Chapter 6

Lucas's POV

I drove my fists into the punching bag over and over again, each hit landing with a force that rattled through my bones. Again. Again. Again.

The pain in my knuckles didn't stop me. The blood staining the leather didn't stop me.

Nothing could stop this storm inside me.

Sweat dripped down my face, mixing with the heat of my rage and the bitterness of my guilt. But no matter how hard I punched, how much I bled, it wouldn't change what I had done.

I had hurt her.

A fucking mistake.

How had I been so stupid?

Why hadn't I checked her background? Even once?

If I had just looked—just once—she wouldn't have suffered. She wouldn't have suffered because of me.

I had been the reason for her pain. My hands had slapped her. My own goddamn hands.

I looked down at them, shaking, bloodied, and useless.

I wanted to cut them off.

I wanted to destroy every part of myself that had made her cry. I wanted to destroy myself.

For the first time since my parents' death, I felt something unfamiliar burning behind my eyes. A tightness in my throat. A weight in my chest so heavy I couldn't breathe.

I wasn't allowed to cry. I never had been.

But then… why did it feel like I was about to break?

And then I heard it—her voice.

Soft. Trembling. Terrified.

"Please… don't hurt me."

A sob tore through my chest, raw and uncontrollable.

How could I have done this to her?

How could I have shattered someone so fragile?

I could still feel the ghost of my mother's hands, cupping my cheeks as she whispered words I had sworn to never forget.

"Lucas, baby, no matter what, never hurt a lady, sí? Because you don't know where she's coming from… how much pain she's hiding just to pretend to be strong."

"But Mama, what if she hurts me?" I had asked in my innocence, barely four years old.

"Then leave. But don't break her. Because a girl goes through hell in this world."

I had watched my father wipe my mother's tears that night, holding her as she sobbed, as if her heart had been torn apart by something I was too young to understand.

But I had understood one thing—I would never hurt a girl.

And yet, I had done the one thing I swore I never would.

I had broken her.

I sank to the cold gym floor, my body trembling as my vision blurred.

The pain in my knuckles was nothing compared to the agony clawing at my chest.

I clenched my fists and let out a broken, guttural scream.

Because the truth was unbearable.

I had become the monster I promised I'd never be.

Angel's Pov:

I lay motionless, my body weighed down by exhaustion, my mind drowning in memories I wished I could erase.

Beside me, he sat, his fingers moving gently through my tangled hair. His touch was careful—too careful. As if he knew I would flinch. As if he had already seen too much of my brokenness.

I turned slightly, my glassy eyes meeting his.

Why?

Why was he doing this?

His expression softened the moment our gazes met, as if my pain had reached out and gripped him by the throat.

"My precious, what happened?" he asked, his voice a quiet plea.

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to rip open my chest and let the words spill out.

But I couldn't.

I had never been allowed to speak my truth before—what made now any different?

His arms slid beneath me, lifting me effortlessly, cradling me like something fragile. Like something worth protecting. He settled me against his warmth, his hands cupping my face so gently that my breath hitched.

No one had ever held me like this.

No one had ever touched me without wanting to break me.

"I won't hurt you, my precious," he whispered, his thumb brushing away the silent tears trailing down my cheeks. "You don't have to be scared of me, sí?"

I nodded, though I didn't trust my voice. If I spoke now, I knew my voice would crack under the weight of everything I'd been forced to carry.

His warmth seeped into me, thawing something in my chest that had been frozen for so long.

And it terrified me.

I licked my lips, hesitant. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

A question I had never been able to ask before.

Because no one had ever been kind.

His gaze darkened for a fraction of a second, as if my words physically hurt him. His thumb traced slow, feather-light circles against my skin, grounding me, holding me together when I felt like I was about to fall apart.

"Because you are a pure-hearted girl who deserves the world."

I felt something shatter inside me.

Pure-hearted?

Deserving?

No. No, that couldn't be right.

I knew what the world saw when they looked at me.

Cursed. Unwanted. A murderer. A mistake.

People didn't hold mistakes.

People didn't comfort curses.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I fought back the sob rising in my throat.

"But… aren't you supposed to be scary?" I asked, desperate to shift the weight of this moment, desperate to understand why someone like him was being kind to someone like me.

I had heard the whispers about him.

Ruthless. Heartless. Cruel.

He should have killed me, not comforted me.

Instead, he chuckled—a soft, broken sound—and reached out, booping my nose. The small act startled me, made my breath catch.

"I am scary," he admitted, "but only to those who do bad things."

His dark eyes searched mine, as if he was daring me to believe his words.

"Do you find me scary?"

I hesitated.

I should.

But I didn't.

I shook my head, whispering the truth before I could stop myself. "No."

Something flickered in his gaze. He looked almost relieved.

Almost… proud.

"That means you didn't do anything wrong."

The weight of those words crushed me.

I inhaled sharply, my chest tightening. Oh.

For years, I had convinced myself that the world was right about me.

That I was a sin. A crime. A monster.

But what if I wasn't?

What if… what if I wasn't?

And then—

His next words sent my world crashing down again.

"Now, can I ask you something?"

A violent shiver ran through me. No. No, please, no more questions.

Questions meant accusations. Questions meant pain.

My stomach churned. My throat tightened so much it hurt to breathe.

Interrogations.

Screaming voices.

Chains against my bruised skin.

I sucked in a sharp breath, my nails digging into my arms, panic clawing its way up my spine. Not again. Not again.

"I… I don't know, Alessandro King," I choked out, my voice barely a whisper, my entire body trembling.

The past few days flashed through my mind—the dark rooms, the suffocating silence, the weight of hands that hurt instead of healed.

I couldn't do this. I couldn't—

"Angel, shh."

His voice was urgent but soft. So soft.

I barely registered the moment he pulled me forward, his arms wrapping around me, his warmth surrounding me like a shield.

I tensed at first, unsure how to react.

But then—

His hand rubbed soothing circles on my back.

His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath my ear.

And his voice—God, his voice.

"I believe you, sí? Breathe, my precious."

I froze.

I believe you.

Not "Explain yourself."

Not "Prove it."

Not "Liar."

I believe you.

The sob broke out of me before I could stop it.

My fingers curled into his shirt, clutching onto him as if he was the only thing keeping me tethered to this world. Maybe he was.

Tears spilled freely down my cheeks.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn't crying alone.

His arms tightened around me, holding me together when I was falling apart.

No one had ever held me like this.

No one had ever cared enough to stop the breaking before it happened.

Slowly, painfully, I calmed.

I lifted my head, blinking up at him through damp lashes.

He was already watching me, his dark eyes unreadable. His thumb brushed over my cheeks, wiping away the remnants of my breakdown.

"Good girl," he murmured, so gently it made my chest ache.

Then, without warning, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

It was soft. Lingering. Painfully tender.

His lips barely ghosted over my skin, but it was enough to undo me all over again.

"Now," he whispered, voice laced with something unreadable, "tell me about yourself, my precious."

"Your age. Your job. Your family."

My breath hitched.

Family.

A knife twisted inside my chest.

I clenched my fists, my entire body locking up.

I opened my mouth. Tried to speak.

But I couldn't.

Because what was there to say?

That I was nineteen and had never known what it felt like to be loved?

That my family was dead—because of me?

That I had spent my entire life being hated, abandoned, blamed?

I trembled violently, my lips parting, my throat aching from the unshed screams clawing to escape.

And yet—

No words came out.

Because for the first time in my life, someone was asking about me.

And I didn't know how to answer.