Page 6 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

VESPER

“So, this is your room,” I say, trailing my fingertips along the edge of his pristinely made bed. The dark blue comforter is pulled taut, not a single wrinkle in sight.

Alex closes the door behind us with a soft click that seems to echo in the pristine space. “Nobody comes in here,” he says, his voice lower than usual. “Except me.”

“And now me,” I add, turning to face him.

His lips quirk up at one corner. “And now you.”

I move toward the desk, drawn to the command center of screens and keyboards.

This is clearly where Alex spends most of his time—the heart of his operation.

Each monitor displays something different: security camera feeds, lines of code, news headlines, and financial charts.

I would imagine it's like looking directly into his brain.

“You could run a small country from here,” I state, careful not to touch anything. “I practically do,” he replies, coming to stand behind me. Close enough that I can feel his warmth but not touching. “Information is power, Vesper. And in our world, power is survival.”

I turn my head to look at him, suddenly aware of how alone we are.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Vesper?” he asks. His eyes search mine. “The photos from your captivity—they're not easy to look at. Even for me. The videos I found...are worse."

I swallow hard, feeling my resolve waver for just a moment. Part of me wants to run from this room, pretend those days never happened. But I've never been one to hide from painful truths.

“I need to see them, Alex,” I say firmly. “I need to know exactly what happened while I was drugged. What they did to me. What they recorded.”

“Okay. But we stop the moment you say. No questions asked.”

Alex pulls out the chair for me, and I sink into it, the leather still warm from his body heat. His fingers move across the keyboard.

“I've sorted them chronologically,” Alex says, hovering over the Enter key. “There are sixty-four images total.”

My throat tightens as he pulls up the file, and I watch his reflection in the dark monitor as he starts to leave the room. Without thinking, I reach out and grab his wrist.

“Wait.” My voice sounds smaller than I intend. “Don't go.”

His eyes meet mine in the reflection of the screen, surprise evident in his expression.

“I thought you wanted privacy,” he says softly.

I swallow hard. “I did. I do. But…” I trail off, struggling to articulate the rush of vulnerability tightening around my throat. “I changed my mind.”

Alex nods once, pulling up another chair to sit beside me. Not too close, but close enough that I can feel his steady presence. He doesn't touch me, doesn't offer empty platitudes about how everything will be okay. I appreciate that more than he could know.

“You control the pace," he says, gesturing to the keyboard. “Left arrow to go back, right to advance. Escape to close everything.”

I take a deep breath and press Enter .

The first image fills the screen, and I flinch involuntarily.

It's me, unconscious, on what looks like a medical table.

My clothes are still on, but my arms are strapped down with leather restraints.

My hair spills over the edge of the table, and there's a bruise forming on my temple where they must have struck me.

“This was a week after they took you,” Alex says quietly. “Based on the timestamp.”

I nod, unable to speak as I press the right arrow key.

The next photo shows a man in surgical gloves checking my pulse, his face carefully turned away from the camera.

Smart. The third image has me stripped down to my underwear, still unconscious, with monitoring equipment attached to my chest and arms.

“They were monitoring your vitals while you were sedated,” Alex explains, his voice clinically detached—a kindness, allowing me to process this as evidence rather than trauma. “Making sure you stayed alive.”

“How considerate,” I mutter, continuing through the images.

Each photo documents my captivity with meticulous precision. Some show me unconscious, others semi-conscious and slack jawed, clearly drugged. In several, masked men pose beside me like hunters with their trophy, though they're careful never to show their faces completely.

When I reach the twentieth image, my finger freezes over the keyboard. I'm awake in this one, frozen with terror, struggling against my restraints while a man holds what appears to be a branding iron near my exposed shoulder.

“They didn't,” I gasp, my hand instinctively reaching for my left shoulder.

“No,” Alex confirms. “They were staging it—psychological torture. Making you think they would brand you but never following through.” Alex's voice remains steady, but I notice the slight tightening of his jaw. “The next photos confirm it never happened.”

I press forward, my stomach churning as I see myself recoiling, tears streaming down my face as the branding iron hovers inches from my skin. My expression is raw, full of panic—but I have no memory of this moment. They’d stolen it from me.

“I look so…” I trail off, unable to find the word.

“Strong,” Alex finishes. When I turn to him, doubtful, he adds, “Even drugged and terrified, you’re still fighting. Your whole body is screaming defiance.”

I study the image again but only see a terrified version of myself.

The next series of images shows men I don’t recognize visiting my holding cell, each taking turns posing with me, some touching my hair or face with possessive gestures that make my skin crawl. “The Petrovs?”

“Yes, mid-level enforcers at best.”

“What about…?”

“Dmitri never appears,” I note, advancing through more photos.

“No,” Alex confirms.

By the fortieth photo, I'm sitting upright in some images, clearly more lucid though still restrained. The timeline is advancing toward my rescue. In several shots, I appear to be speaking, my lips forming words I can't recall saying.

"Did they record audio?”

Alex hesitates. “Yes. But I haven't?—”

“Play it,” I say, my fingers digging into the armrests of the chair.

“Vesper, I don't think?—”

“Play it, Alex.” My tone leaves no room for argument.

He sighs, reaching across to type a command. A new window appears with an audio file. His finger hovers over the play button, his expression tight with hesitation, waiting for my permission. I nod, and he clicks.

Static fills the room, followed by a voice I barely recognize as my own, slurred and distant.

“My father will kill you all.”

A man laughs, the sound sending ice through my veins. “Your father isn’t going to be a problem. No one is coming.”

My voice grows stronger. “He will come for me.”

A slap echoes through the speakers, and I flinch involuntarily. Alex's hand moves toward mine but stops short, respecting the invisible boundary between us.

“You Rossis think you're untouchable,” the man snarls. “But you're just merchandise now. A body that is going to make me a lot of fucking money.”

I hit pause, feeling nauseous. “That's enough.”

Alex immediately stops the recording. I can sense he's watching me, but I can't bring myself to face him. Not yet.

“They were right about one thing,” I finally say, my voice steadier than I expected. “I was just merchandise.”

“Vesper—”

“It was a business transaction.” I push away from the desk, needing space, air. “My father arranged my marriage to Dmitri. Mario arranged my kidnapping and medical rape. Different methods, same result. I'm property to be traded.”

Alex stands too, his movements careful as if approaching a wounded animal. “You’re not fucking property. Not to the others. Not to me.”

Something in his tone makes me look up. His expression catches me off guard—there’s anger, yes, but something else too. Something that makes my breath catch.

“What am I to you, Alex? Oz, Zaire, and…I know what I am to them. Talona and I…I don’t know just yet. But you. I don’t understand.” The question slips out before I can stop it, hanging in the air between us.

He takes a step closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of silver in his icy blue eyes. “You're…” He pauses, searching for words. “You're the variable in my equation that I never accounted for. The glitch in my matrix.”

Coming from anyone else, it might sound clinical, cold even. But from Alex—the man who lives his life in patterns and codes—it's practically a declaration.

“Is that why you're keeping your distance?” I gesture to the careful space he maintains between us.

Something flashes across his face—frustration, perhaps, or restraint. “I'm keeping my distance because you've been through hell, Vesper. Because you're still processing what happened to you.” His voice drops low. “And because once I touch you, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop.”

The confession sends a rush through me, unexpected and powerful. In this sterile room, surrounded by evidence of my victimization, I should feel anything but desire. Yet here it is, unfurling inside me like smoke.

“Then don’t.”

The words hang between us. Alex's pupils dilate slightly, the only visible reaction to my admission. His self-control is impressive—and suddenly, incredibly frustrating.

“You don't know what you're saying,” he replies, voice tight. “The trauma, the images you just saw?—”

“Don't tell me what I know.” I step closer, eliminating half the distance between us. “I'm not confused about this, Alex. I'm not some fragile victim who can't distinguish between comfort and desire. I’m a fucking monster just like the rest of my family…”

“You're not a monster,” Alex says, his voice low and certain. "A monster wouldn't feel the way you do. I’ve hunted them. Tracked them. Become them when necessary." His stare locks with mine, unflinching. “I know exactly what monsters look like, Vesper. And you're not one.”

“Then what am I?”

He studies my face, his attention drifting to my lips before returning to meet me again. “You're a survivor. A fighter. And right now, frustratingly tempting.”