Cohen

"Fuck—" Chase choked on the word, blood bubbling up and spilling over his split lips as Coen’s fist cracked into his face again. That sick little smirk never left his mouth the whole time.

Zion stayed leaned up against the alley wall like he had all the time in the world, one eye on the street, the other locked on his dumbass brother. The only other sound was the soft click-click of his lighter flipping open and shut while Chase’s yells got quieter and wetter by the second.

One last heavy blow and the guy under Coen went limp. His knuckles were dripping red as he shook his hand out like he’d just finished a workout.

"Clean that shit up," Zion muttered, finally killing the lighter and pushing off the wall.

Coen just smirked and dug through the dead guy’s pockets until he came up with the phone.

"One day the cops are gonna nail your ass for this exact bullshit," Zion said, voice flat. "How many times does Zayn gotta tell you not to loot the corpses? "

"Don’t be a fuckin’ sissy, bro." Coen grinned, sliding the phone into his own pocket. "I’m still standing here, ain’t I? Cops couldn’t find their own dicks with both hands and a flashlight if we were standing right under ‘em."

"Tsk." Zion shook his head.

A sharp ping cut through the quiet. Coen pulled the phone back out. Face recognition lock.

"Fuck." He grabbed a fistful of the guy’s hair, and yanked the head up. The face was a mess—eyes swollen shut, mouth hanging open, a couple teeth gone. Unrecognizable.

"He’d look sick with some grillz," Coen remarked, still smirking. Zion just sighed.

Coen lined the phone up with the ruined face. It unlocked. He let the head drop. Then he froze for a second, staring.

"Holy shit. Is this my long-lost twin or what?" He laughed under his breath. "We look fuckin’ freakishly alike."

"Why the hell you gotta dig through his personal shit? Zayn’s already waiting," Zion complained.

"Alright, princess. One second. Stop kissing the boss’s ass so hard." Coen chuckled, already scrolling.

He opened the messages. Twenty unread from someone named sarina, heart emoji right next to the name. His smirk stretched wider.

Oh. So the fucker had a partner.

The thread was flooded—Where are you? I’m sorry. Please come home. Please just answer.

Zion caught that look on Coen’s face from across the alley before it even fully formed.

"Whatever the fuck you’re thinking, don’t," he warned, voice low and hard.

Coen looked up, bloody knuckles still wet, that same fucked-up smile in place. "Might be fun though."

"Don’t mess with a dead guy’s partner."

Coen pocketed the phone like it was nothing. "They don’t gotta know the guy’s dead."

Finding where Chase lived was almost too fucking easy. Coen already had the address pulled from the phone, and the whole way over he was picturing sarina sitting there like a good little dog, waiting for a man who was never coming back.

The door wasn’t even locked. He tried the handle, felt it give, and let out a low chuckle under his breath. Naive little thing really left it open for whoever walked in. Didn’t have a clue who the fuck was about to step through.

He pushed the door shut behind him, voice dropping into something rough and familiar. The apartment smelled like cheap vanilla candles and leftover takeout. Soft light from the living room. And there—on the sofa—sarina, sitting tense, phone clutched in both hands, eyes flicking up the second the door opened.

“Daddy’s home, sweetheart.”

He’d washed the blood off earlier—knuckles still a little raw, but clean enough. Coen’s gaze dragged over them slow, hungry. Fuck. Chase had this waiting for him every night? The stupid bastard didn’t deserve half of it.

He moved in quiet, came up behind them, and wrapped both arms around their neck from the back. Pressed his face into their hair like some affectionate piece of shit, breathing them in.

“Did you miss me?” he smirked against their ear, voice low and filthy. “Be honest.”

His hands slid down, one cupping their jaw, turning their face just enough so he could look at them properly. Hungry eyes dragged over every inch—throat, chest, the way they were sitting all tense and hopeful. Coen’s cock was already half-hard just from the thought of it.

“My dick's been sad without you on it, why don't you show me how much you missed me,” he said.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Daddy’s waitin’.”