Safe With You

Reckoning

~ Tray ~

It starts with a gut feeling.

A weight in my chest that won’t shift.

For weeks, I’ve been telling myself he’s gone — that the bastard who hurt my sister has finally crawled back under whatever rock he came from.

But tonight, driving through the city after locking up AQ’s offices, the feeling comes back.

That pressure in my ribs. That sense of being watched.

I call Winston.

He picks up on the second ring, voice clipped. “You get that feeling again?”

“Yeah,” I say, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. “Bad one this time.”

A pause. Then his tone drops an octave. “Address.”

I give it to him — the same abandoned block I’ve been tracking since the AQ break-in.

The one where CCTV caught a glimpse of someone leaving that night.

The one that’s been buzzing with lights at strange hours ever since.

“Meet me there in twenty,” he says. “And bring patience. I’m bringing backup.”

When I pull up, Winston’s already there — leaning against his G-Class with that calm, dangerous stillness that means he’s ready for war.

Beside him, two of his friends — big lads from his old security days, built like battering rams — stand waiting, silent.

They nod once as I approach, no questions asked.

They know this isn’t business. It’s blood.

“Anything?” I ask quietly.

“Lights on upstairs,” Winston says, his voice flat. “Been on for hours. And someone’s pacing.”

We exchange a look.

We both know who it is.

“Let’s end this,” I say.

The door doesn’t stand a chance.

One kick and it bursts inward, wood splintering against the wall.

The smell hits me first — smoke, sweat, rot, and something stale.

Then the sight: walls covered in photos, red string connecting faces like some deranged crime board.

And in the middle of it all — him.

He freezes mid-step, eyes wide, wild.

He’s thinner now, hair unwashed, face grey with exhaustion and hate.

But those eyes — those same cold eyes — are exactly as I remember them.

“Evening,” Winston says coolly, stepping inside first. “Lovely décor. Bit obsessive, though.”

The man’s face twists. “Who the hell are you?”

“The people who warned you to stay gone,” I growl, moving past Winston.

He takes a step back, hands curling into fists.

He knows who I am now.

“Tray,” he sneers. “Still cleaning up your sister’s mess, are you?”

That’s all it takes.

Rage floods through me like a match dropped in petrol.

I lunge — Winston’s friends move faster.

Before the bastard can swing, one of them grabs his arm, twisting it behind his back, while the other slams him against the wall.

He struggles, shouting nonsense — about Alyssa, about lies, about how she “owed” him.

“Don’t you dare say her name,” I snap, stepping close enough for him to see the fury in my eyes.

“You don’t get to talk about her. Not ever again.”

Winston, calm as ever, starts scanning the room.

He takes photos with his phone — the corkboard, the laptop, the piles of printed emails scattered across the table.

“He’s been collecting everything,” Winston mutters. “Old photos, fake documents… emails to the press.”

He picks up a page, glancing at it. “Christ. He was going to leak this to half of Fleet Street.”

Tray. Stay focused.

I crouch down beside the man.

He’s panting now, eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal.

“You think she ruined your life?” I say quietly. “You nearly ended hers. You put her in the hospital. You made her afraid to breathe.”

“She lied!” he spits. “She— she turned everyone against me! She took everything—”

“She took her life back,” I cut in, my voice low and lethal. “You’re just too weak to accept it.”

~ Winston ~

Tray’s losing it — I can see the storm building in his shoulders.

He’s never been one for self-control when it comes to Alyssa.

And looking around this hellhole, I can’t blame him.

The walls are a map of obsession.

Every headline about Alyssa, every photo of her, of Quinn, even of Greyson — cut, highlighted, annotated in shaky handwriting.

It’s not just hate. It’s fixation.

“Christ,” I mutter under my breath. “This isn’t a vendetta. It’s pathology.”

I pull the USB drive from the laptop and pocket it before Tray turns his anger into something irreversible.

Because I can see it in his eyes — that mix of rage and disgust that only a brother could feel.

“Tray,” I say sharply.

He doesn’t answer.

“Tray.”

He looks up at me finally, eyes blazing.

“Don’t,” I say evenly. “He’s not worth it.”

He straightens slowly, jaw tight. “You saw what he’s been doing. You saw what he’s planning.”

“I did,” I admit. “And now we have it all. Evidence. Timeline. Digital records. We’ll hand it over to the police tonight.”

Tray steps forward until he’s toe-to-toe with the man, who’s still pinned against the wall by one of my guys.

“Listen carefully,” Tray says, voice low and venomous. “If you so much as breathe in her direction again — if you so much as think about her or her daughter — I’ll make sure you disappear. Do you understand me?”

The man sneers. “You think you scare me?”

Winston smiles, slow and dangerous.

“Good,” he says softly. “Then you’re paying attention.”

The police arrive within the hour.

Winston’s men hand over the laptop, the USB, the stack of printouts detailing months of obsession — emails to tabloids, fake financial records, even screenshots of doctored images meant to destroy Alyssa’s career.

The detective recognises Tray from the previous incident at AQ and thanks him for the tip-off.

They cuff the man without ceremony — his shouts echoing down the stairwell as they drag him out.

“He’ll spin the same story again,” Winston says once the door closes. “Victim, martyr, poor misunderstood ex.”

“Let him,” I mutter. “This time we’ve got proof. And he’s got nothing left to twist.”

When it’s done — when the police cars pull away and the building falls silent again — Tray sinks onto a broken chair, running a hand through his hair.

His knuckles are white.

His breathing still uneven.

“You okay?” I ask quietly.

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Not even close.”

“Yeah,” I admit, lowering myself beside him. “Me neither.”

For a long moment, we sit there in the dark, the silence thick between us.

Then Tray leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“She’s got no idea this was coming,” he says. “No idea how close this got.”

“She doesn’t need to,” I say firmly. “Not yet. She’s got enough to carry.”

He nods slowly, then looks at me with that protective, dangerous glint I’ve come to recognise in him.

“If he ever gets out,” Tray says, voice low, “he won’t get close again. I’ll make damn sure of it.”

“I believe you,” I say simply.

~ Tray ~

Back in the car, the adrenaline starts to fade — replaced by something heavier.

Guilt, maybe.

Relief.

Something in between.

I look out the window as Winston drives, the city lights flickering across the glass. I took the sensible option and had one of his mates drive my car back.

“Do you think Alyssa will ever really be free of him?” I ask quietly.

Winston doesn’t answer right away.

He keeps his eyes on the road, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

Then finally, he says, “Not unless we make sure she is.”

I nod.

Because that’s exactly what we’re going to do.

When we get back to AQ later that night, I walk through the empty lobby, the polished marble floors gleaming under the soft light.

The same space where months ago, that bastard caused chaos.

Now it’s peaceful again.

Safe.

For the first time in a long time, I let myself breathe.

Alyssa’s name still shines on the wall behind the reception desk — elegant, powerful, untarnished.

She survived him once.

Now, finally, we’ve made sure he’ll never touch her again.

~ Winston ~

I send the final report to Greyson as Tray locks up.

He’ll read it first thing in the morning — the photos, the files, everything.

I imagine his face when he sees what we found.

He’ll be furious, terrified, protective — all at once.

But at least now, he’ll know.

They’ll all know.

Because tonight, we put a monster back in his cage.

And for the first time in years, Alyssa can sleep without a shadow at her door.