My father was alive.
Double-personality disorder.
I didn't know how to grasp that.
It sat in my mind like an unthawed piece of glass. It didn't make sense, yet at the same time, it did. The police officer-he had mentioned something. A hint of it. A whisper I'd ignored because the truth had never been mine to hold.
Shit.
I didn't know how I should feel. If I should feel anything at all.
Before Judas could say something, or tighten his arms around me and console me, the door swung open.
Kyle stepped inside with his tense eyes flickered between me and Judas, who sat like a king on his throne of control. Judas didn't speak. Just stared. A death glare so sharp it could've cut flesh.
"What, Molotov?"
Kyle swallowed. "It's Zayne."
Judas was gone before the words even settled.
I didn't think. Just ran.
The air was too thick. My thoughts were too slow. Zayne was in the hospital? What happened to him? Was he injured? No, I didn't know that yet. But I could feel it. The metallic gravity of something bad curling in my gut like a warning.
We tore through the hallways. Past the sterile scent of antiseptic and something worse. Past nurses whispering behind their hands, their eyes heavy with the kind of pity that felt like a death sentence.
Until we reached it.
The room.
The ruin.
Doctors stood in a ring, but not one of them moved. Not one of them tried. They lingered like ghosts, afraid to step too close.
Judas pushed past everyone and he stopped. I almost collided with his back panting when my eyes fell on him.
Zayne.
Not in a bed. Not hooked up to wires like the living usually were.
No.
He was crouched, folded in on himself, his breath a shattered thing, his body trembling like a marionette with its strings cut. His mouth was open, but the sound he made wasn't human. It was something ripped from the depths of suffering, something that curdled the blood and sank claws into the soul.
And in his shaking hand-
A scalpel.
Knuckles bone-white around the blade.
Alexei. Killian. Ralph. They stood frozen, muscles locked, watching him like one wrong move would break their son into pieces too small to fix.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
And Zayne-Zayne just kept screaming.
A boy unravelling before our very eyes.
I felt my chest squeezing at the sight of him. His skin was pale beneath the hospital's harsh lights and gleamed with a cold sweat that clung to him like a second skin. His hospital gown was now loose and wrinkled, gaped open at his collar, revealing the sharp, jutting edges of his collarbones.
But it was his face that stole the breath from my lungs.
Hollowed-out cheeks, dark shadows swallowing the spaces beneath his eyes, making him look like he hadn't slept in weeks. His pupils were blown wide, black holes that swallowed the light, unfocused and wild. His lips were parted, but they were cracked-dry-like he'd been screaming for hours.
His hair was a tangled mess, strands sticking to his damp forehead, his hands jerking at them every few seconds like he was trying to rip the thoughts out of his skull.
He looked nothing like Judas, instead he had light brown hair, too soft and long. And his terrified pale green eyes looked around.
The scalpel trembled in his grip, his fingers twitching like he wasn't sure whether to let go or sink it into his own skin.
I could hear his breathing.
Ragged. Guttural.
Each inhale sounded like it scraped against his ribs. Each exhale was a shuddering, broken thing, barely making it past his throat.
That's when I noticed the blood speckled his fingers. Not much. Just a smear. And still-no one moved.
The doctors didn't dare.
Judas moved first.
A snarl ripped through his throat, sharp and unhinged, the kind of sound that sent prey scattering. "Idiots!" he roared, his voice cracking through the tense air like a gunshot. "You stand there and watch?" His hands clenched into fists. "Do something-"
But then he saw it.
The scalpel.
Zayne's fingers twitched, his grip unsteady yet deadly, the blade trembling like it had a mind of its own. His pale green eyes locked onto Judas, and in them, I saw it-dare me.
Judas froze. And so did I. I didn't know Zayne's condition was this worse. What caused it? Why?
His jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack. A muscle in his temple ticked, his rage boiling just beneath the surface. But instead of lunging again, instead of forcing control like he always did, he did something else.
He softened.
His entire body with the sharp lines of his fury, melted into something quiet, something practised.
And when he spoke, his voice wasn't a command.
It was a whisper. A lullaby dipped in venom and honey. The same tone he used with me.
"Malen'kiy brat," he murmured, weaving something invisible. "Eto ya. Ty v bezopasnosti."
(Little brother, it's me. You're safe.)
It was Russian. Only word I managed to catch was… safe.
Zayne didn't move. Didn't blink. His chest heaved, those pale eyes flitting around like he was searching for an escape.
Judas took a step forward. Small. Measured. His hands lifted just slightly, palms open. "Tikhon'ko," he coaxed. "Nikto ne prichinit tebe vreda, klyanus'."
(Easy. No one will hurt you, I swear.)
Zayne's grip on the scalpel twitched.
Another step.
"Ya zdes'."
(I'm here.)
Another step.
"Smotri na menya, bratishka."
(Look at me, little brother.)
The scalpel wavered.
Judas was close now. So close I could see the shift in Zayne's expression, the slow unravelling of his defences.
And then-Judas reached out.
I almost gasped when I saw it.
The way his fingers wrapped around the blade, pressing into the sharp edge without hesitation, without fear. Blood beaded instantly, crimson drops spilling over his knuckles, down his wrist. But he didn't flinch. Didn't so much as breathe differently.
I felt someone tug me back, an arm tightening around my shoulders.
Kyle.
"Don't," he murmured.
But I couldn't look away.
Judas still whispered, still soothed, his words nothing but a breath between them. His blood smeared over Zayne's trembling fingers, warm, real.
And then-Zayne let go.
The scalpel slipped from his fingers.
And the moment it hit the floor, Zayne lunged forward.
Straight into Judas's arms.
A choked sob broke from his lips as his body curled into Judas, his fingers gripping the back of his shirt like he was drowning and Judas was the only thing keeping him afloat. His shoulders shook, the weight of whatever this was crushing him all at once.
I never expected to see Judas, the volatile storm, being so gentle.
Judas didn't let go.
Didn't move.
Didn't do anything but hold him.
His bloodied hand curled around the back of Zayne's head, his other arm wrapped tight around his frail body.
And still-he murmured.
Soft words. Russian endearments. Things I didn't understand, but somehow felt.
The doctors hesitated, eyes flickering between themselves, waiting.
Judas lifted his head just slightly, his gaze slicing through them.
A silent command.
They stepped back. And I just stood there, panting and stilled.
Judas Romanovski, the man who could tear apart an empire with a single order, the man whose name dripped with blood and cruelty-was whispering lullabies.
My brain stuttered, caught between reality and the impossibility of it.
This was a man who broke people for sport. Who pried into their weaknesses with the precision of a blade. Who saw vulnerability and sank his teeth into it.
And yet-
Here he was.
Soft. Patient. Holding Zayne like he was something fragile like one wrong move would shatter him into a thousand unsalvageable pieces.
The same hands that had carved bruises into my skin now cradled his brother with infinite care. The same mouth that spoke only in commands now murmured sweet, sacred things.
The air felt thick. Suffocating.
Because if this side of him was real-if the monster could be gentle-
Then what did that mean for me?