver locks, Chains tensed his jaw and stood to his feet.

"So it was you." Piecing together the situation, he recited, "Shooter gave you the keys. Then you, Marcus, Han—you three are the ones who trashed that apartment. Midas has all of you on his roster, and I bet Tats doesn't even have a fuckin' clue."

Perfect, he thought. At least now he had a definitive hit list of names to follow.

A strange look of terror flashed over Ash's eyes.

"How do you know Marcus was there? I don't remember saying—"

Chains tossed his head up to laugh. "Are you kidding? That red-headed prick couldn't wait to rub it in. He told Edge himself—and you know what he got for that? A broken jaw and two broken ribs. Honestly, though, I think he got lucky." Snatching Ash by the collar, his voice dropped to a low growl. "Trust me, Ash. When I'm done with you, what happened to Marcus is gonna look like a mercy. You'll be drinking your meals from a fucking syringe."

Rule number four: nothing good comes in threes. When all else fails, disregard rules 1-3 and proceed with plan B.

Chains dug his knife into Ash's mouth.

"A few broken bones is too good for you," he uttered. "No... I have something better. Tell me, Ash. Do you know what we Stray Dogs used to do back in the day to the people who wronged us?"

Ash's eyes shot wide. He shook his head, silently begging, pleading for mercy.

"That's right. We'd take your fucking teeth."

After all—even the most aggressive hounds were nothing without them. Disarming a dog's teeth came as a punishment for biting its owner. Too cruel that even the Stray Dogs stopped using it as a method for revenge, keeping those teeth around as trophies. But Chains wasn't against making a few exceptions.

Molars first. The knife made light work of it, plucking them out haphazardly. Ash's screams were only a passing whisper in the noise of the storm.

"I sure hope you heal up fast, Ash. Because I'm going to need you to send a message for me. To Midas, Han, Shooter—and anyone else who thinks they can cross us. We're coming for you. And we're not going to be taking teeth."

A quiet whisper.

"We're taking everything."

"Where exactly are you taking us?"

The question drifted away in a midnight breeze. The storm from earlier had let up, and I'd found myself with a hand clasped in Noah's. He was leading us along a short trail toward the top of a grassy hill. Moonlight danced off the fresh raindrops clinging to thick trees and shrubs, which sparkled like diamonds beneath the glowing half-moon above our heads.

"Best view in the city," he told me, just as Boston's skyline started to materialize in the distance. My eyes widened towards the sight.

How did he even find this place?

"Do you like it?"

The city skyscrapers were mirrors reflecting back an ocean of stars. Glimmering waves lapped along the harbor. Lights were on, thousands of them, enough to make me forget just how many people down there were busy sleeping the night away.

"I never thought it could look this beautiful," I whispered.

"Yeah," he said. "Sometimes it's good to take a breath and see things from another angle. Reminds us that our lives are so much more than what exists down below." Noah shrugged his jacket off and laid it down over the wet earth. "Here. Sit."

I gave him a look. "You're going to freeze to death without that."

"That's why I have you," he said. "To keep me warm."

"Don't count on it."

His warm laugh melted me.

"Playing hard to get, huh?" the Stray Dog asked, sprawling himself out on the ground. "Yeah—that's real cute, Alley Cat."

It took patience to stop my face from burning up. "We'll see how good of a flirt you are when your teeth start chattering." But his grin didn't lift. "Just—shut up and look at the view or something."

"I've got all the view I need right here."

He folded his hands behind his head and admired me. Smoky eyes trailed down the clothes draped over my body, most of them his, and all of them smelling like his vanilla cologne.

"Do a spin for me," he said, a smirk playing on his lips.

I indulged him with a light-hearted huff. Sticking my arms up, I made a full rotation and let him get his fill of the sight. "It wasn't my idea," I mentioned. "I thought you'd be upset about it."

"Not at all. It's a good look on you." He made room for me on the jacket as I sat myself down beside him. His hand slipped into mine. Our noses nearly touched. "Besides—I like it when people know what's mine."

I smiled. "Yours, huh?"

"I'm not hearing any objections."

His fingers slipped beneath my—his—our—shirt, a gentle thumb tracing circles on my hipbone. Our lips connected. Warm, soft, delicate. They fit together like puzzle pieces, two separate fragments binding into a perfect whole. A short kiss. But meaningful.

"You're in a good mood," I murmured between us.

"I have a thing or two to be happy about," he promised.

"Because you remembered me, right?" My thoughts circled back to everything he'd said to me at Crave. "I'm guessing it's not just because you've seen me around once or twice. So are you ever going to tell me how we first met? Why I'm so familiar? Or do you plan on keeping me guessing?"

His head fell back on the ground. Tresses of brown-black hair cascaded over his forehead, pearly teeth like diamonds in the moonlight.

"I haven't decided yet," he teased, keeping me hooked like a mouse on a string. "Maybe I'll tell you about it. Someday."

The disappointment simmered. He wracks his brain over this for weeks and now that he finally knows, he's not even going to tell me? A curse rolled off my tongue.

"Blin." Jeez. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

The gold in his eyes kindled.

"What?" I grumbled.

"I just... never hear you speak Russian."

"Don't get used to it."

"Seriously. You should do it more often." He sat up, dropping his chin to his palm. "Tell me something in Russian, Alley Cat. Something you know I'm not going to understand."

"Not a chance."

"Come on." A laugh. "Think about it. This is the perfect opportunity to cuss me out."

I sucked in a breath and spoke the first thing that came to mind.

"Ya lyublyu provodit' vremya s toboy, dusha moya."

"What does that mean?" he was quick to ask. The childlike wonder in his expression caught me off-guard.

Throwing his words back at him, I teased, "Maybe I'll tell you about it. Someday."

"Very funny," he complained. "Hilarious, even. Did you think of that on the spot?"

"Aw. Don't look so hurt, Sugar. Besides," I said, "I've already told you. I speak the language with the eloquence of a four-year-old. That's why I don't speak it very often. It's awkward."

He patted down his pockets and tilted his head in disagreement. "Your Russian sounded pretty good up on that stage tonight."

"That's... different." While he found himself a spare cigarette, I made fun of him and asked, "Besides, how exactly would you know what sounds good and what doesn't?"

Noah grinned. "You got me there."

I shoved his shoulder light-heartedly.

"What was the song about?" he asked after a few moments, grazing the cig across his lower lip. "Sounded like it meant something to you."

I'd been expecting him to ask the question, but now that it was up in the air, I wasn't sure how to answer him. Because it was a song about James—about an old love, one that I wasn't sure existed anymore. It was a song about letting go.

Without having to think about it, I sat forward and pulled out the old lighter he'd given me. My lighter. One that I'd lost years ago. I'd seen it in Noah's hands before—a few weeks ago, as I'd been lighting his cigarette. I thought I'd found it somewhere without even realizing it. I thought Noah must have stumbled upon it—found it somewhere in the apartment—so I never questioned why it was in his possession.

Tonight though, I finally had my answer.

Noah's pale cheek nuzzled into my palm as I burned his cigarette. It took a few tries for the lighter to spark. "The song is a twist on an old bedtime story my mom made up. The languages you hear are the voices of two lovers."

"What are they saying?" he asked, ash glowing red as smoke seeped from his lips.

"They're arguing. One of them wants more to life than just love. The other knows they're happy with their partner—happy with everything they have already."

He mused over my answer, then questioned, "Which voice is which?"

I looked up. "Guess."

It took a moment for him to decide.

"I'm guessing you're the one who wanted more," he figured. "Work, college, a life outside of Boston. And... I think James only needed you." Amber eyes met mine. "Am I right?"

Noah's inferences intrigued me, because he was somehow right and wrong simultaneously. The question depended completely on the point in time that it was asked.

"It doesn't really matter," I told him. Tucking the rusty lighter away, I laid down on Noah's jacket again and shuffled my head onto his thigh. His free hand moved to rest in my hair. "That was never the point. The point is that they're so frustrated with each other, so angry, that they haven't even realized that the whole time they've been yelling... neither one has been able to understand the other. They've never really been listening."

James never listened to me. Never understood what I wanted.

"What about now?" Noah asked me. "Do you feel understood?"

I contemplated the question. "More understood than usual."

"Do you feel happy?"

My smile split with a breathy chuckle.

"Mm-hm," I confessed. "More than usual."

My cheek nestled comfortably into him. Things were different in this moment—I was weightless. No worries, no stresses, just warmth. With Noah, I just felt safe. So, so safe.

"And loved?" he whispered, voice as gentle as the fingertips brushing back my hair. "Do you feel loved, Darling?"

A sinking realization made itself apparent. Yes, I thought instinctively. Every neuron begged me to shout, Yes. A million times, yes. As loved as I've ever been.

Instead, I whispered, "More than I can handle."

The answer seemed to satiate him. For a few minutes after that, we sat together in an easy silence. Noah smoked from his cigarette, stroking absently at my hair with his attention on the skyline. I watched him with stars in my eyes. He was captivating. So unlike anyone I'd ever seen. A diamond in a mountain of rough, persevering.

He was the first to break the silence.

"You were wrong, you know."

I watched him put out his cigarette.

"You once told me that the two of us belonged to different worlds," he spoke. "That you and I were never meant to cross paths. You were wrong."

"What do you mean?"

Noah's hand held mine so tight that I thought I'd break apart if he were to ever let go.

"You are my world, Elliot. That means whenever you fight, I'll fight. Wherever you go, I'll go. Whatever you ask for, I will give you. However you feel right now; whatever you choose. Because you're it for me, Darling." He brings my hands to his chest and breathes the vow I know I'll never forget. "Even in dust, my heart—my soul is yours. Forever."

I was barely inches from him. My forehead was against his own, my body woven within his. I was a support beam, holding him up, giving him the foundations to keep going. I'm here, I wanted to tell him. I'm not going to leave you.

"But I don't want you to choose love," he continued on. "Not before you know my past. Not before you know my life or understand the terrible things I've done. I'd rather you hear it all and despise me now, than..." Noah shook his head, as if the misery of his words was too much to bear. "I've never told anyone. Never. The things I've lived with, the nightmares... it's more pain than I could ever force you to know, Elliot."

"No," I countered. "No. Listen to me. You're not forcing me into anything, ever. Nothing in your past could ever change what I feel for you right in this moment. So if you need to tell me something, if you need someone to help bear the weight—I'm here. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm with you."

"You'll hate me for it. What I did to my father, what I let happen... you'll change your mind."

The question barely passed through my lips. "What happened to your father, Noah?"

The Stray Dog shuddered a deep breath.

"He killed himself," Noah whispered, "and I let it happen."

He uttered the sentence as if he'd just confessed to something unforgivable. Like even saying it was committing a grave sin of some kind. And in that instant, as his voice broke and his eyes jammed shut, I knew for sure my heart had broken for him.

"I was eight years old when he was deployed," he breathed, struggling to find the words. I watched him grip the chain around his neck. "It was a little while after my brother was born. My father took this ring with him and spent two years overseas. Saw shit that none of us could even imagine.

"When he finally came back, he realized how much he hated the city he was coming home to. Boston back then wasn't anything like it is now. It was overloaded with drugs, violence, weapons—and corrupt cops indifferent to all of it."

"I remember."

I remembered my father working long hours back then, trying to get things under control. He'd always spent more time in the station than he did in his own home.