Colson

Wearing the Monster

Colson POV

Ezra’s apartment for me hadn’t changed.

Not a single goddamn detail.

Same high vantage point. Same illusion of safety. Same wards layered thick enough to smother sound, memory, and guilt if you let them. The city sprawled beneath the windows like a living thing—dirty, loud, and hungry—but up here it looked small. Manageable.

That had always been the point.

Ezra liked his monsters elevated. Comfortable. Separate from consequences.

I stepped inside and let the door close behind me.

The click was too soft.

It always had been.

The lights rose automatically, bathing the space in warm amber tones that tried very hard to feel like home. Art lined the walls—beautiful pieces depicting violence as elegance, suffering as poetry. Furniture chosen for durability and intimidation rather than comfort.

A kennel.

That’s what this place was.

A gilded cage where Ezra kept the things he owned close at hand.

I stood there longer than necessary, my reflection staring back at me from the darkened glass. For a moment—just a moment—the lines blurred.

The blood on my hands from tonight overlapped with older stains. Different faces. Different screams. Same indifference.

Then another memory slammed into me without warning.

Zane.

Not the Zane from this era.

The Zane I knew.

The Alpha King standing over Ezra’s body, chest heaving, eyes blazing with a fury that shook the air itself. Ezra’s head rolling across the ground like it had finally remembered gravity applied to everyone.

I remembered the sound it made.

I remembered the silence that followed.

And gods help me—I remembered the way my knees nearly gave out afterward.

Freedom.

Pure, terrifying freedom.

I hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t celebrated. I’d just stood there, stunned, while something ancient and tight inside my chest finally… let go.

Ezra was gone.

And for the first time in years—

So was the leash.

I dragged in a sharp breath and turned away from the window.

Now I was back.

Back in the time where Ezra still owned me. Where he could summon me with a word. Where my life revolved around his needs, his plans, his approval.

The worst part?

Old Colson hadn’t minded.

That realization burned worse than the alcohol ever could.

I moved through the apartment on autopilot, shrugging out of my coat and tossing it aside. The place felt smaller now. Suffocating. Like the walls were leaning in, whispering reminders of everything I’d been too willing to give up.

I went straight for the liquor cabinet.

My hand hovered over the handle again.

This time, the memory wasn’t imagined.

Amaris had stood here once—much later, long after Ezra was dead, long after this place had stopped being a prison and become just another abandoned nest of ghosts. She’d wrinkled her nose at the bottles, called them “liquid regret,” and told me I deserved better coping mechanisms.

I’d laughed.

I swallowed hard.

“I know,” I muttered to the empty room. “I know.”

I opened the cabinet.

It was stocked exactly as I remembered. Ezra had always been generous with his tools. Bottles lined up in precise rows—blood-infused spirits, alchemical blends, things aged longer than some empires.

I grabbed one and drank.

The burn barely registered.

It took a lot to get a vampire drunk. Our bodies filtered poison like it was an inconvenience. Alcohol dulled, but it didn’t erase. It never erased.

I drank anyway.

One bottle.

Then another.

Then another.

Liquor spilled over my hands, pooled on the floor, soaked into rugs Ezra would’ve had replaced without a second thought. Glass shattered under my boots as I moved through the cabinet methodically, draining everything in reach.

“Look at you,” I muttered bitterly. “Back where you belong.”

The buzz crept in eventually—heavy, distant, not enough. My head hummed, my vision blurred just slightly. Enough to make memories bleed together.

The girl in the pit.

The crowd chanting my name.

Ezra smiling.

Zane roaring.

Ezra’s head hitting the floor.

Amaris gripping my hand, grounding me while I stared at nothing.

Past and present tangled until I couldn’t tell which version of myself was standing in this apartment.

I slid down the wall and sat hard on the floor, back pressed to cold stone.

“You let your life go to s**t,” I whispered to my reflection in the dark glass. “You let him own you.”

Old Colson had called it purpose.

Current Colson called it slavery.

I pressed my palms into my eyes, breathing hard.

You have to hold it together.

That was the rule now.

That was the price.

I had to be him again—the Colson Ezra remembered. The one whose soul was already so blackened it didn’t bother pretending. The one who killed without blinking, fed without guilt, laughed without warmth.

That was the only way I’d stay close enough to gather the information I needed.

The only way I’d save Amaris.

Even if it meant drowning in the man I hated most.

Myself.

I forced myself upright, glass crunching beneath my boots. The apartment felt unbearable now—too quiet, too full of echoes I didn’t want to hear.

I needed noise.

Movement.

Something loud enough to drown out memory.

So I grabbed my coat and left.

The bar was exactly the kind of place old Colson loved. Small. Filthy. Tucked into a street that didn’t bother pretending it wasn’t dangerous. Neon flickered overhead like it might die any second. The air smelled like cheap booze, sweat, and bad decisions.

Home.

The moment I stepped inside, heads turned.

Recognition sparked immediately.

“Well I’ll be damned,” someone drawled. “If it isn’t Ezra’s favorite bloodhound.”

I smirked automatically. “Miss me?”

Laughter rolled through the room.

A drink appeared in my hand before I even sat down. I downed it. Another followed. Then another.

Faces blurred together—vampires I’d killed beside, mercenaries I’d trusted with my back, witches who sold favors and souls with equal enthusiasm. People who’d once mattered to me only insofar as they were useful.

Scum.

My scum.

“The pit was wild tonight,” someone said eagerly. “You really put on a show.”

I shrugged. “She was fragile.”

They laughed.

I laughed with them.

And gods help me—I felt it.

That old high.

The rush of power. Of fear. Of being untouchable. The way the world sharpened when you stopped caring who bled to keep you on top.

For a moment—just a moment—I wanted it.

Wanted to sink back into it fully. To stop pretending I was better. To stop remembering what freedom felt like when Ezra finally died.

I tipped my glass back, letting the burn—weak as it was—wash over me.

Then another memory slammed in.

Zane’s hands dripping blood.

Ezra’s headless body collapsing.

The silence afterward.

And the overwhelming, terrifying realization that I was finally free.

My grip tightened around the glass until it cracked.

“No,” I muttered.

I slammed it down on the bar, the sound sharp enough to cut through the noise.

Conversation faltered.

Someone frowned. “You good, Colson?”

I straightened, the mask snapping back into place like it always had.

“Yeah,” I said smoothly. “Just pacing myself.”

Laughter resumed. Relief. Familiarity.

But inside, I was clawing my way back from the edge with bloodied fingers.

You’re not here for this.

You’re here for her.

I tossed coins onto the bar and stood abruptly, ignoring the protests as I headed for the door.

The night swallowed me again, cool air biting at my skin.

The watch in my pocket vibrated faintly.

A reminder.

Time was still moving.

And no matter how easy it felt to be the monster again—no matter how natural it was—I couldn’t let it win.

Because I’d tasted freedom once.

And I would tear the world apart before I let Ezra—or anyone like him—own me again.

I pulled my coat tighter and disappeared into the streets, carrying the weight of who I had been and the promise of who I refused to stop becoming.