All Chapters of How To Love A Murderer.: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

Chapter One Hundred and One: Making Choices. Ian’s foot slammed down hard on the brake. The car skidded, gravel flying, before lurching to a violent stop. He sat there, his knuckles bone-white where they gripped the steering wheel, his breath coming in ragged gasps. In front of him was the dark, open road. Freedom. Safety. Behind him was the warehouse door, a black hole of fire and death. ‘He deserves to burn. After everything he did to you, to Elijah, to everyone… he deserves to be ash.’ But his eyes wouldn’t listen. All he could see was the image burned into his brain… Zhedya lying broken on the concrete, leg twisted, his face pale as the moonlight. Not a powerful monster, just a man…a man who was about to die. “No!” The word tore from his throat, raw and painful. It wasn’t a thought; it was a reflex. A stupid, suicidal reflex. He wrenched the steering wheel hard, slammed the car into drive, and stomped on the gas. The engine roared in protest as he aimed right for the

Chapter One Hundred and Three: The Devil’s Advocate The apartment was too quiet. Min sat across from him on a worn-out sofa, looking pale and fragile, like a little bird that might break if you moved too fast. But when she started speaking, her voice was steady, even if it trembled with tears she refused to let fall. “The smell of his cologne,” she whispered, staring at a spot on the wall. “It was this expensive, spicy smell. It mixed with the cheap hotel soap, and that’s all I could breathe.” She pulled at a thin silver bracelet on her wrist, the clasp broken. “This snapped when I tried to pull away. It was my grandma’s.” She told him the story with a flat, detached voice, as if she was reading from a police report about someone else. But when she got to the part after…the lawyers who ghosted her, the news channel that “lost” her interview tape, the way the police report seemed to vanish from the system…that’s when her calm cracked. Her voice broke. “They told me I was lu

Chapter One Hundred and Five: The Drag Path Content Note: This chapter contains intense action, depictions of vengeance, and themes of moral corruption. Reader discretion is advised. Grey skies. Cold mud. A handful of black umbrellas huddled around a hole in the ground. The rain fell in a miserable, steady drizzle, soaking everything. Ian stood apart from Min’s few mourners. He wasn’t crying anymore. He was just… empty and hallow inside. A statue carved from grief and a cold, hard fury. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, dripped from his nose and chin, but he didn’t seem to feel it. Zhedya stood beside him, holding a large black umbrella that sheltered Ian completely. He watched Ian’s profile, fascinated. He didn’t understand this feeling at all. This deep, consuming sorrow for a woman he had barely known. But he saw it in the tight line of Ian’s jaw, the trembling of his clenched fists. My angel feels the world’s pain as his own, Zhedya thought, a strange mix of

Chapter One Hundred and Seven: Snow Angel They woke up tangled together, legs intertwined, arms wrapped tight. The room was quiet and warm under the heavy blankets, but outside the big window, the world was turning white. Soft, fat snowflakes fell silently, painting the city in a hush. Zhedya shifted, pulling Ian even closer against his chest. He buried his face in Ian’s hair, breathing him in. His voice, when he spoke, was muffled and soft, different from his usual cool tone. It was almost shy. “Tell me what I need to do, Ian,” he whispered into the space between them. “To make you happy and make you stay here, with me. I want forever with you.” Ian felt the words sink into his skin, warm and dangerous. He kept his eyes closed. “Maybe I just want you to be good,” he whispered back, the words so quiet they were almost lost. Zhedya’s arms tightened around him. “I would do anything for you. Anything at all.” The snow kept falling outside, soft and endless, but inside the bedroom

Chapter One Hundred and Nine: The WitnessMiller’s apartment was too quiet, too clean. It felt like a museum, not a home. Ian sat on the stiff leather sofa, his whole body numb with shock and exhaustion.“Drink this,” Miller said, his voice softer than usual. He pressed a heavy glass of amber whiskey into Ian’s hands. “You need to unwind, you’ve been through hell.”Ian’s fingers were cold. He wrapped them around the glass, the burn of the first sip barely registering in his hollow chest.Miller sat down beside him, not too close, but his presence filled the space. “Ian,” he started, his tone deceptively casual. “While you were with him… did you ever see anything? Hear anything that could help us? Even the smallest detail could be the key to locking him up for good.”Ian stared into his glass, shaking his head. “No. Nothing.” The lie was automatic, a habit from months of playing a role.Miller leaned in, his voice dropping to a coaxing murmur. He refilled Ian’s glass without asking.