CHAPTER 268

**WINTER**

“Shirt,” Zion repeated, v?ice dragged across broken glass, low enough to rattle bones.

“Off. Right fucking now. Or I rip it off you with the skin still attached, and I promise you’ll feel every thread.”

The words didn’t echo; they sank, heavy and cold, into the carpet. The entire library froze mid-breath. A girl’s pen stopped rolling. Someone’s phone slipped from their fingers and clattered, the only sound for miles.

The guy stood rooted, mouth opening and closing like he was drowning in open air.

“What the fuck, man… what is this? What do you even want from me? I—I literally just sat down—”

“Did I ask you to speak?” Zion cut in, sharp enough to slice arteries.

“Did I say, ‘Hey, bro, drop me your entire tragic backstory, maybe throw in a PowerPoint’? No.”

He took one slow step forward, smile thin and vicious.

“I gave you one job, one single fucking job a lobotomized goldfish could handle: take off the shirt. That’s it. No monologue. No excuses. No audition for Most Punchable Face of the Year.”

His head tilted, eyes flat as a shark’s, no light, no mercy, just the promise of teeth.

“So unless the next sound I hear is that shirt hitting the floor,” Zion said, voice low and lazy, like he had all the time in the world to ruin this guy’s life,

“I’m gonna assume you’re volunteering to have your tongue stapled to the ceiling.”

He leaned in, just an inch, but the temperature around the table dropped hard enough to frost glass.

“And if you keep stalling like you’re auditioning for a fucking Academy Award in the category of Most Pathetic Last Words,” he drawled, every syllable dripping acid, 

“I’ll make damn sure the next thing out of that mouth bubbles up through a mouthful of your own teeth. I’ll even knock a couple loose first free dental work, on the house.”

He let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating.

“Clock’s ticking, sweetheart. Strip.”

The guy’s jaw slammed shut so hard I heard the click from where I sat.

Zion took one final step, crowding him, chest to chest, forcing the guy to crane his neck or drown in shadow.

“Do it,” he said, voice gone deadly soft, the kind that made the entire room feel like it was holding its breath. 

“Or I swear on everything I love, I rip that shirt off myself, and when I’m done you’ll be wearing your own skin as a fucking scarf.”

His fingers flexed, knuckles popping like gunshots in the silence.

“Three.”

The guy’s hands shot to the hem.

“Two—”

The shirt was already halfway over his head, arms tangled, muffled panic leaking out from inside the cotton.

Zion didn’t wait.

He seized the back of the collar and yanked—one brutal, savage pull. Seams screamed, fabric tore like flesh, and the shredded remains hit the floor in a sad, lifeless heap.

The guy stumbled back, half-naked, gasping, arms flailing for balance. 

Goosebumps exploded across his pale chest; his ribs showed with every frantic breath. He looked small. Soft. Breakable.

“Fuck… okay… I did what you said, man… shirt’s off… can I go now? Please?”

His voice cracked into nothing, a wet, desperate whisper. His eyes locked on the ruins of his shirt as if it were the last piece of his dignity.

Heads were turned. 

Phones lifted halfway, then dropped like they were suddenly too heavy when people remembered whose girlfriend was sitting right there. 

Nobody filmed. 

Nobody wanted their face in Zion’s kill radius.

A girl three tables over actually stuffed her laptop into her bag and bolted.

That’s when I saw it.

A thick white bandage wrapped tight around his left forearm—medical tape crisp, centre stained faint yellow with Betadine.

My heart stopped dead.

I knew that exact spot. 

The inside of his left forearm, three inches above the wrist—that vulnerable strip of skin I’d never actually seen with my own eyes, but that I knew better than my own reflection.

Zion had told the story only once, voice flat and cold, the night it happened.

The guy was still panting, oblivious, holding his arms out like See? 

Nothing to hide.

But all I could see was that bandage.

All I could hear was my blood roaring in my ears.

I couldn’t move. 

Couldn’t breathe.

Zion went terrifyingly still in front of me. 

The kind of still that comes right before an explosion.

He wasn’t looking at the guy’s face anymore.

He was staring at the same bandage too, body locked so tight I felt the rage vibrating off him like heat off asphalt. 

His head tilted a fraction—predator-slow. His eyes narrowed until the storm-grey turned black.

In that single, shared heartbeat of recognition, the entire library vanished.

Because if that gauze came off and showed Zion’s knife slash underneath…

…then the monster had just walked straight up to my table, sat down, and smiled.

My lungs forgot how to work.

Zion moved first—one smooth, terrifying stride that put him directly in front of me. Legs braced, shoulders squared, body angled so that anyone who wanted me now had to kill him to get there. 

His back was a wall of muscle and barely-contained violence; I could feel the heat rolling off him in waves.

Every muscle in his shoulders coiled, hoodie stretching tight across his back like it might split.

“You,” he said, the word scraping out like broken glass, 

“wanna explain why the fuck you’ve got a fresh bandage wrapped around your arm?”

The guy’s gaze dropped to his own arm like the bandage had just materialised.

Confusion twisted his face.

“This… it’s—”

“Spare me the fucking answer,” Zion cut in, voice flat as a coffin lid slamming shut. 

“Remove the bandage.”

Every syllable landed like a bullet casing hitting concrete.

“Right now. Before I tear it off myself, and if you make me lift one finger, I swear on my life I’ll take the bandage, the skin, the muscle, and the fucking bone with it.”

His eyes never blinked.

“Remove.”

The guy’s mouth opened, closed.

“What—why? It’s just a tattoo, man, I swear. Got it done yesterday—”

Zion stepped forward.

One step.

“I don’t repeat myself,” he whispered, the kind of whisper that promised screaming later.

“But for you, I’ll make an exception.”

He leaned in slowly, deliberately, until the guy had to tilt his head back or taste Zion’s rage.

“Peel it back with your fingers,” Zion said, voice low and lethal,

“Or I do it with my knife. Your choice. That bandage is coming off either way.”

He let the silence hang, thick and suffocating, pressing down on the guy’s shoulders like a physical weight.

The guy’s fingers fumbled at the edge of the bandage, trembling so violently the tape squeaked and fluttered. His nails scraped uselessly at the adhesive, catching nothing but air. Sweat beaded at his temples, rolled down his jaw, and dripped onto the table.

Zion didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared with those flat, predator eyes.

Then he started the countdown again, voice so low it felt like the floor itself was speaking.

“Five.”

The guy whimpered.

“Four.”

A panicked sob tore free as his fingers finally caught the corner.

“Three.”

Tape ripped, sharp and wet.

“Two.”

The rest came off in one frantic, ripping yank, gauze and plastic slapping the table like a gunshot.

Zion never said one.

He didn’t have to.

The threat was already carved into the guy’s bones.

The guy thrust his arm out, desperate, chest heaving.

“See? Ink! That’s all! Fresh yesterday, I swear—”

He was half-shouting, half-pleading, the fresh rose tattoo glaring under the lights—deep-red petals still swollen, black thorns twisting like they wanted to choke the flower. Shiny with ointment, lines raised and angry.

No knife slash. 

No stitched gash. 

Nothing.

Just some ink.

The guy’s voice cracked into a frantic, high-pitched scream.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re looking for, man! I didn’t do anything wrong except sit down and say hi to a pretty girl!”

Zion’s head snapped toward him so fast the air moved.

“Pretty girl?” he repeated, the words soft, almost amused. Then the amusement vanished, replaced by something black and bottomless. 

“Did you just call my girl pretty?”

His hand shot out (lightning in human form) and clamped around the guy’s throat with surgical, terrifying precision. Not squeezing yet. Just owning every heartbeat, every shallow gasp.

The stranger froze solid, a strangled squeak dying in his windpipe.

Zion leaned in until their noses almost touched, voice dropping to a whisper that somehow filled the entire library.

“Next time you see my girl,” he said, ice dripping from every syllable, 

“You cross the fucking street. You drop your eyes. You hold your goddamn breath until you’re out of her postcode.”

My lungs forgot their only job.

His girl.

The words branded themselves across my ribs.

“You don’t look at her,” Zion continued, fingers tightening just enough to make the guy’s face go purple. 

“You don’t speak to her. You don’t even think about her. Because if I catch you doing any of it…”

He let the silence finish the sentence.

The guy’s eyes were bulging now, tears spilling over, legs trembling so hard his knees knocked.

Zion shoved him away like he was discarding trash.

The guy hit the floor hard, scrambled up on all fours, snatched the shredded remains of his shirt and jacket, and ran (half-naked, sobbing, shoes squeaking as he crashed through the emergency exit like the devil himself had just whispered his name).

Silence slammed harder.

Zion stood rooted, chest heaving, fists clenched so hard the veins corded across his forearms looked ready to snap.

He dragged in a slow, deliberate breath, then turned in a slow, deliberate circle, eyes raking the room like a lion making sure the hyenas remembered who owned the savanna.

“Show’s over,” he growled, voice rough enough to scrape paint. 

“Back to your fucking lives.”

Books slammed open. Heads dropped so fast I heard necks crack. The girl who’d fled crept back in, clutching her laptop like a shield, eyes glued to the carpet.

Silence fell, brittle and terrified, the kind that made the fluorescent lights feel like they were holding their breath.

Then came the clap.

Slow. 

Deliberate. 

Mocking.

Clap.  

Clap.  

Clap.

Damien stepped out from the stacks like he’d been waiting in the wings for his cue, backpack slung low on one shoulder, takeaway cup swinging lazily from his fingers, that razor-sharp smirk already in place.

“Well, fuck me sideways,” he called, voice smooth as sin and twice as poisonous. 

“His Majesty has spoken. All kneel, peasants, or the big bad wolf will huff and puff and rip your shirts off in a fit of toxic masculinity.”

He sauntered closer, stopping just inside Zion’s reach (because Damien had always had a death wish wrapped in charm) and cocked his head.

“Bravo, Royal,” he drawled, dripping velvet and venom. 

“Another five-star performance from The Zion Show. Do you rehearse those throat-grabs in front of the mirror every morning, or is the caveman vibe just factory-installed at this point?”

His grin widened, all teeth and zero fear.

“Tell me, seriously, do you ever walk into a room without turning it into your own personal fight club? Or is the rage dial superglued to ‘unhinged’ and someone threw away the remote?”

Zion’s glare could’ve melted steel.

Not again...