CHAPTER TEN
KADE
I don’t belong here.
That’s the first thing that settles in my chest as I sit in the small, neutral room with its bland walls and uncomfortable chairs. No kutte. No title. No President. Just me, hands clasped together like they’re the only thing keeping me upright.
The woman across from me, Amanda, doesn’t look afraid of me. That alone throws me.
“So,” she says gently, “you’re here because your partner survived a sexual assault.”
I nod once, and my throat tightens. “Yes.”
“And you want to understand how to support her?”
“Yes,” I repeat, sharper this time, like if I don’t say it firmly enough, she won’t take me seriously.
She studies me for a moment then leans back slightly. “Before we talk about Eden, I want to talk about you.”
I frown. “This isn’t about me.”
She doesn’t argue, just tilts her head. “Everything that happens after trauma affects everyone close to the survivor, including partners. Especially partners.”
I stay quiet.
“That urge to fix things,” she continues. “To take control. To protect. To get angry on their behalf. It’s common.”
My jaw tightens.
“And often,” she adds softly, “it makes things worse.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “I should’ve protected her, kept her safe.”
She nods slowly. “All completely normal feelings.”
I swallow hard. “I blamed her.” The words taste like rust. “I thought she’d cheated,” I force out. “I couldn’t understand why she pulled away. Why she flinched. Why she cried during sex.” My voice drops. “I thought it was guilt.”
There’s no judgement in her expression, just sadness.
“She likely didn’t tell you because she was afraid,” Amanda says. “Not just of what happened, but of what would happen after. And sometimes, it can take time for a survivor to process what’s happened to them.”
My heart aches, and my eyes sting.
“She lost control once,” she continues. “Survivors often do everything they can to make sure it never happens again. That includes staying quiet. Staying agreeable. Staying small. Avoiding confrontation. Anything where control might be challenged or taken.”
I stare at the floor, shame burning behind my eyes.
“It can be difficult to understand why survivors make some of the decisions they do, especially for loved ones. But being there, listening and supporting, helps.”
A rough breath tears from my chest. “I wasn’t there for her at all. I didn’t do any of those things.”
“But you’re here now, and that matters.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.
“What do I do now?” I ask finally. “It was months ago. She’s had counselling. She seems better.” I shake my head. “I’m scared of saying the wrong thing, of dragging her back to that time.”
“You listen,” she says simply. “When she wants to talk, you let her. You don’t force it, and you don’t rush her healing to ease your own guilt.”
I close my eyes briefly. “I don’t want to hurt her again.”
She hesitates, then exhales quietly. “I’m a survivor too.”
I look up.
“I was raped ten years ago,” she continues. “By a close family friend. I didn’t tell anyone for a long time. Not my parents. Not my sister.” Her mouth tightens. “I felt ashamed, like I’d done something to cause it. Maybe I’d encouraged him.”
She takes a breath. “It took years for it to sit right in my head,” she says.
“For me to understand it wasn’t my fault.
Only then could I explain it to others.” She meets my eyes.
“Every survivor handles it differently. Some go to the police. Some tell a loved one. Some tell no one at all.” She pauses.
“But one thing is always the same,” she says gently.
“It is their trauma to own. Their story. Their choices.”
I nod slowly.
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t affect you,” she adds. “It did. And you’re allowed to deal with that too. Just not by taking control of her healing.”
She gives a warm smile. “We run a group for partners tonight. It’s each Monday, five until half-past six. Why don’t you stick around.”
I nod because I want this to work. I want to understand.
The room is different to the one I’ve just left. It’s softer somehow. The chairs are arranged in a loose circle, not facing a desk or a board or anyone in charge. There’s no head of the table here. No hierarchy.
That alone makes me relax.
I hover near the door for a moment, hands shoved deep into my pockets, scanning the room like it might turn on me. There are six other men already seated, different ages, different builds. None of them look like bikers. No leather, no patches, no visible weapons.
They all look . . . tired.
One of them glances up and offers a small nod, a silent acknowledgment we’re all here for the same thing.
I take the empty chair nearest the wall. Old habits.
The facilitator—Mark, he introduces himself—waits until we’re settled before speaking. His voice is calm, steady. No authority in it, just presence.
“Welcome back to most of you,” he begins.
“And hello to any new faces. I’ll just go over the rules quickly.
No fixing,” he says pointedly. “No interrupting. No judgement. We listen. We speak if we want to. Silence is allowed.” He smiles around the circle.
“Does anyone want to speak first, let the newbies know what we’re about? ”
I swallow the anxiety down.
A man across from me clears his throat. “I’m Ben,” he says quietly. “My wife was assaulted by a colleague three years ago.” He stares at the floor. “I didn’t know how to touch her without feeling like I was hurting her again.”
Something twists in my chest.
Another man speaks next. “I’m Callum. My partner froze. I didn’t understand that at first.” He exhales shakily. “I thought freezing meant she didn’t fight hard enough. I hate myself for thinking that.”
My hands clench into fists.
One by one, they speak. Not dramatically, not looking for sympathy, just facts layered with shame, confusion, anger, fear. Men who thought loving harder would fix it. Men who thought silence meant rejection. Men who pushed when they should have stayed still. Men like me.
Every word lands somewhere inside me.
Mark’s gaze finally comes to me. “You don’t have to speak,” he says gently, “but if you want to, you can.”
The room goes quiet.
I stare at my hands for a long moment. They’re scarred, bruised. Hands that know how to hurt, how to protect, how to take control. But hands that failed her.
“I’m Kade,” I say eventually. “My partner was raped by someone I knew,” I continue, the word still sharp on my tongue.
“I didn’t listen. Didn’t see the signs that were blaringly obvious now I know the truth,” I admit.
“I accused her. I made it about my anger instead of her pain.” My voice cracks slightly, and I don’t bother hiding it. “So, she left.”
No one rushes to reassure me. No one tells me it’ll be okay. And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.
“You’re here now,” Mark says softly.
I nod once. “I want to support her. She’s pregnant with my kid, so we’re gonna be in each other's lives forever. And I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me, I don’t expect her to, but I’d like to try and be better . . . for her.”
And for the first time since everything fell apart, I don’t feel like the biggest fuck-up in the room.
EDEN
A week has passed since the farmers’ show. Since I saw Kade. Since his big reveal. I thought I’d see him again by now. Expected it, even.
And if I’m honest with myself—really honest—I’m disappointed that I haven’t.
Mrs. Wainwright, however, has been more than happy to keep me updated. The way she talks about him, you’d think he’d single-handedly restored her faith in men everywhere. Her eyes light up whenever his name comes up.
The bell above the shop door chimes. I set the stock I’m unpacking aside and head out front, inhaling sharply when I see him.
Kade.
He grins. “Queenie,” he says easily. “I thought we could grab a break together.”
“Oh, I have work—”
“Go. I’ve got it covered,” Mrs. Wainwright calls from somewhere behind a towering stack of books.
Traitor.
I clamp my mouth shut then manage an awkward smile. “I’ll grab my jacket.”
Outside, he heads straight for the bike.
I stop short.
He glances back, reading me instantly. “You okay?”
“I thought we were going for coffee or something,” I say, nodding towards the café across the road.
His grin widens as he lifts a helmet towards me. My helmet. “I didn’t say anything about coffee.”
I hesitate then take it. He swings a leg over the bike and waits, patient, giving me space. When I climb on behind him, the familiarity hits hard. My body remembers before my head catches up, and I almost wrap my arms around his waist.
Almost.
Instead, when the engine roars to life, I grip the bar behind me. It’s safer, less confusing.
We ride for twenty minutes, leaving town behind, the fields opening up around us. When he finally pulls up outside a run-down building on the edge of the next village, confusion settles in.
He climbs off and removes his helmet, excitement flickering across his face. “Okay,” he says, “everyone keeps telling me I have to let you lead, make the decisions.”
I follow suit, helmet tucked under my arm, eyes flicking back to the building.
“But,” he adds quickly, softer now, “and you can absolutely say no if this is too much—Mrs. Wainwright mentioned you were thinking about a 3D scan.”
My heart stutters.
“I found this place,” he continues. “Small. Family-run. You can go in alone or with me, totally your call.” He pauses. “I just thought it might be nice for you to actually see our baby.”
Something warm and fragile spreads through my chest.
I look at the building again. “Yeah,” I say quietly, “I was thinking about it.” Relief flashes across his face. “Thank you,” I add. “That was . . . really thoughtful.”
He beams, pride softening his features.
“And, of course, you can come in,” I say before I can overthink it. “This is your baby too.”
He exhales, the tension leaving him all at once. “Only if you’re sure.”
I nod, feeling strangely steady. “Absolutely. Let’s do this.”
And suddenly, the idea of us—even just standing side by side—doesn’t feel impossible.