Page 55 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

VESPER

The truth doesn't announce itself with fanfare. It slips in quietly, like a thief in the night, stealing your breath before you even realize what's been taken.

I stare at the tablet screen, my finger hovering over the notification. A link. Unassuming. Anonymous. The promised daily proof of life that makes me both desperate to click and terrified of what I'll see.

“Vesper?” Talon's voice pulls me back from the edge of panic. “What is it?”

“It's him.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears. “The daily check-in.”

The guys abandon Oscar’s computer, where they’ve been hunched for the past three hours, poring over the encrypted files from Alex’s flash drive. They approach me with synchronized caution, like hunters circling wounded prey. Their concern would be touching if it didn’t feel so suffocating.

“Do you want privacy?” Oz asks, assessing my mental state, measuring my capacity for what might appear on that screen.

I shake my head. “No. Stay.” The word comes out more desperate than I intended. "Please."

Z settles beside me on the couch, close enough that I can feel his warmth. Always so careful with me now, as if I might shatter at the slightest contact. Maybe I would.

“Whatever we see, we face it together.“

I press the link before I can reconsider, my heart pounding against my ribs as the screen fills with static. When it clears, my breath stutters. The image sharpens into a sterile room—stark and clinical in its emptiness—save for two figures slumped against opposite walls.

“Luca.” I lean closer to the screen. My brother's head is down, but I'd know him anywhere. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, the only reassurance he's still alive.

And across from him, Alex. My stomach lurches at the sight of him.

Whatever they've done to him in the hours since I saw him at the mansion has left its mark.

His face is a mottled canvas of fresh bruises blooming over the old ones, one eye swollen completely shut.

Blood trickles from his split lip, dripping onto his torn shirt.

He's barely conscious, leaning sideways against the wall.

“Jesus Christ,” Talon mutters behind me.

Four guards circle them like vultures, batons slapping rhythmically against their palms. The sound echoes through the tablet's speakers, a metronome of threatened violence.

“Smile for your sister, Rossi,” one of the guards barks, prodding Luca with his baton. “She’s watching you.”

Luca's head jerks up, immediately finding the camera. Recognition flashes across his face, followed quickly by defiance.

“Vesper,” he mouths, no sound accompanying the shape of my name on his lips.

One of the guards moves toward Alex. “Your turn, Rafner. Say hello to your girlfriend.”

Alex's single good eye narrows with sheer determination, locking onto the camera. His cracked and bleeding lips part, struggling to shape my name, but instead, a tortured, guttural gasp escapes as the guard viciously yanks his hair, twisting it with cruel force that clumps rip from his scalp.

“Stop it!” I cry out uselessly, knowing they can't hear me.

“Easy,” Z mutters beside me, his hand hovering near mine but not touching. “They're doing this to provoke you."

The guard releases Alex with a contemptuous shove that sends him slumping against the wall again. Another guard approaches Luca, crouching to his level with mock familiarity.

Luca lunges forward suddenly, spitting directly in the guard's face. The reaction is immediate and brutal, a backhand that snaps my brother's head to the side, followed by a vicious kick to his ribs that leaves him doubled over, gasping.

“No!” I hear myself scream, surging forward as if I could reach through the screen and shield him. Z's arm finally wraps around my waist, anchoring me as I watch helplessly.

“That's enough!” Alex's voice, ragged but suddenly strong, cuts through the chaos. Despite his battered state, he manages to push himself upright, drawing the guards' attention away from Luca. “You want to hurt someone? Try me.”

The guard laughs, abandoning Luca to stalk toward Alex. “Always the hero, aren't you, Rafner? Let's see how heroic you feel after this.”

He raises his baton, but before it falls, Luca's voice stops him.

My brother's attention is fixed on the camera, desperation etched across his bruised features.

The guard's boot connects with Luca's stomach, cutting off his words. But he doesn’t look away.

His focus is steady on the camera, on me, mouthing something I can't quite catch before another blow sends him sprawling.

Alex struggles against the wall, using it to lever himself into a more upright position. His good eye finds the camera again, and through the blood and bruising, I see something burning there.

His entire body shudders under the pressure of consciousness, but his focus is resolute. I watch, transfixed and horrified, as he fights through the haze of pain to mouth words he needs me to understand. They're slow and deliberate, his determination carving clarity from the chaos.

“Remember,” he seems to say, but his struggle to form the words is palpable. The effort costs him, each letter shaped with excruciating slowness. His chest heaves, ribs visibly contracting as he forces air through his battered lungs.

The screen flickers for a moment, threatening to steal this fragile connection.

I grip the tablet harder. His lips continue their agonizing movement, a rehearsal of his earlier plea to me.

reminder, I cling to now more than ever.

One of the guards swings wide. His fist connecting with Alex’s jaw. He falls slack against the wall.

“Your grandfather wants us to remind you of the terms. The clock is ticking.” He taps his wristwatch meaningfully.

“Sixty-five hours left.” The screen goes black, leaving only my own reflection staring back at me, wild-eyed, pale with fury and fear.

The tablet slips from my trembling fingers, Z catching it before it hits the floor, and places it back on my lap.

“Seven minutes,” Oz states, checking his watch. “The feed lasted exactly seven minutes.” His mind is already working, cataloging details while I sit frozen, the images of Luca and Alex's broken bodies burned into my retinas.

Talon crouches in front of me, his expression grave. “Vesper, look at me.”

I can't.

“Vesper.” His voice is firmer now, his hand gently tilting my chin upward until I have no choice but to look at him. “They're alive. Focus on that.”

I pull away from both of them, standing abruptly. The room spins for a moment, grief and rage making me lightheaded. I need to move, to act, to do something besides sit here while the men I love suffer.

“Oz, keep working on the files,” Z interrupts, his voice leaving no room for argument. In one fluid motion, he rises from the couch and grabs me, lifting me effortlessly against his chest.

“What the hell are you doing?” I demand, struggling against his hold, but his arms are like steel bands around me.

“Something you need.” His jaw is set in that stubborn way I know too well as he strides toward the stairs, carrying me like I weigh nothing.

I pound against his chest. “Put me down! We don't have time for whatever this is!”

Z ignores my protests, descending the stairs to the basement level. Instead of turning toward Alex's workspace, he continues past it to the door at the end of the hallway—the gym.

The moment we cross the threshold, I'm hit with the familiar scent of leather and sweat. The space is dimly lit, the punching bags hanging in the corner, the sparring mats empty and waiting.

He finally sets me down. “Hit me,” Z says, stepping back and spreading his arms wide.

I stare at him, anger momentarily giving way to confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Hit me.”

“Why would I hit you? Are you crazy?”

“You need to get it out, Vesper. The rage, the fear—it's poisoning you from the inside out.”

“I don't have time for this,” I snap, turning toward the door, but Z moves faster, blocking my path.

“Yes, you do,” he counters. “You think clearly when you're fighting. Always have. Right now, your emotions are clouding your judgment, and we need you sharp. Alex and Luca need you. That’s the only fucking way we get through this.”

“My judgment is fine,” I hiss, trying to sidestep him.

Z shifts with me, his movements fluid. “No, it's not. You're spiraling, moya koroleva.”

“Get out of my way,” I warn, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.

“Make me.”

The challenge in his voice ignites something primal inside me. Without conscious thought, I lunge forward, throwing a wild punch toward his jaw. Z sidesteps easily, letting my momentum carry me past him.

“You can do better than that,” he taunts softly.

I whirl around. This time, my attack is more focused—a brutal combination Talon drilled into me, unrelenting.

Z blocks the first blow, but the second catches him in the ribs. He grunts, a sound of approval, as he circles me.

“That's it,” he praises me. “Channel it.”

I advance again, throwing my entire body into each strike. My fist connects with his shoulder, his chest, but he absorbs the impacts without retaliating, becoming a living punching bag for my rage.

“Fight back!” I demand, frustration building as he continues to merely defend.

“Not until you show me you mean it.” His voice is maddeningly calm. “You're still holding back.”

Something inside me snaps at his words. The dam I've built around my emotions crumbles, and everything I've been suppressing since walking into my father's study floods through me—the terror of seeing Alex alive when I'd mourned him as dead, the helplessness of watching Luca suffer, the sickening revelation of my grandfather's twisted plans.

My next attack is vicious, primal. I feint left, then drive my knee toward his midsection. Z barely blocks in time as I follow with an elbow strike that grazes his jaw.