My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 105: Unreliable Witness ( Tom’s POV )

Chapter 105: Unreliable Witness ( Tom’s POV )

"This is where you live?"

"You don’t like it?"

"I do. But I expected something more— cosy."

"You mean little."

I didn’t see it coming.

One second Luther’s face was calm, the next his fist landed square on my arm.

Sharp, quick, enough to sting.

I stumbled half a step back and laughed before the pain even settled.

His glare wasn’t deep, just tight at the edges, jaw locked, eyes sharp like the punch was saying everything he didn’t feel like spelling out. Heat spread through the sore spot, blooming fast under my shirt, and I laughed harder.

Couldn’t help it.

I rubbed the spot, pressing into the ache like it was a prize, not a warning.

He didn’t move, just stood there breathing steady, shoulders squared in that way that meant the conversation was over before it even started.

I caught myself grinning and saw it flash in his eyes—exasperation, quick, then gone.

"I meant that it looks cold and without any trace of a human living in it!"

His voice trembled in annoyance. How adorable.

"Really? Because I’ve made sure to leave a dirty mug in the sink."

A chuckle.

Rough at first, like he’d bitten it back and lost.

Then another breath of laughter slipped through before he killed it, jaw tightening hard.

The pout stayed on his mouth, almost ridiculous with that hint of amusement dragging at the corners.

He hated that he laughed.

I saw it. Felt it.

And it was better than the punch.

Oh God, how I’ve missed that face.

I turned away before he saw too much on my face and let my eyes roam across the apartment.

My apartment.

All this space, and it still felt like nothing.

The living room stretched out wide, floors polished to a shine that made every step sound louder. The walls were pale, clean, holding paintings I’d chosen because they filled the emptiness, not because I cared about them.

Big splashes of color against white, balanced just right, like someone arranged them for a magazine photo.

The couch sat near the windows, long and deep, upholstered in gray leather that had barely softened.

Perfect lines, no marks, no sag where anyone had ever stayed too long.

I lowered myself onto the edge, and it felt the same as the day it was delivered—expensive, distant, cold against my skin. The pillows were set in neat angles.

I hadn’t touched them in weeks.

I rarely stay here.

I mostly sleep in my office.

Across from me, the coffee table gleamed under the light.

Glass top, steel frame, flawless.

Nothing on it but a single book and a crystal bowl that stayed empty because I never thought about filling it.

Everything in here looked chosen for how it looked, not how it lived.

My eyes moved to the kitchen at the far end, all sharp marble counters and chrome appliances.

The counters held nothing.

No crumbs, no spills, no cups left behind. The sink was dry.

The stove hadn’t been warm in months.

You could eat off the floor if you wanted to, but no one ever would.

I had this place cleaned continuously in the hope I’ll have Luther some day.

That day has come.

I was living my dream.

I leaned back slightly, letting the silence stretch. It wasn’t comfortable silence.

It was the kind that pressed at your ears, made the air feel heavier.

Every sound vanished fast in here, swallowed by space. No history clung to the walls, no laughter stuck in corners. Just emptiness dressed up in gloss and shine.

Luther’s reflection moved in the window across from me.

He hadn’t sat down.

Still standing, hands shoved into his pockets now, shoulders less rigid but not loose either.

His mouth almost straight again, but that chuckle still lived somewhere in him—I could tell.

The tension hadn’t vanished. It just shifted, folded into something else I couldn’t name yet.

I looked back at him, then at the room again.

All this square footage, and it felt like an echo chamber.

Nothing out of place.

Nothing alive.

I pressed my fingers into the sore spot on my arm and felt the heat bloom again, grounding me in a way the rest of this place never did.

"Why do you live here, Tom? You used to be such a messy roommate and you’re telling me you live here now?"

"What can I say? I have one dedicated cleaning lady!"

"Tom."

The sound of his voice hit, sharp and close.

My chest locked before I could pull in air.

Heat climbed fast up my throat, burning hard, and then it broke.

Tears came without warning, hot and heavy, spilling faster than I could wipe them.

My breath stuttered, rough, uneven, like my body couldn’t figure out how to keep going.

Guess I’ve been bottling my feelings for way too long.

Luther froze.

I saw it in the shift of his shoulders, the way his hands hung midair for a second too long.

His eyes widened, sharp edge gone, and then he moved.

Fast.

Steps cutting the distance, arms wrapping around me hard enough to pull me out of the collapse.

His chest hit mine, solid, steady, holding me like I’d break if he didn’t.

I grabbed him back, fists twisting in the fabric of his shirt, clinging like I’d been falling and finally found something to hold.

My face pressed into him, tears soaking through before I could stop them.

My whole body shook once, then again, and I squeezed tighter, dragging him closer until there was no space left.

His arms locked harder, one hand at the back of my neck, the other gripping my side like he needed to keep me there.

Breath sawed in and out, harsh in my ears, mixing with the pounding in my chest.

Everything else blurred—the cold air, the wide empty room, the polished floors that never held warmth.

All of it gone under the weight of him, his grip, his heat.

I didn’t let go.

Not right away.

I couldn’t.

My hands curled tighter, nails biting through the thin fabric.

I felt his breath on the side of my face, steady, slow, like he was trying to hand me something I didn’t know how to take.

My tears kept falling, soaking, sliding, and I let them. Let everything come out with no control, no plan, just raw sound caught in my throat.

It took a few seconds—long, dragging seconds—before I could find my voice again.

My grip stayed locked even then, words clawing their way out slow, broken, not enough to carry everything but enough to make me breathe again.

"Shhh, it’s ok,baby, it’s ok."

"Lu, I’ve missed you so much..."

His arms locked tight around me.

My chest heaved, dragging in air that wouldn’t stay.

Then his hand was on my head, patting, quick and soft, again and again.

Short, steady taps, like he was trying to pull me back piece by piece.

My breath hitched hard.

Another pat.

My fingers curled tighter in his shirt.

More pats, faster now, sliding into slow strokes, keeping me upright when my knees gave.

My lungs burned, throat raw, but I held on, feeling every press of his hand like a lifeline.

Could barely breathe.

Just those pats, keeping me here.

"What happened?"

"What didn’t?"

"You disappeared after that day... I thought I’ve killed you..."

"No... I was hospitalized for about a week, but I was fine. It was like I had a peanut allergy and I ate Skippy. An EpiPen and I was fine."

"But how can that be?... My father kept me in the basement and — "

He gulped.

His sob hit my shoulder, hard enough to shake us both. I gripped him tighter, locking him in.

Another broke through, rough, and his body jerked like every nerve was raw.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

I knew what he carried.

His father never stopped. The shouting first, always loud enough to shake the walls, then the hits. Open hand, closed fist, whatever landed first. Strikes to the ribs that left him curled on the floor, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Boots slamming into his side when he didn’t move fast enough. Knuckles splitting his cheekbone, over and over, until swelling sealed his eye shut.

It wasn’t just fists. Belt straps snapping against his back, raised again before the sting faded. Buckles cutting into skin. Nails digging, yanking him upright by his hair just to throw him down again.

Nights with his head slammed into walls until blood blurred his sight.

Days after, too sore to breathe right, too scared to speak.

His father told me all about it. Showed me.

And gave me a choice.

Exit Luther’s life or have him continue his lessons.

I haven’t given up on my relationship with Luther for a week. He suffered because of me for an entire week.

Every sob shaking through him now carried that history.

I felt all of it in the way his arms clung, desperate and crushing, like he was bracing for another blow that wouldn’t come.

My hold only tightened, steady and locked, because there was nothing else left to give him but this.

"I know..."

"You do?"

"Your father... it’s because of me that torture lasted an entire week. He wouldn’t give up until I gave up on you..."

The room went still. No words, only his breath catching hard against my neck. His body shook, then slowed, sobs dragging into rough, uneven breaths. I held him tighter, hands fixed on his back, waiting.

Silence settled heavy, stretching across the empty space. Nothing moved. His grip stayed locked, mine just as firm.

Time blurred.

Each breath steadied a little more, but neither of us let go.

"Luther, I need to confess something to you."

"Huh?"

"I might know who killed your father."