Chapter 8
Mila
Three days, I sit in our apartment. It’s been the longest time in my life I’ve gone without any kind of contact with another human being, and the most I’ve ever cried.
I’m beyond disappointed with myself for being so weak and succumbing to my tears, but I’m even more disappointed in Sam and Frankie. I’ve called them every day I’ve been here but haven’t received a single response. This morning—the third morning—I woke up angry. When I looked at myself in the mirror, the rage I felt bubbling in my belly made me want to punch my fist right through it.
The bruising is at its peak. The whole side of my face and my cheekbone are a lovely shade of blue and purple. Turning my head to the side to get a clear view of the damage, I hold up my broken wrist in its black cast and take a selfie. Captioning it: ‘Well This Happened!’ in my fit of rage, I then send the image to Sam and Frankie.
My phone rings immediately. ‘Sam Franks Work’ appears on my screen, letting me know it’s Sam calling. Frankie’s number is stored as ‘Mobile’.
My heart and stomach lurch. He is the person whose betrayal has cut deepest. He’d been so fucking concerned for me over the weekend. The way he held me, looked at me. I honestly felt a connection, and thought he had, too.
“He felt a connection, all right. The one his dick made with my mouth, pussy, arse, and every other part of me,” I say out loud as I watch the call end.
As the ‘missed call, no message left’ notification comes through, my phone rings again. It rings off, and this time he leaves a message. I don’t listen to it, though, but then a text comes through.
Sam: WTAF, Mila! Pick up your fucking phone. We need to talk. Where the fuck are you? Are you safe? Talk to me, beautiful girl, please! I’ve missed you.
“Yeah right, you’ve fucking missed me. Missed filling my holes, more like!” Again, I’m talking out loud to no one. Am I going mad? Have just three days alone driven me to insanity already, or is it the result of the trauma, lies, and deceit I’ve lived with, endured, and dealt with—or not—my entire life?
I find a playlist, and blast Rihanna’s “Breakin’ Dishes” from my phone. As I walk out to the kitchen in search of something to bake or break—I’m not sure which—my phone rings again. I need to grow the fuck up. Why did I call and text if I didn’t want to speak to either of them?
Swiping my phone, I answer with, “Wha?—”
I haven’t even got the T out when Sam roars down the phone, “What the fuck is going on? Who fucking did that to you? Where the fuck are you? You safe?”
“If you’d picked your phone up three fucking days ago, you might have answers to all those questions,” I snap around the lump in my throat.
I’m Mila fucking Grace, I will not show this man that I care!
“I’ve picked up now. I’m calling you now. Stop being a child and tell me what the fuck happened. Who fucking did that to you?”
A snort escapes my nose. I’m not sure if it’s a sob or a laugh trying to free itself, but I do know it is driven by relief, gratitude that someone out there fucking cares.
I press my fingertips to my lips and take a couple of seconds to compose myself.
“Scott,” I almost choke on his name; that’s how repulsed I am by that man.
After a long pause, very calmly, very quietly, Sam asks, “Where are you?”
“The apartment in the city.”
“Meet me in the parking garage in ten minutes.”
He ends the call.
After switchingmy calls to divert to my backup number, I leave my phone in my toiletry bag, clean my teeth, wash my face, moisturise, and as quickly as I can with one arm, I pull on a pair of leggings and a hoodie. After pushing my feet into my Nikes without bothering to untie them, I finger comb my hair and inspect my reflection. I look truly awful. Bruising aside, my skin is pale, and I have dark circles under my eyes. Makeup is pointless at this stage, so there’s not a lot I can do to improve on anything. Plus, I’ve already taken fifteen minutes, and Sam will be waiting. Once I’ve grabbed my crossbody Michael Kors bag and my keys, I make my way downstairs.
Sam has parked his car directly next to the lifts. As the doors slide open, he’s the first thing I see. His long frame leans against the passenger side door, with his legs crossed at the ankles.
His eyes hit mine before moving rapidly across the entirety of my face, down to the cast on my wrist, the rest of my body, then down at the ground for a few seconds. I’m aware of what a shocking sight I am, so I stand motionless and give him time to process as the lift doors close behind me.
When he finally looks up again, I’m almost floored by the anger emanating from him. Brows drawn down over blue eyes, his stubble-covered jaw tense, he nods slowly.
“Your father-in-law did this to you?”
I nod.
“Why?”
“I tried to stop him from attacking his daughter Ella—my sister-in-law.”
His frown deepens as he first nods, then shakes his head. “Where was your husband when all this was happening?”
“He was there.”
“And he..”
“… told me I shouldn’t have interfered.”
He blinks once slowly, then three or four times rapidly before giving a long exhale. “I want to wrap you in my arms, but I’m scared I’ll hurt you,” he says quietly.
“It’ll hurt me more if you don’t,” I whisper.
He moves in an instant. Just experiencing the warmth and closeness of another human has my heart feeling lighter than it has in days. I breathe in his scent as he gently holds me.
My mind is an absolute tumult of thoughts and feelings. I’ve known this man less than a week, have spent less than forty-eight hours with him, so why does being back in his arms feel so fucking good?
Stepping back, he looks down at me. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Helping me into the car, he buckles me up, kisses the top of my head, closes my door, then goes around to his side.
He’d left the engine running, and Jelly Roll’s “Somebody Save Me” plays down low as I watch him slide in, pull on his seatbelt, check his rear-view mirror, then pull away.
As we exit the underground car park and merge into Melbourne traffic, I feel a weight lift from my chest. Once again slammed with emotion, I turn and stare out of the window as I attempt to compose myself.
We both remain silent until I realise we’re not heading towards Frankie’s place but out of the city.
“Where are we going?”
“My place down on the Mornington Peninsula.”
“Why?” I finally turn towards him.
“We need to talk.” His eyes slice between his rear-view and wing mirrors as we filter onto the freeway. When he stares ahead, his focus solely on the road, I turn away.
“And we can’t do that at Frankie’s?”
“No.”
My stomach lurches as a thought hits me. “My phone. I need my phone. I’ve diverted all my…” I turn to face him again as I panic, watching as he lifts my phone from the wireless charger and passes it to me.
“I collected it before I picked you up. It hasn’t rung.”
I check it anyway. Nothing. I’m not even a little bit surprised, but just a few seconds later, Frankie’s name appears on the dash screen as a call comes through. Sam answers it with a tap on the steering wheel.
“Where the fuck are you?” His voice echoes throughout the car.
“In my car.”
“She with you?”
“Yep.”
“You bringing her here?”
“Nope.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“You know why the fuck not.”
“Olsson, I’m fucking?—”
“You’re fucking what? You know what you need to do. We’ll be at my place on the peninsula in forty minutes. I’ll give you an hour to get there.”
“Sam…”
“No, Frank. Not fucking listening. And if you could see what those cunts have done to her, you’d understand why.”
Sam ends the call, and Dave Gahan’s voice fills the silence as Depeche Mode sing about having their own personal Jesus.
“You gonna tell me what the fuck’s going on?” I ask.
“Nope,” Sam snaps without looking at me, turning up the music just to make it clear that’s the end of our conversation.
Almost immediately, my phone vibrates with a text message from Frankie: I’m sorry. Please don’t listen to anything he has to say till I get there. I’m leaving now but tell him to wait if I don’t make it within the hour.
I don’t reply. Instead, I tuck my phone between my legs, support my broken wrist on my good arm, and turn to stare out the window.
“That Frankie?” Sam eventually asks.
I ignore him.
“You gonna talk to me?”
“Nope.”
Aside from the playlist of absolute British alternative bangers, we drive for the next forty minutes in silence.
I havea feeling of absolute dread deep down in my belly as Sam taps the code into the security gates outside of his property. My stomach churns as I watch them slide open, revealing a stunning double-storey house with a wraparound veranda on the second floor.
We turned off a graded road onto a dirt track to reach the place, which, I would imagine from its position, has sweeping views of Port Philip Bay from the upper level. I don’t know this area very well, so I’m unsure of where I am exactly. Portsea. Maybe Sorento or Blairgowrie. Somewhere on that part of the peninsula.
I look over my shoulder as the gates close.
“You look like you want to run, Mils.”
“I do… I think. You’ve brought me here with no explanation. I’m about to enter a property in an undisclosed location, with a man I barely know.” I turn to face him. “So excuse me for being nervous.”
“A man you barely know?” He raises his brows.
“We’ve fucked.” He narrows his eyes at my bluntness, but I continue anyway. “We might know each other intimately, but I know nothing about you personally, and here I am, about to enter a property in bum fuck nowhere with you.”
“Come inside and I’ll tell you my life story,” he says as he turns off the engine and climbs out of the car.
“Said the spider to the fly,” I reply before he closes his door.
He pauses and leans back in to look at me, concern now etched on that beautiful, blue-eyed, boyish face of his. He’s so fucking pretty I could cry as guilt at my harsh words washes over me.
“You want me to take you back to the city? Or we can sit out here till Frankie graces us with his presence.”
“Then go inside with two of you and a broken wrist?” I can’t help myself this morning.
His jaw ticks as he tenses, and I know his mood has switched from concerned, possibly a little hurt, to thoroughly pissed off.
“We had you in an apartment alone all last weekend. No one knew where you were. You didn’t know us. We, or at least I, didn’t know you, but you let me, let both of us inside your body.”
My vagina—the traitorous little hoe—reacts to his words as memories flash through my mind of all the things we did and how fucking good they felt.
“Did I, did either of us do anyfuckingthing to make you feel unsafe or vulnerable?”
I shake my head.
“Good,” he replies before slamming his door and walking around the front of the car to open mine. His face has relaxed again, and I want to sit on it when he looks at me the way he is right now.
“I would never, not ever hurt you, and I fucking hate that someone has. Now, come inside, I’ll make you one of those girly teas you like so much, and tell you the life story of Samuel Axel Olsson.”
“Axel? How manly.” I take the hand he’s offered to help me out of the Land Rover.
“You fucking know it, baby girl,” he responds with a slap to my arse as we walk towards the house.
“And how do you know I like girly teas?”
“I stalked your Insta.”
“See, again, not filling me with confidence about entering this place alone with you right now.”
“I’ll enter you with my dick if you don’t quit bitching. Will that make you feel safer?”
“Absolutely,” I say as I follow him through the front door.
He turns and is on me in a second. Raising my arms above my head, he gently holds my hands in one of his. Pressing his body flush with mine, I feel his hard dick as he grinds it against me, his eyes on mine as his hot breath coats my skin.
“I wanna fuck you so bad. Fuck the cunty attitude you’ve rocked up with this morning right out of you. But every time I look at what those fuckers have done to your gorgeous face and your wrist, I get so fucking angry, I’m scared I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me. You’ll never hurt me; you just told me that.”
He blinks rapidly a few times—something I’ve noticed he does when he’s processing—before closing his eyes for a long moment.
“Hard and fast against the door, or long, slow, and fucking deep in my bed?”
“However you wanna have me.”
“Every way fucking possible.” He lifts me up into his arms, carrying me along the hallway and through a set of double doors into a large bedroom.
I don’t get a chance to take in the space before he’s over me, peeling me out of my clothes. His movements are precise but gentle. When he sees the bruises across my ribs, he pauses.
“Mila, fucking hell. Are you sure? For fuck’s sake, look at you.”
I reach for the back of his head and pull him towards me.
“I’m sure. Fuck me. Fuck it all away. Make me forget them. Make me forget the bruises. Fuck me until there’s nothing and no one except me and you.”
His soft lips cover mine oh so gently. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, with just his mouth on mine for a long moment before his tongue joins the party. He pushes it into my mouth, tangles it with mine, harder, deeper, before it’s gone. His hands palm my breasts, and his fingers squeeze and pull at my nipples as I lift my hips in search of some friction.
“Wait, wait, wait, beautiful girl. I’ve got you, but let’s just enjoy this for a minute. Let me enjoy you while I’ve got you all to myself.”
Frankie’s handsome face flashes through my mind, and I wonder for a split second how he’s going to feel about us doing this without him. But all concerns for Frankie Walsh vanish the moment Sam’s mouth lands a direct blow to my clit. Here, he’s not gentle as his teeth drag over the most sensitive spot of my body and he pushes two fingers inside me. I’m wet, soaked, and we both hear it as he pumps his fingers in and out of me.
“Fuck!” he hisses against my pussy. “I wanted to take my time, but I need to be inside you.”
I don’t get the chance to respond before he’s over me again. This time, he pulls me to the edge of the bed and stands between my spread legs.
“I want this to be good for both of us. This way, I don’t put any weight on those bruises,” he says with a wink while lifting my thighs.
I watch on in fascination as he moves my hips into position, takes his cock in his hand, lines it up with my pussy, and pushes slowly inside me.
“Fuck me. Look at you. Even bruised and in a cast you’re fucking exquisite. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”
I continue to watch him as he watches us. He bites down on his bottom lip, his head tilted to the side as he stares down at where he’s sliding in and out of me.
“Turn your head to the right, Mila,” he orders without looking at me.
When I do, I watch in rapt fascination as the image of me and Sam is reflected back at me in the floor to ceiling mirror leaning against the wall. My eyes roam up the tensed calf muscles in Sam’s slightly bent legs, up his thighs, and over his arse cheeks as they squeeze and contract with every thrust inside me. His sculpted back, abs, and chest; his defined arms as he holds on to my hips and supports my weight. When I reach his face, my head begins to spin. It’s as if he knows my eyes are there waiting to connect with his in the mirror. With his top teeth still biting down on his bottom lip, he slowly turns to meet my needy gaze. At the same time, he presses his thumb to my clit and moves it in slow, languorous circles.
I come undone, releasing a loud moan as my orgasm rolls through me, on and on, from my toes to my hair roots—every part of me feels it.
“Look at you. Look at us. Meant to be, Mila. Fucking meant to be.”
My gaze moves from his reflection to mine. Bruises hidden by my position, all I see is a blonde I don’t recognise. Her back arched, hair spread all over the bed, nipples peaked, mouth open as she rides out an intense orgasm being delivered by an absolute fucking god of a man. My attention is drawn back to him as his own back arches. I follow the tense cords of his neck as he tilts his face up to the ceiling and pulls my hips tighter against his as I feel him empty inside of me.
“Fuck. Fuck,” is all that he groans out.