Chapter 28 Walls of denial
Nyxara
I did exactly what he said.
It took two days for the police to show up. Two days of me replaying that envelope in my mind—the weight of it, the crisp edges, the promise of silence. I told myself it was just business. Clean. No strings. But every time I walked past Jenkins in the hallway, his tired eyes flicking up with a nod like we were colleagues, something twisted in my gut. I ignored it. Stuffed it down with coffee and forced smiles at the pups.
When the cops finally arrived, it was mid-morning. The ward was buzzing with the usual chaos: kids laughing in the playroom, nurses hustling with charts. Jenkins was mopping up a spill in the corner, humming some old pack tune under his breath. He didn’t see them coming.
“Jenkins Scott?” one of the officers barked, voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
He straightened, mop handle slipping from his grip. It clattered to the floor, water splashing across the tile. “Yeah? What’s this about?”
The lead cop—a burly wolf with a badge that gleamed too bright—pulled out cuffs. “You’re under arrest for multiple counts of sexual assault on minors. You have the right to remain silent…”
Jenkins’ face drained of color. He backed up a step, hands raised. “What? No—no, you’ve got the wrong guy. I didn’t—I wouldn’t—” His voice cracked, eyes darting around the room. Nurses froze. A pup peeked out from the playroom door, wide-eyed.
The cops grabbed him. He twisted, not fighting, just desperate. “Please, check again! There’s been a mistake!”
His gaze landed on me. Standing there with the statement already signed in my hand. I’d done it that morning, before they even arrived. Neat handwriting. Factual. Detached.
“Nyxara,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You… you know me. We’ve worked shifts together. Tell them—I’d never hurt those kids. Never.”
I met his eyes. Felt that twist in my gut sharpen into a knife. He’s right, a voice whispered in my head. You know he’s innocent. You’re sending him to rot for cash.
I looked away. Handed the statement to the officer without a word.
Jenkins sagged in their grip. “No… please…”
They dragged him out. His boots scuffed the floor, leaving wet streaks. The ward went silent. Up on the mezzanine overlooking the entrance, the director stood by his office window, arms crossed. Our eyes met. He smiled—slow, wild, like a wolf spotting easy prey. Like we were in on the joke together.
I turned away. Told myself the knife in my gut was just indigestion.
The girl came running as they loaded him into the squad car outside.
She was sixteen, maybe seventeen—lanky limbs, messy braid, eyes red from crying already. I’d seen her before, dropping off lunches for him, laughing at his dumb jokes. His daughter.
She skidded to a stop in the hallway, right in front of me as I headed for the exit. Dropped to her knees on the cold tile, grabbing at my jacket like it was a lifeline.
“Please,” she sobbed, voice raw and broken. “My dad’s innocent. He didn’t do this. He drinks sometimes—yeah, he gambles too much, loses money we don’t have—but he’d never touch kids. Never. You work with him. You’ve seen him with the pups. He’s good with them. Please, tell them it’s a mistake. Please…”
Her fingers clutched tighter, nails digging in. Tears soaked the front of my shirt where she pressed her face against my thigh. Sobs wracked her body—deep, ugly ones that echoed in the empty hall.
I crouched down slowly. Her eyes lifted, hopeful, desperate.
She looks like me, the thought hit unbidden. Back then. Begging. Thinking someone would care.
I shoved it down. Pulled the envelope from my inner pocket—the same one the director had slid across his desk. Thick with cash. Double what I’d been promised originally.
Shoved it into her trembling hands.
“Life’s not fair, kid,” I said, voice flat. Empty.
Her eyes widened. She stared at the money, then back at me. “What? No—I don’t want this. I want my dad back. Please…”
I stood. Walked away.
Her sobs followed me out the door.
Steven was waiting at the gate, leaning against the fence like he’d been there for hours. His face was thunder—eyes narrowed, fists clenched.
He grabbed my arm as I passed, spinning me around. “You know he didn’t do it,” he hissed, voice low and furious. “What the hell is wrong with you, Nyxara?”
I yanked free, tail lashing. “Let go.”
“You only care about yourself!” he shouted, loud enough that a passing nurse glanced over. “Jenkins is a good man. Flawed, yeah—but not that. You know it’s the director. Why blame the old guy? Why lie?”
The word lie stung. I stepped into his space, voice a growl. “If you’re so damn sure it’s the director who’s assaulting the kids, why don’t you go testify? Tell the police. I already gave my statement—I told them what I saw. So stop trying to mess with me, Steven. You want to play hero? Do it yourself.”
He stared at me, betrayal twisting his features. “Is that all this is to you? A game? Those kids—”
“Not my pack,” I cut in. “Not my problem.”
I pushed past him. Didn’t look back.
Home was a haze. I slammed the door, locked it twice. The apartment felt too small, walls pressing in. I grabbed a bottle from the cabinet—cheap whiskey, the kind that burned going down. Poured a glass. Drank it fast.
Not my problem, I told myself, pacing the living room. Jenkins will get a lawyer. Maybe beat the charges. Or not. Who cares? The money’s good. Clean. I need it more than he does.
Another glass.
The girl’s face… those tears. Like looking in a mirror.
Shut up.
Third glass.
The director’s smile. Like he owns me now.
I drank until the bottle was half empty. The room spun. I collapsed on the couch, muttering, “Not my problem. Not my fucking problem.”
Sleep came hard and dreamless.
Woke to crying.
Soft at first. Then louder. A name—mine.
“Nyxara… please…”
I groaned, head pounding. Stumbled to the window. Yanked the curtain back.
Her.
Jenkins’ daughter.
Kneeling in the snow outside my building. Arms wrapped around herself. Face streaked with dirt and tears. Snowflakes catching in her hair.
Still begging.
I hissed through my teeth. Slammed the window shut. The glass rattled.
Crawled back to bed. Pulled the covers over my head.
She’ll leave, I thought. She has to.
The next day, an invitation arrived. Slipped under my door while I nursed my hangover with black coffee. Thick black card, gold embossing. Private Gathering. Exclusive. Hosted by Director Voss.
I stared at it. Crumpled it once. Then smoothed it out.
Why? the voice in my head asked.
Curiosity. Or maybe to remind myself why I took the money. Why it was worth it.
I went.
The venue was a sprawling mansion on the city’s edge—old money, heavy drapes, low lights pulsing with bass from hidden speakers. The air smelled like expensive cologne, smoke, and something sweeter. Sicker.
I found a corner booth, ordered a drink. Watched.
Little girls—too young, in frilly dresses that didn’t fit right—being led around by leering wolves. Drugged smiles. Glassy eyes. Passed from lap to lap like party favors. Touched. Groped. Laughed at while they stumbled.
My stomach turned. I drank faster. Looked away.
This is what you protected, the voice whispered. This is what the money bought.
Shut up.
The director spotted me halfway through my second glass. He waved from across the room, where he lounged on a velvet couch, a girl no older than twelve perched awkwardly on his knee.
“Nyxara!” he called, voice booming over the music. “Come join us! Don’t be shy.”
I didn’t move.
He laughed, waving me over again. “Come on, sex demon. This is your element, isn’t it? Succubi know how to have fun.”
The words grated. Sex demon. Like that’s all I was. A toy. A thing.
I set my glass down—hard. Stood.
Walked out.
But not before the doors burst open behind me.
Steven.
Wild-eyed, hair disheveled, storming in like a man with nothing left to lose.
“You sick fuck!” he roared at the director. “You think you can hide forever? Those kids—Jenkins is rotting in a cell because of you! I know what you do. I’ve seen the files. You’re done!”
Guards swarmed. Grabbed him. Pinned him to the floor.
Fists rained down. Boots to the ribs. Blood sprayed.
Steven grunted, curled up, still spitting curses. “Monster… you’ll burn for this…”
The director laughed from his couch, sipping his drink. “See, folks? This is what happens when you don’t know your place. Be smart—like the sex demon over there. She gets it.”
I paused in the doorway. Watched for a second longer than I should have.
The beating played on repeat in my mind the whole way home: thuds, grunts, laughter.
Not my problem.
I got home.
She was still there.
Jenkins’ daughter.
Curled tighter now, snow piled on her shoulders. Pale as death. Shivering violently.
“Go home,” I snapped from the doorway.
She lifted her head—slow, like it took everything. “Please… my dad… you know he’s not a pedophile. He’s a gambler, a drunk—yeah—but not that. Please help him. I’ll do anything…”
“I don’t care,” I snarled, stepping closer. “I don’t care if he’s a drunk or a gambler or whatever. That’s what they needed him to be. That’s what I gave them. Take the money and disappear before you freeze out here.”
She didn’t move. Kept begging, voice weak. “Please… he’s all I have…”
Something snapped.
I screamed—full, raw, throat-burning rage.
“This is how the world works, you stupid girl! No one saves anyone! Begging doesn’t change shit! Tears don’t matter! Get up! Go home! Or stay here and die—I don’t care! I won’t care! No one will! The upper hands decide, and you serve or you swing—just like me!”
I slammed the door. The frame shook.
Paced inside. Heart hammering.
One hour.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Silence.
Too much silence.
I cracked the door.
She was collapsed. Face-down in the snow. Unmoving.
I stared.
The world tilted.
“What the fuck!!”
The scream tore out of me—primal, broken.
I rushed out. Scooped her frozen body from the drift. She was light. Too light.
Dragged her inside. Laid her on the couch.
Wrapped her in blankets. Checked her pulse—weak, but there.
Stared at her pale face.
At the cash still clutched in her stiff fingers.
And felt the walls finally crumble.