Warning! This chapter contains attempted r*pe and violence. If you are uncomfortable with reading this, you may skip this chapter.
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A knot of unease tightened in Rhys's stomach as he spoke to Heather over video call, the pixelated image of her face a stark contrast to the warmth he longed for. "We're going to be swamped for a while," he said, his voice laced with a forced casualness.
"Music video shoots, variety shows, radio interviews… you know the drill." He watched her face, searching for a flicker of disappointment, a shadow of the connection he felt slipping away, but she only offered a warm, reassuring smile.
"I know how important this is to you, Rhys," she said, her voice sincere. "Good luck with everything." Her eyes, though bright on the screen, held a subtle weariness he couldn't quite place.
True to Rhys's words, their schedule became a relentless, crushing wave. Two to four hours of sleep was a luxury, their days a blur of flashing lights, screaming fans, and the constant, gnawing pressure of expectation.
Music video sets became battlegrounds of frantic energy, variety shows a gauntlet of forced smiles and practiced banter, radio interviews a dizzying spin of words and sound. The pressure was a constant hum, a vibration that resonated through their bones.
Whenever Lux appeared on television or radio, Heather would watch or listen, a sense of vicarious pride mixed with a lonely ache swelling in her chest. She'd babysit Dave, the soft coos and gurgles a comforting distraction, finding a sense of connection to Rhys through the flickering screen.
When the house felt too empty, she'd retreat to her aunt's coffee shop, the aroma of roasted beans and the gentle murmur of conversations a soothing balm.
Weeks blurred into a montage of solitary mornings and quiet evenings, a steady rhythm that helped her navigate the absence of Rhys and their usual banter.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Lux's schedule cleared. They returned home, their bodies aching, their minds weary. The silence of their shared house was a welcome reprieve, a breath of fresh air after weeks of suffocating noise.
"Finally! Sleep!" Jess exclaimed as they entered the house, his voice heavy with fatigue. He sank onto the couch, his limbs heavy, his eyes already drifting shut. "I'm so tired."
"Yeah, I feel like I could sleep for days," Dave chimed in, his eyes drooping, a yawn cracking his jaw.
"Well, see you guys later, or tomorrow. I can barely keep my eyes open," Henry said, dragging himself towards the stairs.
The others followed suit, retreating to their rooms, their bodies craving the oblivion of sleep. It was only eight in the evening, but Rhys felt a pull towards Heather, a restlessness that wouldn't be denied.
He had a copy of their new album, a tangible symbol of their shared connection, and he wanted to give it to her. He sent her a text.
You up?
He glanced out the window towards her room. The lights were off, but the room flickered with the faint glow of her phone screen. He waited, his gaze fixed on the darkened window, a growing unease settling in his stomach.
Maybe she's already asleep. He remembered her telling him that her aunt and uncle were away for a team-building event, taking Dave with them. She was alone for two days, a thought that sent a shiver down his spine.
Before the phone's light faded, he saw a flicker of movement in her darkened room, a shadow moving towards the side table. Then, a sharp crash, the sound of glass shattering, followed by a muffled scream that was abruptly cut off.
His blood ran cold, a wave of icy dread washing over him. He didn't think, didn't hesitate. He was out the door before he even registered moving, his feet pounding against the pavement, his heart a frantic drumbeat against his ribs.
When he got there, he noticed that their front door was ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning him inside. He slowly opened it and went inside, removing his shoes to avoid making noise, his senses heightened, his body tense.
He crept up the stairs, his movements silent and swift, every creak of the floorboards amplified in the suffocating silence.
Heather's bedroom door was slightly open. He peeked inside, his breath catching in his throat. The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow from the window, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls.
The scene that met his eyes was a nightmare, a tableau of violation. A figure loomed over Heather, his hand clamped over her mouth, his body pressed against hers.
Her clothes were torn, her body trembling, her eyes wide with terror, reflecting the terror that gripped Rhys's own soul.
A red haze descended, a primal rage that blotted out everything but the need to protect her. He didn't think, didn't reason. He just acted. He flung the door open, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot.
"Get your filthy hands off of her, you bastard!" he roared, his voice raw with fury, a guttural sound that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.
He grabbed the man, yanking him away from Heather with a force born of pure, unadulterated rage. The man crashed to the floor, his eyes wide with shock, his breath ragged.
Rhys straddled him, his fists a blur of motion. He landed a series of brutal punches, each one fueled by a primal rage, a burning desire to obliterate the man, to erase the violation, to make him pay for daring to touch her.
The other guys, alerted by the commotion, rushed upstairs, their footsteps thundering against the stairs. They found Rhys, his face a mask of fury, his eyes blazing with a ferocity they had never seen before, pummeling the unconscious intruder. Heather was on the bed, curled into herself, her body shaking with sobs, her eyes haunted by the terror she had just endured.
Dave and Henry immediately intervened, their faces grim, their movements swift and decisive, pulling Rhys away from the man before he inflicted fatal damage.
"Rhys! That's enough!" Henry shouted, his voice strained, his hands gripping Rhys's arms tightly, his muscles straining against Rhys's relentless rage.
But Rhys was beyond reason, his mind consumed by a red haze of fury. He twisted and writhed against their hold, his body surging with a primal strength they had never witnessed before.
"Let me go!" he roared, his voice a guttural growl, his eyes blazing with a ferocity that seemed to consume him. "I'll kill him!"
He bucked against their grip, his muscles straining, his body a coiled spring of rage. With a sudden, violent surge, he managed to break free, his momentum sending him crashing back down onto the intruder. He straddled the man, his fists a blur of motion, landing a series of brutal, bone-jarring punches.
"You fucking son of a bitch!" he roared, his voice thick with rage, spittle flying from his lips. "I'll fucking kill you today!"
Each word was punctuated by a savage blow, his knuckles connecting with the intruder's face and ribs with sickening thuds. He was a whirlwind of violence, a force of nature unleashed.
Dave and Henry, their faces grim, their eyes filled with a desperate urgency, lunged forward again, grabbing Rhys by his arms and shoulders. They strained against his relentless fury, their muscles burning, their voices hoarse.
"Rhys! Stop! You're going to kill him!" Dave shouted, his voice laced with panic.
"Rhys, please! You have to stop!" Henry pleaded, his voice cracking with strain.
They pulled with all their might, their combined strength barely enough to budge him. Rhys's body was rigid with rage, his fists still clenched, his eyes fixed on the man beneath him with a burning intensity.
They finally managed to yank him up, their grip tight, their bodies trembling with the effort. They held him back, their eyes filled with a mix of fear and determination, their bodies braced against his relentless fury.
Jess went to Heather, his expression a mix of concern and protectiveness, his heart aching at the sight of her trembling form. He sat beside her on the bed, his voice soft, his touch gentle.
"Are you okay, Heather?" he asked, though he knew it was a foolish question, a desperate attempt to offer comfort in the face of unimaginable terror.
He wrapped a blanket around her trembling shoulders, his eyes filled with a silent promise of protection.
Emmett punched Rhys in the stomach, a calculated blow to divert his attention, to break through the red haze of rage that clouded his mind. "Rhys! Get yourself together, man!" he said, his voice firm, his eyes filled with a desperate plea.
Rhys's rage subsided slightly when he heard Jess speak to Heather, his name a lifeline in the sea of his fury. He stopped struggling, his gaze fixed on her, his eyes filled with a desperate need to reach her.
She was huddled beneath the sheets, her body still trembling, tears streaming down her face, her eyes filled with a terror that mirrored his own.
When Dave and Henry felt Rhys relax, they released him. He rushed to Heather, his movements frantic, his eyes filled with a desperate tenderness, pulling her into a tight embrace. "It's okay," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his arms a protective shield against the world. "I'm here, baby. You're safe."
Heather clung to him, her sobs wracking her body, her tears soaking his shirt, her grip tight and desperate. Rhys held her close, his touch gentle, his presence a silent promise of protection, a vow to never let anyone hurt her again.
Dave and Emmett, their faces grim, their movements efficient and determined, tied up the unconscious man, their eyes filled with a cold fury. They carried him downstairs, their footsteps heavy on the stairs, the silence broken only by the soft sobs of Heather.
Jess called the police, his voice steady despite the turmoil, his words a lifeline in the chaos. He described the scene, his voice tight, his concern for Heather evident in every syllable, his words a promise of justice.