Chapter 31: "Cracks in the Dark" Julian POV
We’re back at the flat, stumbling through the door, and my legs are jelly—bruised, sore from diving out of that car’s way in the alley. Marcus is next to me, limping bad, his jacket torn where he hit the bins. The ambush is loud in my head—headlights, gunshots, that bag tossed like bait—and I’m shaking, proper shook, as I slam the door shut. The flat’s dark, just the hum of the fridge, and we don’t talk—can’t talk—just stand there, breathing hard. My hands rub my face, and it’s hitting me—someone set us up, someone we trusted, and I’m done pretending it’s fine.
I turn to Marcus, his face pale under the dim lamp, and it spills out, sharp and loud. “You dragged me into this!” My voice cracks, and I’m pointing at him, chest heaving. “Your mess—your bloody past—and now we’re dodging bullets!” He flinches, like I’ve hit him, and steps back, hands up, but I’m not stopping—doubt’s creeping in, ugly and cold. “Three weeks ago, you kissed me, said I was your world, but this? This ain’t love, Marcus—it’s a death trap!” My throat’s tight, and I’m scared—scared he’s not who I thought, scared I’m in too deep.
He’s quiet, just staring, and it’s worse—his silence cuts more than words. “Jules,” he starts, voice low, rough, but I shake my head, turning away—can’t look at him, not now. My hands are trembling, and I’m thinking—Reno, smuggling, debts, Salazar—all his baggage, dumped on me. The flat feels small, walls closing in, and I’m kicking myself—should’ve seen it, should’ve known a pit boss with a grin like his had shadows. I slump on the sofa, bruised knees aching, and it’s sinking in—I don’t trust him, not like before, and it hurts, bad.
Marcus moves, slow, grabbing his phone from his pocket, and I hear him mutter, “What the hell?” My head snaps up, and he’s squinting at the screen, face going white. “What?” I say, sharp, and he holds it out—shaky fingers showing me a text. It’s from Claire, timestamped an hour ago, right before that tip email lured us out. “You’ll pay for Ethan,” it says, short and mean, and my stomach drops—cold, heavy, like a stone. I grab the phone, read it again, and my heart’s thudding—Claire? She sent that “proof” email? Set the trap?
“She knew,” I whisper, voice trembling, and Marcus nods, slow, eyes wide. “Right before—Jules, she timed it.” My head’s spinning—Claire, with her tight smiles and sharp jabs, hating Marcus for picking me over her brother. That $5,000 voucher he gave me—money she begged for, for Ethan—and now this? My hands ball up, and I’m thinking—her grudge, her uncle Victor, the frame-up—it’s her, all her, pulling strings to gut us. I shove the phone back at him, angry, scared, and say, “She’s behind it—bloody hell, Marcus, she wants you broken.”
He’s pacing now, muttering, “I didn’t see it—didn’t think she’d go this far.” But I’m not listening—just sitting there, staring at the floor, doubt chewing me up. “You didn’t see a lot,” I snap, low, and he stops, looking at me—hurt, guilty, but I don’t care. My chest’s tight, and I’m thinking—Claire’s text, that ambush—it’s personal, aimed at him, and I’m caught in it, bruised and lost. Three weeks ago, he was my world—now he’s a weight, dragging me down, and I hate it, hate feeling this way.
The flat’s quiet, just our breathing, and I’m trying to calm down—trying to think. Claire’s out there, close, plotting, and Marcus—he’s here, but he’s a stranger tonight. My hands rub my legs, sore from running, and I’m wondering—did she send those blokes? Was it Victor’s muscle? My head’s a mess—ledger, Tony’s blog, the locket—all tied to Marcus, and now Claire’s turning it into a knife. I look at him, standing there, phone in hand, and I want to yell—want to shake him—but I’m too tired, too banged up.
He sits, slow, on the coffee table, facing me, and tries again. “Jules, I didn’t mean—” but I cut him off, voice hard. “Don’t. Just—don’t.” My eyes sting, and I’m looking away—can’t face him, not with this crack between us. The ambush, her text—it’s too much, and I’m doubting everything—his love, his promises, me sticking by him. My hands grip the sofa, and I’m thinking—Claire’s not done, not if she’s texting like that, and we’re sitting ducks here, waiting for her next hit.
Then I see it—out the window, past the blinds, a shadow moves, quick and dark. My heart jumps, and I’m up, limping fast to the glass, peering out. The street’s empty—just neon flickers and wet pavement—but I saw it, a figure slipping away, gone round the corner. My breath catches, and I turn to Marcus, voice low, scared. “Someone’s out there—watching.” He’s up too, phone dropping, and we’re froze, staring at the dark. My skin’s crawling—Claire? Victor? Someone she sent?—and it’s hitting me, hard—she’s closer than we thought, right outside, and we’re not safe.