The file loaded in silence.
I didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
The first few seconds were nothing. The sterile sheen of a security feed—timestamped from weeks ago—flickering as the camera adjusted to the dim artificial lighting of one of the old pleasure suites.
And then he appeared.
Nine.
My Nine.
Naked.
Collared.
On his knees.
I froze.
My heart stopped.
His head was bowed, white hair loose around his face like a veil. He looked so... small. So still. Not blank, not robotic—just empty, like someone had carved him out from the inside and left the shell behind.
And then others entered the room.
Laughter.
Men. Three of them.
I knew their faces. They were dead now. I'd made sure of it. But seeing them here—alive, grinning, mocking—was like acid in my throat.
One of them grabbed Nine's jaw, lifting his face roughly.
I flinched.
He didn't react.
Not even a blink.
Just stared ahead.
Obedient.
Resigned.
Trained.
The video kept going.
They used him.
Touched him.
Talked over him like he was a toy, a prop.
And he obeyed. He didn't cry. He didn't speak. He just took it—because that's what he was made to do.
That's what they'd programmed into him.
And he still had bruises after.
Still smiled at me after.
I don't remember when I started shaking. Or when my nails dug into the armrest so hard the leather tore.
But I do remember the moment one of the men slapped Nine hard enough to make him sway.
I screamed.
The monitor cracked as something flew at it.
I didn't even register that I'd thrown the remote.
Didn't register that I'd stood—grabbed the screen—ripped it from the wall and hurled it across the room like it might silence the images burned into my brain.
It shattered against the far side of the wall, glass and wires sparking.
"Rhea—!"
Nine.
I turned too fast. He was already at the door, barefoot and wide-eyed, breath caught.
"What happened?" he asked quickly, stepping into the wreckage without hesitation. "Are you—did someone—?"
He stopped when he saw what was left of the screen.
His face paled.
And then he looked at me.
"Alpha," he whispered.
I opened my mouth, but no words came.
He walked slowly toward me.
And I hated it.
I hated that I had to watch him comfort me after what he had lived through.
His arms went around me. Hesitant at first—like he thought I might push him away. I didn't. I couldn't.
I grabbed him.
Clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring me to the ground.
"I'm so sorry," I said, voice cracking.
Nine made a soft sound. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I left," I hissed, guilt blooming like rot in my chest. "I left, and they hurt you again. They made you watch that—again—and I wasn't here. I didn't stop it. I didn't protect you."
He shook his head and pulled back slightly, cupping my face with both hands. "You didn't know, Alpha. I didn't tell you."
His eyes were glassy. Wide.
Too calm.
Too soft.
"I didn't want you to be upset," he whispered.
That made it worse.
That made everything worse.
"You should never have to protect me," I said fiercely. "You're allowed to be hurt. You're allowed to feel violated and furious, Nine. You don't need to keep carrying this like it's your shame."
He looked away, lip trembling.
"I'm not ashamed," he said quietly.
"I am," I said. "For what I let happen. For every moment I wasn't there."
"I'm not angry at you."
"You should be."
Silence.
And then Nine leaned forward again and rested his forehead against mine.
"I just want you to stay," he said. "I feel better when you're near. Even if I'm messed up. Even if I'm not fixed right. Just—don't leave again, okay?"
"I won't," I promised.