The Morning After
Country: Aurivelle
City: Auremont
Alvara
I opened my eyes slowly.
Everything was blurred at first.
The room was warm, washed in soft morning light, and I had to remain still for several seconds before my vision cleared enough to understand where I was.
Then the memory returned.
The glass wall.
His voice.
His hands.
The way I had finally surrendered to exhaustion against his shoulder.
My brows creased as I turned slightly.
I was in his bed.
I pushed myself upright.
And immediately regretted it.
A sharp ache moved through my body.
Everywhere.
Especially between my thighs.
I froze.
Then I looked toward the glass wall.
My face warmed instantly.
Oh God.
I remembered everything.
How I had cried.
How I had clung to him.
And how I had not actually wanted him to stop.
Not really.
Not entirely.
I had no idea it would be this painful again.
The first time had hurt.
But this …
This had been something else.
More painful than the first time.
Significantly.
“Grayson had destroyed me.”
I said it to myself and almost laughed.
Almost.
Because it was true.
He had completely and thoroughly destroyed me.
I lowered my head bashfully.
Grayson Hawthorne had ruined my dignity thoroughly.
He damaged me.
Grayson Hawthorne actually damaged me
I looked down beneath the duvet.
Naked.
Completely.
I tried to stand.
And nearly sat right back down.
There was absolutely no chance I was walking normally.
He had destroyed me.
I sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in the duvet like a woman recovering from battle, trying to decide what to do with the rest of my life.
The door opened.
“Good morning, Starling.”
I looked up.
Grayson entered carrying a tray.
Coffee.
Fruit.
Water.
And the deeply unfair sight of himself looking fresh, composed, and devastatingly handsome while I could barely function.
He crossed the room and set the tray aside.
Then looked at me properly.
Concern softened his face immediately.
“How are you feeling?”
I stared at him.
This man had explored every corner of my body six hours ago and now expected normal conversation.
I looked away.
“Deeply betrayed,” I said.
His mouth curved.
Then he crouched in front of me.
“I’m sorry.”
The smile vanished from his face.
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
I looked at him again.
“I lost control,” he said quietly. “And I hate that the first memory of us will include your pain.”
My chest shifted strangely.
He reached for my hand.
Pressed one kiss to my knuckles.
“You are the most precious thing I have ever touched,” he said softly. “If I spend the rest of my life proving I can handle you more gently, it still won’t be enough.”
I stared at him.
That was unfairly romantic for this hour of the morning.
I cleared my throat.
“I need to shower,” I said.
“Of course.”
I hesitated.
“I also… cannot walk.”
He smiled slowly.
Then stood.
“Come here.”
Before I could protest, he lifted me into his arms.
I made a sound of outrage.
He ignored it entirely.
He carried me to the bathroom, set me gently beside the bathtub, and turned on the water.
I'll bathe you," he said.
Simply.
Like it was obvious.
"You will not," I said.
"Starling.."
"You will absolutely not," I said.
He looked at me.
"You can barely…"
“I can bathe myself," I said. "I have been doing it my entire life."
He held my gaze.
The corner of his mouth moved.
"Fine," he said.
He leaned forward.
Kissed me.
Slow and warm and entirely unbothered.
Then pulled back.
Looked at me one more time.
"Call me when you're done," he said.
"I won't need to be carried out of a bathtub," I said.
"Call me anyway," he said.
And left.
I took my time.
The warm water.
The particular relief of it against every aching muscle.
I scrubbed thoroughly.
Slowly.
With the particular intention of someone washing off the previous evening
Not erasing it.
Just processing it.
Every moment.
I sat in the bathtub for longer than necessary.
Then I got out.
Dried off.
Wrapped a towel around myself.
And attempted to walk to the bedroom.
Limped.
Significantly.
Every step is a reminder.
I made it to the bedroom doorway.
Grayson was arranging breakfast on the table near the windows.
He looked up immediately.
“You should have called me.”
“ I'm fine”
“ You're limping”
“I preferred retaining my pride.”
He looked entirely pleased with himself.
I narrowed my eyes.
He walked to the wardrobe .
Pulled out a shirt oversized, dark, clearly his.
I stared.
He raised one shoulder.
“I assumed you wouldn’t want to wander the house naked.”
My face became hot.
“You bought these?”
“This morning.”
“You know my size?”
His eyes held mine.
“Yes.”
I snatched them from him.
He smiled like a dangerous man.
He took the towel back to the bathroom.
Then lifted me again despite my protests and carried me to the breakfast table.
He pulled out the chair and set me gently.
We ate slowly.
He watched me too often.
I pretended not to notice.
My phone kept vibrating.
Isabella.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I finally texted her:
“Alive. Injured. Explain later.”
Grayson glanced at the screen.
He handed me painkillers with water.
“Take these.”
"For the pain," he said simply.
I obeyed immediately.
Love, I decided, might simply be accepting medication from the man who caused the problem.
After breakfast he carried me to the sitting room.
I tried to protest.
He carried me anyway.
The sofa was warm.
The fire is going.
He sat down.
I sat beside him.
Then … without fully deciding to
I lay down.
My head on his lap.
He looked down at me.
His fingers moved absently through my hair.
Slow.
Steady.
Possessive in the gentlest way.
"Movie?" he asked.
“ Yes,” I said.
He found something.
I watched approximately fifteen minutes of it.
Then I slept off.
I woke up in the bedroom.
On the bed.
Covered.
I stared at the ceiling for a moment.
Then at the glass wall.
It was dark outside.
It's night.
I slept through the entire afternoon.
I sat up slowly.
The pain is significantly less than this morning.
Still present.
But manageable.
I looked around the room.
No Grayson.
I swung my legs off the bed.
Stood.
Tested the weight.
Better.
Still limp.
But functional.
I should have gone home this evening.
That had been the plan.
I made my way out of the room.
Down the corridor.
Holding the rail on the stairs.
Descending slowly.
In the dining room, a man was setting the table.
The chef, apparently.
“Good evening, madam.”
“Where is Grayson?”
He gestured down the hall.
“The office.”
I followed carefully.
Then stopped in the doorway.
His home office was extraordinary.
Walls of screens.
Documents opened across multiple monitors.
Soft lighting.
Controlled chaos.
And Grayson in the center of it, sleeves rolled, reading something with that severe concentration that made him look even more dangerous.
I stood there watching.
He looked up.
Saw me.
Everything else ceased to matter.
He was across the room in seconds.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” I countered. “I was meant to go home.”
He stared at me.
“There was no way in the universe where I was sending you home limping.”
I looked at him.
"I'm fine…"
He kissed me.
Tenderly.
Interrupting everything.
His hands were on my face.
His mouth is soft and certain.
When he pulled back I had lost the thread of the argument entirely.
“I’m sorry, but you're staying,” he murmured again.
Before I could answer, he lifted me into his arms.
He carried me … despite my protest
to the chair beside his desk.
Set me down.
And showed me things.
Not everything.
But things.
The technology division portfolio the current projects, the direction of the next quarter.
The cross-sector integration strategy he had been building for six months.
The way the Hawthorne empire actually connected each sector feeding into the others in ways that were not visible from the outside.
I listened.
Asked questions.
He answered every one.
Fully.
Without simplifying.
Like he had been waiting for someone to ask them properly.
After dinner he carried me upstairs, I bathed again while he worked from the bedroom sofa with his laptop.
When I emerged in his shirt and the underwear he had bought, he looked up once.
Then stopped typing entirely.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“It’s the weekend,” I said. “ You should rest.”
He watched me for several long seconds.
Then he closed the laptop.
Crossed the room.
Bent in front of me.
Kissed my forehead.
Slow.
Then my nose.
Brief and warm.
Then my eyes.
One.
Then the other.
Then my cheeks.
Both.
And then …
He took my lower lip between his.
Sucked it.
Gently.
Tenderly.
Then he pulled back.
His mouth near my ear.
“I’ve been trying very hard to distract myself.”
I blinked.
“From what?”
He lifted my chin gently.
“From the fact that you’re in my room.”
His eyes darkened.
“In my bed.”
My pulse misbehaved immediately.
“I’m trying to control myself,” he said quietly. “Because I know you’re still sore. And I would rather suffer than hurt you again.”
Something inside me softened completely.
He touched my jaw.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Starling.”
His thumb brushed my cheek.
“You’re too precious.”
Then he kissed me deeply once more.
And walked into the bathroom before I could recover.
When he came back later, hair damp, water still tracing down his neck, I looked at him and understood why almost all the women in the country wanted him.
Then the ache between my thighs reminded me sharply.
I composed myself and slid beneath the sheets.
He entered the bed behind me.
Pulled me gently back against his chest.
Wrapped one arm around my waist.
His mouth brushed my shoulder.
Then after a long silence, he asked quietly:
“If I had found you first before anyone hurt you would your heart have looked different in my hands?”
I couldn't answer.
Because some questions reached deeper than touch ever could.