Chapter 11: Good night

Charles leaned against her shoulder, half-lidded eyes glancing first at Amelia, then lazily shifting to the screen in her hand.

He adjusted his position and asked, voice low, “Do you like him that much?”

Amelia paused mid-text and looked at him. “Who?”

“Liam,” Charles said quietly, his tone soft but unmistakable.

A flicker crossed Amelia’s eyes.

“I saw everything,” Charles murmured, closing his eyes again, lifting a hand to rub the tension in his neck. “That’s not how you act with a stranger.”

“Amelia, you know me. And I know you.” Charles met her eyes briefly before following her glance to Maverick, who sat silently at the wheel. “You want to talk about it?”

Then Charles asked the question that had sat in his heart for two years. “Are you really going through with the engagement?”

This wasn’t just about romance. Both of their families carried weight within the military alliance. An engagement like this came with legacy, power, responsibility—it was a transaction dressed up as commitment.

Amelia looked back at the messages Liam had sent just minutes ago. “I don’t dislike him.”

Even if she didn’t like him yet, she knew herself well enough to realize it was only a matter of time. Besides, he had the kind of face that hit all her aesthetic buttons.

Charles nodded slowly, accepting her truth. “Okay. Got it.” He stretched his arms over his head. “Whatever you choose, I’m with you.”

Amelia smiled faintly. “You should be worrying about your own drama. I know what I’m doing.”

Charles shut his eyes again, clearly unwilling to respond.

She grabbed a pillow to cushion behind his back, then turned her gaze out the window. The city lights passed by in a blur—bright, chaotic, and somehow distant.

.......

In another car, Liam stared out at the same night, the same city—but through a different lens entirely. He didn’t get sentimental about this place. Born here, raised here, and orphaned here—it was just a city full of cold memories.

But now... now there was her.

“Amelia,” he whispered, barely louder than a breath.

When his phone buzzed, he was still staring at the alphas slumped on the concrete—too bloodied to even cry out anymore.

> [Okay. But I’m busy tomorrow. I’ll contact you when I’m free.]

Another message followed:

> [Good night.]

Behind him, the sound of fists against flesh hadn’t stopped. But Liam focused only on the glowing words, trying to picture the expression on her face.

Was she smiling?

Or blank-faced, cool as always?

He played both possibilities in his mind.

Then, slowly, he pulled the blanket off his legs, revealing long, lean muscle.

He typed a response:

> [Okay, I’ll wait for you.]

And then another:

> [Good night and sweet dreams.]

He didn’t send the last part—but he thought it: If possible… I hope you dream of me.

He stepped down from the SUV, broken headlights casting shadows on the alley’s filth-streaked walls. The tall, lean figure walked toward the man on the ground. Without hesitation, he crushed his boot into the alpha’s bruised, bleeding face.

The man choked on his own blood, blinking blearily. “W-Who the hell are you?”

Liam didn’t answer. Instead, he gave a flick of his fingers.

The mixed-blood alpha standing beside him stepped forward.

The wounded man’s eyes widened in terror as he saw the other’s face clearly. Before he could say a word, the hand at his collar twisted, choking off any sound.

His skin turned purple as the pressure increased. His bloodshot eyes bulged toward Liam.

“Lucas,” Liam said, taking a step back with disgust. “Send them to the ring.”

Lucas nodded. “Keep them quiet?”

Liam glanced at the broken man below and smiled coldly. “No need. Just don’t let them die. Once it’s done, send them home.”

Lucas hesitated. “But… he saw your face. He saw—”

“It’s fine,” Liam cut in. “They won’t dare say a word.”

Lucas nodded again. “Understood.”

He hauled the broken alpha toward the vehicle, while two others dragged the unconscious one along behind him.

Left alone, Liam raised his eyes toward the night sky. The air was cool. Still.

And he smiled. “The show’s about to begin.”

......

The next morning, the spring breeze rolled in gently. The air was fresh, comfortable.

Amelia and Maverick had done a short round of training in the courtyard. Nothing intense—just enough to work up a light sweat. After cooling down, they went back inside to shower.

When Amelia came downstairs again, Tyson was already seated on the living room sofa, his face tight with tension.

She walked over casually, leaned forward to grab a water glass from the table, and dropped three lemon slices into it. Just as she lifted it to her lips, Tyson raised his phone and spoke.

“Amelia. Did you see Daniel and Owen yesterday?”

“Yeah,” she replied, sipping her water. “Why?”

Tyson stood up from the couch, stopping just a few steps away from her. His usually calm gaze dipped slightly.

“This morning, both of them were found dumped outside their homes.”

Amelia paused mid-sip. She turned and looked at him, brows raised. “Dumped?”

“Beaten to a pulp,” Tyson said. “Barely alive. They were left at their doorsteps, bleeding out.”

Amelia showed a flicker of reaction—but only for a second. Then she took another drink, and bent to place the glass back on the table.

“So?”

“Someone saw them talking to you yesterday.”

Amelia let out a sharp laugh. “And? You think that’s enough to pin it on me?”

“Not us,” Tyson said quietly. “I know it wasn’t you. But the Ravensdale and Kensington families? They’re not so sure.”

Amelia stretched her shoulders, her tone completely unconcerned. “Then tell them to bring me some proof.”

“Amelia—”

“Tyson,” she cut him off, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’s only been two years, and you’re already getting this soft?” She turned and shouted upstairs. “Maverick! Stop dragging your feet and come eat!”

......

Upstairs, the door to the guest room creaked open—more accurately, it was nudged open by someone’s foot.

“I’m going down,” Maverick said to the man standing in the doorway. “Could you move? Thanks.”

Charles was there, leaning lazily in the frame, dressed in pajama bottoms and a fitted robe that hung loose at the chest. One hand was braced against the doorframe, exposing far too much smooth skin and muscle.

Maverick quickly looked away, jaw tightening.

“Shy?” Charles' voice was still husky with sleep. “It’s not like you haven’t seen it befo—”

He didn’t finish.

Maverick had turned to look at him, sharp-eyed. “He’s downstairs.”

Charles lifted his gaze, unreadable. “You scared?”

Maverick had once asked him that exact question—on the day they parted ways six months ago.

How had Charles answered back then? He couldn’t remember. That whole week had felt like a dream.

A vivid, fleeting dream full of kisses and tangled limbs and the kind of warmth he hadn’t let himself feel in years. Even while knowing it wouldn’t last, he’d still let himself fall.

Back then, Charles had been fragile, reeling from the crash of his suppressants. It had been Maverick holding him, whispering over and over again: “I’m here.”

Now, it felt like they’d switched places entirely.

Maverick glanced toward the hallway. Quiet. Empty.

Then, without warning, he stepped forward, seized Charles’ wrist, and yanked him into the room. It didn’t take much force. He shoved him back against the wall, the door swinging shut behind them with a hard click.

“What would I be afraid of?” Maverick asked lowly, eyes dropping to Charles’ barely-covered chest. “Tsk.” He leaned in slightly, voice rough. “Tell me—should I be calling you Charles… or Cassius?”

Charles didn’t move.

He let Maverick look at him, let the heat of his grip on his wrist pull him backward—back into those nights he thought he’d forgotten.

When Charles didn’t respond, Maverick stopped pretending altogether.

He lowered his head, their faces so close their lips nearly touched.

Thinking he was about to be kissed, Charles closed his eyes.

But instead of the warmth he expected, he heard a whisper right next to his lips—quiet, but laced with pain.

“Why does it have to be like this?”

Charles opened his eyes. Their gazes locked—and both of them, unknowingly, had red-rimmed eyes.

“You don’t want me,” Maverick said, still calling him by the name he hadn’t used in months. “Isn’t that right, Cassius?”

“I…” Charles tried to reach out, wanting to pull him in, but..... “Just… hug me. Please.”

Maverick let out a bitter smile, let go of his hands, and took a step back. Then another. Until his back hit the cold wall behind him.

“Go.”

“...Maverick—”

“Charles,” he cut in sharply. This time, he used the right name. His voice was cold, tight, stripped of warmth.

Charles froze.

The weight of that name—spoken like a stranger's—hit harder than any shove. After a long, heavy silence, Charles nodded once and whispered, “Okay.”

Then he opened the door and walked out.

Maverick watched as his figure disappeared down the hallway—just like last time. That same helpless feeling clawed at his chest.

Downstairs, the dining table was filled, but someone seemed lost in thought.

Charles picked at his breakfast for a few minutes, then put down his spoon. His appetite was gone. He leaned his cheek against one hand, dazed.

“Eat more. You’ve lost weight again,” Tyson said gently beside him, scooping food toward his plate. He nudged the fork closer to Charles' mouth.

This was something they’d done since childhood—Tyson always hovering, always looking after him. Feeding him, bossing him around, picking up the pieces.

Charles opened his mouth automatically and took the bite, not bothering to look.

They had fought—more than once. And yet every time, Tyson acted like nothing had happened afterward, just continued caring for him like always.

In Tyson’s eyes, Charles belonged to him. He could do what he liked with him—so long as it stayed within Tyson’s control.

Charles had grown tired of fighting him on it.

It was why he’d left, alone, half a year ago. That short escape changed him more than he expected.

He started thinking about everything—about what he really wanted. What this relationship really was.

Love isn’t friendship, and friendship isn’t love.

There was a sharp contrast between the safe, long-time bond he had with Tyson and the intense, fleeting days with Maverick.

Across the table, Maverick had his head down, completely still—like he’d slipped back into that old shell, pretending he didn’t feel a thing.

After breakfast, Charles didn’t stick around the Langley estate. He climbed into Tyson’s car and left for the filming site.

Out in the front courtyard, Amelia stood watching the car as it pulled through the gate. She turned slightly to glance at the person beside her.

“You didn’t bully him this morning, did you?”

Maverick’s head shot up. His ears flushed a deep red.

He didn’t answer. His reaction said enough.

Amelia tilted her head, voice unusually gentle. “He’s not in great shape. Whatever happens between you two… take it easy.”

Still dazed, Maverick watched her walk away, the tips of his ears still burning. He whispered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else:

“It’s not what you think, Captain.”

A soft, quiet sentence—more like a warning for himeself than a protest.