Broken by Silence, page 17
The timer shrills.
Oscar moves first.
No hesitation, no warning. A blur of fists. His jab cracks against Elijah’s chin before he even blinks. The second follows immediately, a hook slamming into his ribs. Elijah absorbs it, stepping back, blocking high, but Oscar’s already inside his guard.
Every strike says what he doesn’t sign.
You hurt her.
You don’t get to take what isn’t yours.
Elijah swings, sharp and calculated, but Oscar slips under it, ducks low, and punishes him with a brutal uppercut that snaps his head back. The sound echoes through the gym.
Elijah spits blood, then resets.
His stance narrows, eyes sharper now, but Oscar’s relentless. He doesn’t fight wild—he fights surgical. Every punch lands with intent, each one a wordless accusation. A left hook to the temple. A straight right to the ribs. A jab to the throat, just shy of crippling.
Mockery flickers in Oscar’s eyes. He doesn’t smile, but the way he drops his guard for a second, daring Elijah to hit him, is louder than any taunt. Elijah throws a heavy cross. Oscar slips it by inches, then plants his fist square in Elijah’s gut, folding him.
He straightens, staring down at him like he’s already won. Like, Elijah isn’t worth the breath it would take to insult him.
Elijah growls, rallies, drives forward with a flurry of strikes.
For a few seconds, it’s chaos.
Fists blur, bodies clash, knuckles crack against flesh. But Oscar weathers it. Always precise, always countering. Every time Elijah tries to build momentum, Oscar dismantles it with a single punishing shot.
One-two. Ribs, jaw. Step back. Sidestep. Hook.
Blood runs from Elijah’s lip, staining his chest. His breaths are ragged. But Oscar’s barely touched, only sweat beading his brow.
I catch the look in his eyes then. He doesn’t need to sign it. He doesn’t need me to translate. It’s written in the fists that keep finding their mark: She’s mine.
The timer shrills again.
Oscar stops mid-motion, chest heaving, fists still curled tight at his sides. His eyes burn holes through Elijah, every muscle ready to launch again if he twitches wrong.
Elijah’s hunched, blood dripping from his mouth, ribs bruised, but he’s still standing. He spits red onto the mat, wipes his lip with the back of his hand, and lifts his chin. For the first time, all fight, there’s no arrogance in his stare… only raw honesty.
The silence stretches, thick as the sweat on the ropes.
Then Oscar steps forward. He doesn’t raise his fists. Instead, he sticks out a hand.
The whole room goes still.
For a beat, Elijah just blinks at it. Wariness flickers in his eyes, suspicion, maybe even guilt. But then, with a grimace, he reaches out. Their palms smack together, rough and hard, and neither lets go right away.
Oscar’s stare is sharp, unyielding. “You don’t get to hurt her. Not again. I don’t care if you are her husband on paper. You even so much as make her cry, and I won’t stop next time.”
Elijah’s lips twitch, not into a smirk, but something grimmer, smaller. He nods once. “Understood, but I have no intention of ever hurting my wife again.”
And just like that, the grip breaks.
The ropes groan again, and for a second I think Roman’s about to drag himself back in for another round, but it’s my dad.
He doesn’t say a word at first. He just walks across the floor like the ground owes him space. Same old boots, same broad shoulders. He’s got that look, the one that used to make me shut my mouth as a kid, the one that says he’s already decided what’s happening and I’d better keep up.
“Dad?” My throat’s tight.
He cuts me off with a hand, eyes fixed on Crew.
“Relax,” he says, voice steady. “I’m not here to haul anyone out by the ear. Just making sure nobody’s dead.”
His gaze sweeps over Roman with his bruised jaw, Elijah with blood still on his lip, and Oscar pacing like a caged tiger. Then it lands back on Crew, who looks way too entertained by the whole thing.
Will exhales through his nose. “Christ. You boys don’t half-measure, do you?”
Crew flashes a grin like he’s been waiting for this all night. “Still breathing. That’s half the battle, right?”
Dad studies him for a long moment. “You’re up.”
I nearly choke. “You’re going to kill him.”
But Crew’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes bright. “Me? You serious?”
Dad doesn’t look away as he unbuttons his cuffs. Just calm. He plants himself in the center of the ring. “You’ve been carrying too much without an outlet. That’s dangerous.”
Crew barks a laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “What, this is about the whole addict thing? Because, I swear, I’ve been clean. Haven’t touched a damn thing.”
Dad shakes his head. “I know. I believe you. But staying clean isn’t just about not using. It’s about finding another way to burn through the weight. You’ve been holding it all in since she came back, and I see it. You need somewhere to put it.”
For once, Crew doesn’t have a snappy comeback. His grin falters, just a little. His throat works, like he’s swallowing something heavy. “So what, this is therapy with fists?”
Dad’s mouth twitches into the faintest smile. “Worked well enough for me in the past… Let’s see if you can keep up.”
The timer shrills.
Crew launches first—fast, wild hands, testing Dad’s guard. He fights the way he talks. Quick, unpredictable, sometimes reckless.
A jab here, a hook there, enough to make anyone else stumble. But Dad absorbs, redirects, blocks. Calm, steady, breathing like he’s sparring, not brawling.
Crew smirks, feints left, and lands a jab to Dad’s ribs, but Dad barely flinches. Dad exhales through his nose, then fires back with a short, controlled body shot that doubles Crew over without malice.
Crew laughs, wheezing. “Fuck… You don’t even sound winded.”
“Not the point,” Dad replies. “The point is survival. Learning to burn through everything without turning to something that’ll rip apart your whole family.”
Crew circles, wiping sweat from his brow. His grin is slipping, his movements sharper now, angrier. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t already know I’m one slip away from wrecking everything? From letting her down?” His fists lash out again, frantic, catching Dad’s shoulder this time. “I promised her. I promised all of you. I stay clean, I don’t fall back, I don’t fucking ruin her life like every other man has—”
Dad blocks the next blow, grips Crew’s wrist, and steadies him with the kind of control that isn’t about dominance—it’s about grounding. “Crew. You’re not your father. You’re not her father. You’re not the men who broke her. You’re you. And she needs you that way. Not as a martyr. Not as a ghost. Just you.”
Crew freezes, chest heaving, sweat dripping into his eyes. His mask slips completely, and for a second, he looks younger. Lost.
He shakes his head, laughs hollow. “You say that like it’s enough.”
Dad releases his wrist, steps back, and opens his hands. “It is. But you’ve got to believe it before it’ll stick.”
The timer shrills again.
Crew drops his hands, staggering back, laughing breathlessly. His chest heaves like he’s been carrying that weight for years, and maybe he has. He runs a hand down his face and mutters, “Shit. I think I like you, old man.”
Dad steps forward, extending his hand. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere, I told you I’d help you stay clean, and I meant it.” His voice softens. “But that means you don’t get to do this alone. You come to me. You burn it off here, not in a bottle of pills. Understood?”
Crew stares at the hand for a long beat. Then he grips it, tight. “Understood.”
The ropes creak one last time as Dad steps out.
He doesn’t look back, just gathers his jacket and towel, calm as ever. The air in the gym feels different now. Less raw, less ready to explode.
More… settled. Still doesn’t mean I like them.
Crew’s still breathing hard, leaning on the ropes with a hand pressed to his ribs. He gives Dad a nod as he leaves.
Dad pauses at the door, looks over his shoulder. “Go cool off. I’ll see you tomorrow, and your Mom has Lottie, so you don’t need to worry.”
And then he’s gone.
Chapter 25
Archer
For a while, none of us move. Sweat dripping down our foreheads, blood still drying.
It’s Elijah, of all people, who mutters, “Drinks?” His voice is rough, lip split, but he says it like it’s the most obvious solution in the world.
Roman laughs. “I feel like I need about five.”
“Add some wings to that order, and I’m in.” I groan.
Crew finally pushes off the ropes, dragging a towel over his face. “Yeah. I could use something cold, but only soda for me.”
We spill out of the gym, the night air cool against sweat-slicked skin. The streets are quiet, neon buzzing from the pub across the way. It’s not fancy, but it’s ours for the night.
Inside, the place smells like wood polish and stale beer, music humming low under the chatter. We take a corner booth big enough to cram us all in, bruised knuckles resting on sticky wood, shoulders knocking. No one bothers to clean up—we’re too used to it.
Roman orders the first round, sliding pints across the table and a soda for Crew with a smirk. Oscar doesn’t say anything, just drinks deep, eyes darting between all of us like he’s still translating, even without words.
Crew’s the last to pick up his glass. He stares into the liquid for a long second, jaw working. For once, he doesn’t crack a joke. Doesn’t grin. He just exhales, slow, and mutters, “To keeping our promises.” Then he drinks.
I sip mine, letting the bitterness coat my tongue, and glance at Crew. He looks tired. Not the hungover kind of tired, but the kind that sinks into bone. He’s still here, still clean, still fighting—and maybe that’s all any of us can ask tonight.
Roman breaks the silence with a laugh that’s too loud, leaning back until the booth creaks. “Well, shit. Didn’t think the night would end with Archer’s dad handing Crew his ass.”
That earns a round of chuckles, even from Crew, who shakes his head and mutters, “Old man’s built like a damn tank. Who knew?”
For a while, it’s easier. Laughter bleeding into drinks, insults softened by bruised smiles. But every so often, I catch Crew going quiet, staring into his glass like he wishes it were more.
The bar has quietened down to the low hum of conversation, the jukebox spitting out some old ballad no one’s really listening to. The table in front of us is littered with empty glasses and a pile of fries none of us are going to finish.
Oscar sits beside me, still wound tight, but not from the fights anymore. His fingers tap against his glass, restless, like he’s carrying words he hasn’t decided whether to release.
I nudge him, catch his eye, and sign small, so it’s just for us, “You alright?”
He gives me that flat look of his. “Define, alright.”
I smirk. “Not trying to punch anyone?”
That earns the ghost of a laugh. His hands flicker again. “Maybe.”
“These assholes are really starting to grow on me,” I sign back, finally being honest that I don’t completely hate them.
Crew glances up from across the table, narrowing his eyes. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, but Oscar shifts before I can cover for him. He lifts his hands deliberately, slowly. “I said maybe I won’t punch anyone, and he said you assholes are finally starting to grow on him.”
Crew freezes, mid-sip. Elijah blinks. Roman arches a brow.
And then Crew, of all people, sets his drink down and signs back—clumsy and awkward. “Good. My nose is pretty.”
Oscar stares at him like he’s grown a second head. His gaze flicks to Roman as the man raises his own hands, smoother than Crew’s but not perfect. “We’ve been practicing.”
Elijah adds, “Since Roman’s recovery.”
It hits Oscar like a punch, but not the kind he throws. His shoulders stiffen, eyes wide, and for once, he doesn’t have anything to sign back right away.
Finally, his hands move. “You learned this? For me?”
Elijah nods. “Yes. For you. So we could talk. Not just through Archer.”
The air shifts. I can see the wall Oscar’s built for years begin to crack. His throat works like he’s holding back tears. “You didn’t have to.”
“We know.” Roman’s answer is nonchalant for what this actually is.
Crew’s grin softens. “We wanted to.”
Oscar looks at each of them in turn, weighing the truth in their faces. And then something small, rare, flickers across his own—relief. Gratitude.
His hands shape words he doesn’t sign often. “Thank you. You’re still assholes, though.”
Crew grins like Christmas came early. “He likes us.”
“Don’t push it,” Oscar signs, but there’s no venom in it.
I sit back, watching them—the men she’s tied to, the men I swore I’d never trust—sharing a language, however broken. And for the first time, I agree with it when Oscar signs, “If she wants you, then I’m okay with it.”
His fingers linger a little longer than usual on those words.
And just like that, the air lightens. Roman smirks into his drink. Crew butchers a joke in sign that makes Oscar roll his eyes. Elijah, stiff as ever, corrects his hand shape with deadpan seriousness.
For the first time tonight, the five of us aren’t circling each other like predators.
We’re closer somehow, and it’s all for Lottie.
Chapter 26
Lottie
The beach is too bright.
The kind of light that doesn’t let you hide. The waves glitter like someone smashed a mirror across the surface, throwing shards of sun back into my eyes. I dig my toes into the sand, damp and cold beneath the top layer, and let the tide creep close enough to kiss my ankles before it slinks away again.
I finally feel like I can breathe again.
It’s been a few days since the gym, since all the men decided to punch their way into some warped version of peace. But I can’t deny it hasn’t been nice. There’s less glaring across the dining table, which is something I never thought would happen.
Now it’s quiet. Just the sea and me until I hear his voice.
“Scar?”
The nickname hits hard. I turn. Dad’s coming down the slope from the car park, jacket zipped, hands buried in his pockets, squinting against the light. He looks smaller than I remember—leaner, clearer. He doesn’t have that jitter in his step anymore, that glassy distance in his eyes.
Rehab stripped that from him. Sobriety carved it into him, but it doesn’t erase the years.
I swallow. “It’s Lottie now.”
He stops just long enough to nod, like he expected that answer, before continuing toward me. “Lottie, then.” His mouth twitches. “Sorry. Old habits.”
Old habits. Like the drugs. Like drowning himself in a bottle to try to drown out the guilt. I don’t move as he reaches me, just stare at the horizon. The water swells and falls, endless.
We start walking without deciding to, side by side, along the shoreline. He keeps his shoes on, careful not to touch the tide, while I let it sting my skin.
I want to feel the cold. I want it to remind me I’m here.
“You used to love this,” he says after a while, voice soft.
“I used to love a lot of things,” I answer.
That shuts him up for a few beats.
Finally, I break it. “I still do love it. It’s weird, you know? The place I feel the most peace is the same place I almost died.”
“I never meant for it to ever get that far. I… I should have been better. Should have protected you from Tracey,” Dad’s voice cracks, like everything is all too much.
“She’s still alive, you know.”
His shoulders tighten. “I know.”
“I hate her.” My voice is sharper than I intend, but I don’t take it back. “I don’t care if that makes me a bad daughter. She’s not a mum. She never was. She was a needle. A bottle. A fist. She was every bruise I learned to cover and every night I lay awake listening to both of you screaming at one another.”
Dad flinches.
“She made me believe I was worthless,” I continue, chest tight. “And you—” My throat closes, but I force it out. “You were so lost in your guilt that the drugs and alcohol were more important than me.”
He stops walking. Sand crunches under his shoes. “Scar—” He corrects himself. “Lottie… I know. And I’ll regret it until the day I die.”
I laugh, harsh and bitter. “Regret doesn’t undo it.”
“No.” His voice is steady, but low. “It doesn’t. But I need you to hear me say it. I was drowning in it, too. Doesn’t excuse it. Doesn’t make it less, but the day you walked through that door. You were a ghost. You were no longer the daughter I knew… They ruined you, and it was all my fault.”
My chest heaves. I want to scream, to hit him, to demand why the hell he didn’t try harder. But then I look at him—really look.
He’s sober. His eyes are clear. He’s standing here, steady for the first time in my life.
“Elijah shoved me into rehab,” he admits, staring out at the sea. “I hated him for it. Thought he was self-righteous. But he was right. If I hadn’t gone, I’d be dead now.” The wind whips my hair across my face. I stare at him, at the lines etched deeper around his eyes. “I’m not going back,” he says firmly. “Not ever. I’ve been clean since the day they locked that door, and I’ll fight like hell to stay clean. I can’t fix the past, Scar—Lottie. But I want to be someone who deserves to stand here with you now.”
The sincerity in his voice shakes something loose in me, something I’ve kept locked away.
