CHAPTER 4 — WHAT REMAINS OF HATE

(Nicholas’s POV)

The smell of gunpowder still clung to the air hours after the shooting stopped.

It sat heavy in the walls, thick enough that even breathing felt like swallowing ghosts.

My men had cleared the grounds, counted the bodies, burned the rest. But I was still standing in the hallway outside the cellar, my hands aching from how hard I’d hit Rafe.

He hadn’t made a sound when my fist landed.

Just stared at me, blood running from his split lip, eyes dark and steady. The same eyes that used to follow me through every corridor, half-shadow, half-promise.

I told myself I didn’t care what they used to mean.

The ambush had been too clean, too fast. The attackers had known our routes, our safe houses, the time we moved the shipment. Information only a handful of men had access to—men who’d once sworn to me with blood and loyalty.

And at the top of that list had been Rafe Vega.

Now he sat in the chair in front of me, wrists cuffed, head bowed.

The basement light flickered over him, throwing his face into shards of gold and shadow.

I should have felt victory. Instead, there was that quiet ache just behind my ribs, the same one that started the night I thought he’d died.

I forced myself to look at him the way I used to look at enemies.

Cold. Detached. Necessary.

“Tell me again,” I said, voice low. “How did they know?”

He lifted his head. There was a smear of blood on his chin, and a bruise blooming along his jaw where my fist had landed.

“I told you,” he said. His voice was rough, but not weak. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” I repeated, stepping closer. “You were the one who planned the route. You gave the orders. Every detail—yours.”

Rafe’s mouth twitched. Not a smile, exactly. Something smaller. Sadder. “And yet I’m sitting here cuffed while you’re still breathing. Maybe that’s the problem.”

The sound my hand made against the side of his face was small, sharp, final.

The kind of sound that made everyone else in the room stop breathing.

But he didn’t flinch. He just turned his head back slowly, blood running down his neck, and said, “Feel better now?”

I did, for half a heartbeat. Then the silence after felt worse.

The night bled into something gray and airless.

By the time the last of my men left the basement, dawn was pressing against the tall windows upstairs. The mansion felt too still, like it was holding its breath with me.

I should’ve been in the study going over reports, tracing names, hunting for whoever sold us out.

Instead, I was still there.

Rafe hadn’t spoken again after that last question. I hadn’t, either. I left him there cuffed to the chair while the generator hummed low, the only sound between us.

When I finally walked out, I told the guards to keep him alive.

That was hours ago.

I tried to tell myself it was strategy — that I needed him conscious to talk.

But every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face the second before I hit him: not angry, not afraid, just tired. Like he’d been waiting for it.

I poured a drink I didn’t taste and watched the sun crawl over the horizon. The light hit the shards of glass still scattered across the marble from the night’s fight, tiny flashes of color in all that cold.

By the time the clock hit six, I gave up pretending I could ignore the pull that dragged me back down to the cellar.

The guards straightened when they saw me.

“Out,” I said.

They didn’t argue.

Rafe was still in the same chair. He hadn’t slept. There was dried blood on his knuckles — not from my punch, but from the fight before, when he’d dragged me out from under a collapsing beam.

I’d told myself that meant nothing, just reflex, old habits. But I couldn’t shake the memory of his hand on my shoulder, the way he’d pulled me clear before the gunfire hit the walls again.

I stood across from him, hands in my pockets, forcing my voice to stay even.

“You were supposed to die that night,” I said. “The night you disappeared. I made sure of it.”

Rafe’s gaze flicked up. “I noticed.”

“I buried the pieces myself.”

“Guess you missed a few.”

He said it like a joke, but there was something under it — a faint tremor, or maybe just exhaustion.

I stepped closer. The air between us changed.

“You think this is funny?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I think it’s sad. You still don’t know what really happened, do you?”

That stopped me.

For a second, I hated how easily he could still do that — tilt the world sideways with a single sentence.

“Then tell me,” I said.

He looked away, jaw tight. “Would you even listen?”

I didn’t answer.

The silence stretched until it felt like another living thing in the room.

Finally I said, “You talk, Vega. Or I start finding new ways to make you remember.”

He gave a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “You already tried the old ways. Didn’t work.”

Something in me snapped. I crossed the distance before I knew I was moving. My hand fisted in his shirt, dragging him up just enough that the chains clanked against the chair.

Rafe didn’t fight me.

He just looked at me — that same steady, infuriating look — and said, “You’re angry because you’re not sure anymore.”

My grip tightened.

“Not sure about what?”

“About me,” he said. “About what you lost.”

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the sound of both of us breathing.

Then I shoved him back, harder than I meant to. The chair scraped across the floor.

time I closed my eyes, I saw his face the second There was dried blood on his knuckles — not from my punch, but from the fight before, when he’d dragged me out from under a collapsing beam.

I’d told myself that meant nothing, just reflex, old habits. But I couldn’t shake the memory of his hand on my shoulder, the way he’d pulled me clear before the gunfire hit the walls again.

I stood across from him, hands in my pockets, forcing my voice to stay even.

“You were supposed to die that night,” I said. “The night you disappeared. I made sure of it.”

Rafe’s gaze flicked up. “I noticed.”

“I buried the pieces myself.”

“Guess you missed a few.”

He said it like a joke, but there was something under it — a faint tremor, or maybe just exhaustion.

I stepped closer. The air between us changed.

“You think this is funny?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I think it’s sad. You still don’t know what really happened, do you?”

That stopped me.

For a second, I hated how easily he could still do that — tilt the world sideways with a single sentence.

“Then tell me,” I said.

He looked away, jaw tight. “Would you even listen?”

I didn’t answer.

The silence stretched until it felt like another living thing in the room.

Finally I said, “You talk, Vega. Or I start finding new ways to make you remember.”

He gave a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “You already tried the old ways. Didn’t work.”

Something in me snapped. I crossed the distance before I knew I was moving. My hand fisted in his shirt, dragging him up just enough that the chains clanked against the chair.

Rafe didn’t fight me.

He just looked at me — that same steady, infuriating look — and said, “You’re angry because you’re not sure anymore.”

My grip tightened.

“Not sure about what?”

“About me,” he said. “About what you lost.”

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the sound of both of us breathing.

Then I shoved him back, harder than I meant to. The chair scraped across the floor.

“I lost a traitor,” I said.

But even I didn’t believe it.

---

I left him cuffed there again. Or at least, I told myself I would.

Halfway up the stairs, I stopped. My pulse hadn’t calmed; it had just shifted—anger melting into something quieter, heavier.

I turned back.

The basement light was dimmer now, one bulb flickering. Rafe hadn’t moved much. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, a faint tremor running through his fingers. Exhaustion, blood loss, maybe both.

When I stepped closer, he didn’t look up right away.

“You’re going to keep staring at me until you find what you want to see,” he murmured. “But it’s not here, Nicholas.”

I ignored the way my name sounded in his mouth. “You always talk this much when you’re guilty?”

He smiled faintly. “Only when I know I’m not.”

The small smirk almost steadied me. The sound of his voice almost did. But then something caught my eye—a glimpse of color near his collar.

It wasn’t blood.

The edge of a leather cord hung loose beneath his shirt, the kind used for ID tags—only Rafe hadn’t worn any since before the betrayal. I stepped forward before thinking, fingers catching the chain and tugging it free.

A silver key slid out, dull with age, and attached to it was a small metal emblem shaped like a falcon’s wing—our old family insignia.

Only three of those existed.

Mine. My father’s. And one more that we’d buried with a man named Daniel Cortez.

Cortez—the insider who’d been killed the same night Rafe disappeared.

The air changed. I could hear my heartbeat in it.

“Where did you get this?” My voice came out lower than I meant.

Rafe’s gaze didn’t waver. “He gave it to me. Told me to keep it safe.”

“He’s dead.”

“I know,” Rafe said quietly. “Because he died buying me time to warn you.”

It didn’t make sense.

It shouldn’t have made sense.

But in the flickering light, I remembered the pattern of that night—how the first shots had come too early, the route already compromised. How Rafe had gone silent on comms minutes before everything exploded.

If he’d been with Cortez—if Cortez had been the real leak—

I caught myself and straightened, shoving the key into my pocket before he could see my hand shake.

“You expect me to believe that?” I said.

“No,” Rafe murmured. “I expect you to remember.”

He leaned back, the faintest smile on his bruised mouth. “You used to trust your instincts. When did that change?”

For a moment, I didn’t know whether to hit him again or pull him closer.

Both felt dangerous for the same reason.

The hum of the generator filled the silence. Dust drifted in the light like slow snow.

Finally I said, “If you’re lying, I’ll end you myself.”

He nodded once, eyes steady. “Then you better make sure you’re right this time.”

--

I turned away before he could see the flicker of doubt cross my face.

On my way out, I pressed the small key into my palm until it hurt. The falcon’s wing left an imprint in my skin, a ghost of loyalty I’d buried years ago.

Upstairs, the sun had risen fully, pale light spilling through the windows, touching the blood on my cuffs like rust.

I stood there a long time, listening to the house wake, trying to convince myself that the only thing I’d found in that basement was another lie.

But the weight of the key in my pocket said otherwise.

And for the first time since Rafe Vega came back from the dead, I wasn’t sure who the enemy really was.