Chapter 16
Leilani
I like telling Koby about my time with Anton. It helps me compartmentalize what happened, identify things that still trip me up, and find a way back when I spiral. It makes dealing with the aftermath of being groomed for years less abstract.
But I also hate telling him. His mood shifts after. He goes quiet, dark, broody. Like everything I tell him sticks under his skin and festers. It takes him days to come back to himself.
This time it’s worse. Four days later, he’s still withdrawn, lost deep in his thoughts whenever he’s home.
And he’s not home often. We have breakfast together because I get up early to cook, set the table, and wake him when the food’s ready. Otherwise, he’d skip it. He eats, drinks his coffee, and then he’s gone until the middle of the night.
He comes back exhausted, the dark shadows under his eyes growing daily. Sometimes he comes back with blood on his shirt. sometimes with his knuckles split. He doesn’t explain much, only that Carter’s running him ragged.
They’re preparing for... whatever it is they’ve got planned for the Grey brothers. Koby doesn’t tell me a lot, just repeats the same old lines about gathering intel.
I don’t push. I trust him, and I don’t want him bringing home more work than follows him here already.
Tonight is one of the rare evenings he’s made it back before ten pm. Probably because of his raw knuckles and blood-spattered shirt.
He showered, changed, and now sits in the living room with a glass of whiskey, eyes distant, head miles away.
I finish my wine, setting the glass down harder than necessary. The sound cuts through the quiet, the clink sharp enough to pull him back. His gaze shifts, and he blinks like he forgot I was here.
“You’ve been zoning out since Saturday,” I say, folding my legs under my butt. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.” He runs a hand down his face, exhaling the stress. “Fine, everything.”
“Is it work?”
He shakes his head, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
“For such a talkative guy, you’re awfully quiet,” I press. “If you don’t want to tell me, say so, but if it’s about me, or what I told you about my time at Anton’s, then talk to me. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
I have a feeling I know what’s been eating at him, but if he expects me to open up, he should at least have the guts to ask.
The silence stretches between us, so loud it rings in my ears. Koby stares at me, or maybe looks right through me, the intensity of his gaze heating my cheeks.
“I don’t know how to ask without hurting you,” he finally says. “I don’t want to trigger bad memories.”
“You’re afraid I’ll hit you again?” I chuckle, trying to loosen him up.
It doesn’t work. His lips don’t even twitch.
“You know I don’t mind that part. It’s you I’m worried about. Your head.”
Straightening in my seat, I brush my hair back. “Fine. If you won’t ask, I’ll do it for you.”
“You don’t even know—”
“Leilani, did Octavius ever come back to rape you?” I deadpan, pitching my voice deeper to mimic his. I even snarl rape through my teeth for better effect, but instead of cracking a smile, Koby stops breathing.
“That’s what you’ve been wondering, right?”
His throat works, free hand tightening into a fist. “Yes.”
“The answer is no. He came back, but he never touched me. Not while I was with Anton, not when he moved me into his house, and not after he made me Blaze’s problem. No one has ever forced themselves on me.”
His tension fizzles out in a flash, shoulders visibly slumping, quickly followed by the back of his head hitting the armchair’s backrest. He stares at the ceiling, unblinking, air leaving him in a long gush.
And he chuckles... then all-out laughs. “I don’t sound like that. Not at all.”
“Yeah, you do. Not always, but when you’re worked up—”
“No. Not when I’m worked up.” He lifts his head, meeting my gaze, the amusement gone from his features, replaced by something hotter, stickier. “Only when I’m fucking reeling because I think someone hurt you.”
“No one hurt me. Not like that. Not sexually. Every bruise I ever had was my own doing. Every orgasm too.” I swallow hard, watching closely for a reaction.
I didn’t have to add that last part, but I’m an addict chasing the smallest hit, testing how much I can get before he cuts me off. He pushed me away once. It still stings like a fresh slap, but apparently, I haven’t learned.
As soon as the confession is out, I’m watching him, searching his face, waiting.
His gaze doesn’t move at first. It holds mine, flipping my stomach inside out.
Then it flicks to my lips, quick but unmistakable, and heat explodes under my ribs.
Anticipation coils around my insides, winding tighter with every second.
I won’t make the first move again. One rejection is quite enough. This time, it’s on him. If he wants me, he’ll have to close the distance, and show me.
So I wait.
I wait, I hope, and in my head, I fucking beg him to cross the room, pick me up, and kiss me. I want to know what he tastes like... and I want more. Much more than a kiss. Something real, raw, and messy. I want to be claimed in a way that makes me feel alive instead of a doll in a glass case.
His knuckles flex around his drink, jaw ticks, and eyes burn hungrier than I’ve ever seen them.
“Like last night?” he says, and winks, shattering the moment with cruel ease. “You’re loud, hellcat.”
My face ignites with humiliation. “You... you heard me?” I slap both hands over my face. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know the walls were that thin!”
“I don’t think it’s the walls.” He downs his drink, his next words steady, almost amused. “You don’t hear me, do you?”
“Stop.” I slash the air in front of my face with my hands.
“This didn’t happen. You didn’t hear me.
” I jump to my feet, taking the wine glass as I flee.
My bedroom door closes behind me a few seconds later.
Resting my back against the wood, I slide to the floor and bury my head in my knees, breathing deeply to ward off incoming tears.
It’s ridiculous that I feel so defeated, so fucking wrecked, but I can’t help it. Koby gave me the confirmation I never wanted.
He’s not interested.
I press my forehead harder into my knees, trying to smother the heat crawling up my throat. It doesn’t work. The reminder of last night has me buzzing, my treacherous body alive with the memory of my orgasm as if it just happened.
I give in, replaying the moment, the way I bit my lip as my back arched off the bed, the way I whispered his name when pleasure consumed my senses.
Except it couldn’t have been a whisper. He wouldn’t have heard that. I must’ve been loud.
My stomach lurches, shame poisoning the blood in my veins. I want to claw the memory out, pretend it didn’t happen, that he didn’t hear me, but it’s impossible.
And what’s worse, despite being rejected twice, my body’s still betraying me. Even curled on the floor, close to tears, my thighs press together, spurred on by my imagination.
What would’ve happened last night if he knocked? How would he react if he found me flushed and needy, fingers buried between my legs?
I wish he’d seen me like that, taken in the whole picture, and decided to finish what I started. I can’t stop picturing his toned body hovering over me. His hands closing around my wrist and pinning me down.
Pathetic. That’s what I am. He doesn’t want me.
If he did, he would’ve knocked last night. It was his name I moaned when the orgasm washed over me...
I screamed his name, and he still didn’t come.
He didn’t knock.