Chapter 17 Annie
ANNIE
Elio refuses to sleep in the bed with me tonight.
After dinner—a mixture of an incredibly well-cooked steak served alongside a wild rice mix from a box and green beans from a can; it’s hard to get steady groceries up here—Elio cleans up, once again not letting me do anything, and then wordlessly goes to the linen closet to get out pillows and blankets.
I trail after him, panic tightening my chest at the thought of sleeping alone… and something else, too.
I was hoping for him to touch me again. To maybe let me touch him again, too.
I’ve been thinking all day about how he felt in my hand—the straining hardness, the velvet flesh, the slick feeling of his pre-cum under my thumb.
The way he twitched and groaned, the look on his face as he came, how hard he came for me.
As if eleven years of pent-up desire exploded from him in that moment.
Just like it did for me, last night.
I got off in the shower earlier, remembering how it felt to touch him. Imagining him doing more to me, me doing more to him. I came so hard my knees almost buckled, and I’ve been thinking all day of what might happen tonight.
Which, clearly, appears to be nothing.
“Elio—” I stop behind him, and he turns to face me, his arms full of bedding.
“We can’t do that again,” he says flatly.
“We’re going to keep pushing that line, Annie, you know we will.
You know how close we came… before. There’s no one to catch us here, no one to stop us.
You know what’s going to happen. So I’m sleeping on the couch.
” There’s a ring of finality in his voice.
“I’m right out here, if you need me. You can wake me up, if you have night terrors, if…
” He trails off. “I’m here, Annie. But I need to sleep on the couch. ”
I can tell that arguing with him isn’t going to make a difference. I nod, chewing on my lip, and go to get ready for bed.
Thirty minutes later, I’m lying in bed, acutely aware of the fact that Elio isn’t here with me. The bed feels so much more empty than it did before. I’d never spent the night with anyone before last night, and suddenly I don’t want to sleep alone any longer.
Not because it was anyone. Because it was Elio.
I don’t want to go to sleep without him. I don’t want him to leave me again. I want…
Maybe he was right to sleep out there. The feelings I had for him once, what I told myself for years was just a teenage crush, haven’t gone away. Seeing him now, both of us full-fledged adults, hasn’t changed anything. If it has, it’s only intensified what there once was.
I’m still in love with Elio Cattaneo. And maybe he’s in love with me, too, but it’s clear he’s not going to admit it. That he’s never going to let himself give in.
I close my eyes, trying to fall asleep. The moment I do, I’m sucked into a nightmare that throws me straight back into that night at Desmond’s.
I’m back on the couch, trapped under the weight of his body, the hard line of his cock grinding between my legs.
His hands are on my breasts, his mouth on my neck, demanding, taking without permission.
I try to scream, but no sound comes out.
I try to grab for the shard of wine glass, but my hands won’t work.
And just when I think he’s going to win, that I’m going to feel him take what I wasn’t sure I wanted to give him, I wake up gasping and covered in cold sweat.
I sit up in the cabin's small bedroom, my heart hammering against my ribs as I try to separate dream from reality. The sheets are soaked with perspiration, and my hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the water glass on the nightstand.
More than anything, I wish the space beside me in the bed wasn’t empty. I wish I could roll over and feel Elio put his arms around me. I wish he would make my mind go blank with pleasure again, make me feel good from something I want instead of fear from something I don’t.
The irony isn't lost on me. The one person who makes me feel safe, who can chase away the shadows that Desmond left behind, is determined to stay just out of reach.
I check the clock—3:47 AM. Too early to be awake, too late to pretend I'm going back to sleep anytime soon. I slip out of bed and pad barefoot to the living room, needing the comfort of another human presence, even if he insists on keeping me at arm's length.
Elio is sprawled across the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths.
He looks younger in sleep, more like the boy I knew all those years ago.
It makes my chest ache, and I want to curl up against his side, to feel the solid warmth of his body chasing away the lingering echoes of my nightmare.
Instead, I stand there watching him sleep, afraid that if I get too close, he'll wake up and retreat even further.
"Can't sleep?" His voice startles me, low and raspy.
I bite my lip. "Bad dream," I admit, wrapping my arms around myself. "Sorry if I woke you."
He sits up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. Even in the darkness illuminated only by the moonlight drifting through the cracks in the curtains, I think I can see the concern etched across his features. "Desmond?”
I nod, unable to trust my voice. "Come here," Elio says softly, shifting to make room on the couch beside him.
I don't need to be asked twice. I settle against his side, my head finding the hollow of his shoulder like it belongs there. His arm comes around me automatically, his fingers combing through my hair in soothing strokes.
“I was back in his penthouse,” I whisper. “He was on top of me again. He almost…he—”
Elio's arm tightens around me, and I feel his lips press briefly to the top of my head. "He didn't win, Annie. You got away. You're safe."
"Am I?" The question comes out smaller than I intended. "Because it doesn't feel like I'm safe. It feels like I'm hiding, like I'm still running from him."
"You are safe," he says firmly. "I won't let anyone hurt you again."
I want to believe him, but the rational part of my brain knows that he can't promise that.
Desmond is still out there. And eventually, I'll have to leave this cabin and face the world again.
My only hope for things going back to normal, back to the way they were before, is for Elio to find him and stop him before that can happen.
And if that happens, if Elio does kill him for me, if Desmond is gone… I’ll go home.
And things will go back to the way they were before for Elio and I.
The thought makes my chest feel like a yawning pit. The thought of Elio never touching me again, even just like this… it makes me want to cry. The thought of losing him again, especially when he’s so close, just within reach and still so far away—
"I feel so helpless," I whisper. "So fucking powerless. Every time I close my eyes, I'm right back there with him, and there's nothing I can do to stop it."
"That's not true." Elio shifts so he can look at me. "You fought him off, Annie. You saved yourself. That takes incredible strength and courage."
"It takes a lucky break and a broken wine glass," I counter. "What happens next time, when I don't have a weapon within reach? When I can't catch him off guard?"
"There won't be a next time."
"You can't know that."
We fall into silence, then. I can feel the tension in Elio's body, the way his jaw clenches as he processes what I'm not saying directly—that I don't feel equipped to protect myself, that the thought of facing Desmond again terrifies me more than I can articulate.
"I could teach you," he says finally.
"Teach me what?" I look at him sideways, but he’s not meeting my eyes.
"Self-defense. How to handle a weapon properly. Basic skills that could save your life if you ever find yourself in a situation like that again."
I pull back to stare at him, recognizing the determined set of his features that I remember from childhood arguments.
"Elio, no. You know how I feel about guns.
" He should, at least. I hate the things. Ronan always wanted me to learn to shoot one, especially given my position in the family and the work I do for them, but I always refused. I hate how they look, how they feel, the fact that I could so easily end someone’s life with one.
Murdering someone should take more than just the twitch of a finger against a trigger. The power of it—it makes my skin crawl.
I’ve long since accepted that I live in a world where everyone around me relies on guns for their protection and mine, but I’ve never wanted to touch one. Certainly never wanted to learn to shoot.
"This isn't about your philosophical objections to guns—" Elio begins, and I feel myself tense, ready for an argument.
"Isn't it?" I stand up, suddenly needing distance from him and his logical solutions to my fears, solutions that I don’t want in the slightest. "You want to put a gun in my hands and teach me how to kill people. How is that not relevant to how I feel about them?"
"It's about survival." He watches me from where he’s sitting, his voice gaining strength with conviction. "It's about giving you a means to protect yourself if someone tries to hurt you again."
"I don't want to hurt anyone."
"Even Desmond?"
The question stops me cold. Because the truth is, I do want to hurt Desmond. I want him to suffer the way he made me suffer, to feel powerless and afraid and violated. The depth of my own capacity for vengeance scares me. I’ve never felt it before.
Maybe part of why I want Elio to do this for me is so that I don’t have to feel it. So that I can hide from how vicious I’ve realized I can be when someone hurts me.
"That's different," I say weakly.
"How?" Elio’s voice is gentle, but even. He’s not going to let me run away from this, the same way he never let me run from arguments when we were younger.
“Because—” I lick my lips. I don’t have an answer. “It just… is.”