The heavy car doors slammed shut as Zane, Kai, Valentina, Rei, Bianca, Ivy and Damian rushed Aira into the Everett house. The night air smelled of rain and petrol; the headlights from the SUV left long streaks across the drive. Inside, the house felt impossibly warm compared with the warehouse—lamps thrown on, curtains drawn—an island of light in a dark world.
Kai and Valentina's parents met them in the foyer. Mr. Everett was in a loosened tie, sleeves rolled up; Mrs. Everett was in a cashmere cardigan and slippers, her hair pinned back in that practical way she always wore when she worried. Both froze when they saw the bundle in Zane's arms.
Mrs. Everett's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God—what happened to her?" Her voice trembled like glass.
Zane's expression was controlled, respectful but cold. He wore a charcoal coat, the collar steady against the evening chill. "She's safe now," he said simply. "But we need a doctor. Now."
They moved fast, with a kind of careful violence. Valentina's fingers stayed threaded through Aira's limp hand as Zane carried her up the hall. A guestroom—the same one the twins kept for weekends and emergency friends—had been prepared earlier that night when the call first came through: soft lamps, flannel sheets, a fleece blanket folded on the foot of the bed. Zane eased Aira down on the bed like she was the most fragile thing in the world, brushing a loose curl from her forehead with an almost unbearably gentle touch.
Mr. Everett was already on his phone; his voice calm despite the tremor beneath it as he barked out the address to a long-trusted private doctor. Valentina hovered by the bed, her eyes rimmed red; Kai paced in the doorway like a caged animal, leather jacket wrinkled from his sprint there.
Time moved viscously until the doctor arrived—an older man with steady hands and kind, tired eyes. He carried his bag, knelt like he would speak to a child, and took Aira's pulse as if touching a relic.
"Let's see," he murmured more to himself than to anyone. He worked methodically—checking her airway, the set of her jaw, the way her ribs expanded. He pressed fingers to bruised areas, examined the split on her lip and the darkening bloom at her temple. He unbuttoned a cuff, looked for dehydration, quickly tested reflexes.
He straightened at last, and the soft room held its collective breath. "Physically," he said, "with rest and proper care she will recover. Her lip will heal, bruises will fade. But—" he paused, and his eyes swept the room. "This isn't just skin-deep. She's been through something that will not vanish with bandages. Severe trauma. She needs safety, time, therapy. She needs people who will not ask for answers before they give her peace."
The weight of that sentence fell like rain. No one moved for a beat. Zane—still in his coat—kept his hand clasped over Aira's fingers, knuckles white. She twitched a little and half-awoke, eyes glassy, searching.
She reached for him with a tiny, automatic motion. "Zane," she whispered.
He leaned in until his forehead touched hers, voice rough and cracked with held-back things. "I'm right here, princess. I'm not going anywhere."
Aira's breath finally evened out. Small, exhausted tears broke free and tracked cold lines down her cheeks—relief, not fear. The doctor folded up his instruments and gave the room one last look. "Let her sleep. Watch for fever, infection. And call me—if anything changes." He left his number on the bedside table and slipped out, closing the door gently behind him.
The house exhaled. Zane never moved from the chair beside the bed; he sat with his coat draped around her and his hand curled tight around hers, eyes wide and unblinking as if he could will her whole back together with focus alone. Valentina and Kai took turns bringing warm tea and wringing their hands; Bianca and Ivy kept watch by the window. Even the twins' parents were quietly at the doorway, spectral and shaken.
Aira, finally surrendered to sleep, lay with the small silver star at her throat catching the bedside lamp's halo. For the first time since the warehouse, she slept without flinching.
A few miles away, beneath the city, Zane's private basement hummed with a different light. It was a raw room—bare concrete, low hung bulbs, a bank of monitors and a leather chair. It smelled faintly of oil and old books. The team had brought in one person tonight who did not need protecting: Mrs. Harper.
She sat bound to a cold metal chair, the straps biting at her wrists; her designer blouse was torn at the cuff, lipstick smudged, a smear of blood at her mouth from an earlier scuffle. The arrogant composure she'd worn for years had sloughed away, leaving something rawer: a brittle, frantic defiance. She blinked fast, refusing to show fear in a place without an audience.
"Bring him in," Zane said. His voice sliced through the basement like a blade wrapped in velvet.
Guards dragged in Mr. Harper—hemmed suit askew, face red with confusion and fury. His protests filled the concrete space like a lost echo. Behind Mr. Harper, Kai, Rei and Damian stood with unreadable faces—clean, dark clothes, the air around them heavy with controlled rage.
Zane walked slowly to stand right in front of Mrs. Harper. In the harsh, unromantic light of the basement she looked smaller than she'd ever seemed from the podiums and perfect photos. Yet she still tried to smile—an awful, brittle thing that didn't reach her eyes.
Zane's presence bored into her. He was in a black sweater now, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms skeined with lines from the fight earlier; there was a freshness of dried blood at the knuckles where he'd hit Liam. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Now," he said, deadly calm. "You're going to tell us everything."
Mrs. Harper's smile curdled into something like laughter before she steadied and leaned forward, the picture of possession and poison. "You want my secrets, Mr. Blackthorn? You don't even know what you've fallen into."
Rei moved forward and flicked on a small recorder. "Start talking," he said flatly.
Mrs. Harper's lips thinned. "Because she was never supposed to shine," she spat. "Because she was supposed to be nothing." Her voice unpeeled like an old wound. "You don't understand. Her mother—your precious hero—ruined my life. Took my husband from me, my place, my reputation. I swore that child would never be allowed to flourish. I swore she would suffer. I planted the seeds years ago. I fed them. I watched them grow." Her hands shook now, but her face had the crazed gleam of someone who'd rehearsed this confession to the last syllable.
Silence slammed down. Mr. Harper went ashen. Kai stared, numb; Valentina's hand flew to her mouth; Damian's jaw worked. Rei's fingers tightened on his recorder.
"You're twisted," Kai was the first to say, voice low and hot. "All these years—you hated an innocent girl for something her mother did?"
"She was my enemy," Mrs. Harper hissed, eyes wild. "Her mother took everything from me. She deserved it. That woman humiliated me in front of everyone. What else was I supposed to do? Run and cry? No. I made sure her bloodline would pay. I made sure she would never smile with peace."
Even Mr. Harper's confusion turned to horror. "Evelyn—what have you done?"
Evelyn Harper laughed—a thin, hysterical sound. "You think this is over? You have no idea." She tipped her chin and continued, the confession now a sick liturgy. "Rumors, carefully planted—Ms. Cassandra, the girl who whispered in the lecture hall; a few strategic messages… pressure on people who mattered. A father who could be fooled, a mother who preferred comfort to courage. I shaped events like a sculptor. I hired certain favors—people who 'happened' to be in the right place when needed. I fed Liam doubts. I taught Cassandra to whisper. I turned lips against her until the girl was alone."
Zane stepped forward, the light catching the dark line of his jaw. He leaned down until his face was inches from hers. The basement felt smaller, air hotter. He didn't scream. He didn't shout.
"You forgot one thing," he said, voice low enough that only she could hear. "She's not alone anymore." The words slid through her like an ax.
He straightened, cold as winter. "Take her to the lowest cell," he ordered the guards. "Find somewhere dark where her hands can't reach a pen. I'm not done with her yet." His tone was official; it smelled like a promise.
The guards obeyed, lifting Mrs. Harper and shoving her roughly down a corridor leading to a small, secure cell beneath the basement, lit only by a single weak bulb. She kicked and screamed at first—then silence. The echo of her shoes on metal disappeared into a hollow place.
Zane watched until the cell door clanged shut, then he turned slowly. The corner of his mouth twitched—not with triumph, but with something more dangerous. "You hurt her," he said into the empty air—an unfinished sentence that carried with it the hint of what would come.
He leaned against the cold concrete, breathing heavy. Then he whispered—so low that only the shadows could have carried it—"You hurt her mind. You broke her spirit. Now I'll break everything you are."
Outside, the night was quiet. Inside the house, Aira slept, small and fragile in a way that made Zane feel both ferociously protective and terrifyingly vulnerable. He pressed his palm to the star at her throat as if to memorize the exact temperature of it. Around him, the team clustered close, exhausted and raw.
No one had legal papers yet; no one pretended the law would be the only measure of revenge. But a different thing had begun—something older and more personal. Zane's eyes, once cold and uninterested, held a furnace. He had made a decision: he would see justice done by whatever means were necessary.
And in the hush that followed, the basement seemed to agree. Darkness gathered like a waiting thing—and the world, for once, seemed very small and very fragile under Zane's fierce, watchful stare.