Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
AUDRA
I wake up to quiet.
Not the library quiet where there’s murmuring and shushing and the subtle pressure to behave. No. This is different. This is house-quiet. A hush that doesn’t feel like silence so much as… permission.
Permission to stay still.
Permission to take inventory.
Permission to acknowledge that I’m on Derek Pierce’s couch, wrapped in someone else’s blanket, and my body is no longer braced for impact.
For a few seconds I don’t move at all. I just listen.
A low hum from somewhere—maybe the fridge. The faint tick of something mechanical in the walls. The soft, distant sound of water… running? Or it could be my brain trying to make sense of noise the way it’s been doing since last night: guessing, lagging, filling in gaps.
My head doesn’t pound the way it did earlier. It’s more… tender. Like a bruise I can feel if I press too hard. My mouth is dry, but not sandpaper-dry. My stomach is quiet.
That alone feels like a miracle.
I blink slowly and let my eyes adjust.
The living room is exactly as I remember it—clean lines, muted color, intentional everything. Derek’s house doesn’t clutter. It doesn’t shout. It holds.
The blanket shifts when I breathe, and I realize my fingers are still curled into it like it belongs to me. Like I’d been afraid it would disappear if I let go.
I loosen my grip, embarrassed at myself even though no one is here to witness it.
I sit up carefully, waiting for the room to tilt.
It doesn’t.
Good.
Somewhere down the hall, a door opens and shuts with quiet restraint. Footsteps—slow, measured. Not Mark’s heavier stride. Not Alex’s loose saunter. This is… controlled.
Him.
My throat does something stupid, like my body is a teenager and my brain has no authority.
I pull the blanket tighter anyway. Armor. Habit. It’s ridiculous, considering I’m wearing Derek’s shirt and probably look like a half-feral woodland creature who wandered into a billionaire’s living room and decided to take a nap.
The footsteps pause.
Not outside the living room. Not hovering.
Just… noticing.
Then I hear it.
A soft clink of ceramic. A familiar hiss. Coffee.
Of course he drinks coffee like it’s a moral obligation.
I swing my legs slowly off the couch and set my feet on the floor. The carpet is thick. Expensive. Like everything else. My toes curl into it instinctively, grounding.
My brain tries to replay last night again—tries to test the edges of memory to see what hurts.
The bar.
The water.
The moment the music warped like someone dragged a needle across a record.
The sick, humiliating lurch of my stomach.
And then—Derek’s hand on my arm. Steady. Firm. Unflinching.
Italian leather shoes, sacrificed for the greater good.
I wince.
Then, because my life has a cruel sense of humor, my mouth curves.
I am never living that down.
A shadow crosses the threshold of the living room.
Derek appears in the doorway with a mug in one hand and his phone in the other, like he was mid-something and decided I mattered enough to stop.
He isn’t shirtless this time. Thank God.
He’s in a fitted henley—dark, sleeves pushed to his elbows—hair still slightly messed like he ran a hand through it too many times. He looks… normal.
Which on him is unfair.
His gaze lands on me and holds. Not the office look—the sharp, assessing CEO stare that makes people sit up straighter.
This is different.
This is the look of a man making sure someone is still here.
Still alive.
Still okay.
“You’re awake,” he says.
It isn’t a question. It isn’t a victory.
It’s relief disguised as neutrality.
I clear my throat. “Apparently.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile and doesn’t trust himself to.
“How’s your head?”
I test it, because of course he asks like he’s been waiting for the answer. “Not trying to kill me anymore.”
He nods once, like that’s the report he needed to hear to keep breathing normally.
He holds the mug out—not too close. Not demanding. Offering.
“Coffee,” he says. “Or I can get you water. Or tea. Mark bought lemon tea like he was planning for the apocalypse.”
I blink. “Mark bought lemon tea.”
“He did.”
“That feels… wrong.”
“Everything about last night felt wrong,” he says quietly.
The words land heavier than the tone.
My stomach tightens in a different way this time. Not nausea. Not drugged confusion.
Anger.
A clean, bright edge of it.
Because he’s right. Because it was wrong. Because someone decided my body was a thing that could be altered without my permission and then probably slept like a baby afterward.
I inhale slowly, forcing the anger to sit down in the corner of my mind where it belongs until I can do something useful with it.
“I’ll take water,” I say, voice too steady.
Derek’s gaze sharpens—like he feels the anger too. Like he understands it.
“Okay,” he says simply.
He turns, disappears toward the kitchen.
Still not hovering.
Just… responding.
I sit there for a second, staring at my hands in my lap. My nails are still painted. My rings are gone. No—wait. They’re on the coffee table, lined up neatly beside my clutch like someone took them off carefully and thought, She’ll want these back exactly as they were.
My chest tightens.
There’s something intimate about someone keeping your small things safe. About being handled without being taken.
Derek returns with a bottle of water and a glass, sets both down on the coffee table within my reach.
He doesn’t sit.
He leans against the edge of the doorway instead, shoulders relaxed but not casual. Like he’s giving me space with one hand and keeping the other ready in case I sway.
I hate that it makes me feel… held.
“Do you remember anything?” he asks.
The question is gentle, but I can hear the restraint in it. Like he wants to ask a hundred things and is choosing the one that matters most.
I swallow. “Pieces.”
His jaw flexes.
“The water,” I say. “The music… going weird.”
His eyes narrow. “Warped.”
“Yes.” I glance up at him. “How did you—”
“You said it last night.” His voice is tight now. “You said the sound was wrong.”
I frown. “I did?”
He nods once.
I take the bottle and unscrew it, hands steady. That feels like another small miracle. I pour into the glass because it’s there, because he offered the option, because I’m realizing Derek Pierce does things in options.
Consent made practical.
I take a sip.
Cold. Clean. Real.
My throat loosens a fraction.
“Do you remember… the shoes?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His eyes flicker—annoyance, resignation, and something that might be amusement if he'd let it exist.
“My shoes,” he repeats flatly.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” he says immediately.
The speed of it startles me.
“That wasn’t on you,” he adds, voice lower.
I stare at him.
There it is again—that quiet certainty. That refusal to let me carry blame that doesn’t belong to me.
My eyes sting. It’s ridiculous. I’m not a crier. I’m an HR professional. I deal with grown men crying in conference rooms and do not absorb their emotions like a sponge.
But last night was a violation, and the aftermath is… care.
And care is the thing I don’t know how to hold without wanting to drop it.
I blink hard. “I hate this.”
His brows pull together. “Hate what?”
“Feeling like I’m… behind my own body.” I gesture vaguely at my head. “Like my reactions are delayed. Like I’m watching myself from ten feet away.”
His gaze softens in a way that makes my throat tighten all over again. “That’s normal.”
I give him a look. “Do you have experience being roofied, Derek?”
His mouth quirks. “No.”
“Then how do you know what’s normal?”
“I watched you,” he says, and the words come out too honest to be strategic. Too immediate to be polished.
A beat.
He exhales slowly, as if he realizes what he just admitted.
“I watched you,” he repeats, quieter, “because I had to know you were okay.”
My heartbeat kicks.
I don’t trust my voice, so I take another sip of water.
Derek pushes off the doorway. He steps closer—not into my space, but nearer. Like he’s testing whether proximity makes me flinch.
It doesn’t.
That should alarm me more than it does.
“Mark and Alex went back to the club,” he says. “They met with security. The police report is filed. The guy’s name is in it.”
My fingers tighten around the glass. “You know his name.”
“Yes.”
“Did you—” I stop. Because what I want to ask is Did you hurt him? and I don’t actually want the answer if it’s yes.
Derek’s eyes hold mine. He answers the question I didn’t say.
“I didn’t touch him,” he says. “Not once.”
Relief and something darker tangle in my chest.
“But,” he continues, voice turning cold, “I will make sure he regrets trying.”
I swallow.
There’s the CEO again. The man who doesn’t just respond—he ends problems.
I should be scared of that.
Instead, a traitorous part of me relaxes.
“I should go home,” I say, because it’s the responsible thing. Because staying here feels like stepping into something I can’t back out of.
Derek doesn’t move. “Not yet.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
His jaw tightens—annoyance flickering in first, like it always does with him, like irritation is his default shield.
Then something shifts behind his eyes.
Realization. Concern. Something that looks like he hates needing to feel it.
“You can go home,” he says, voice controlled. “When you’re steady.”
“I am steady.”
He looks at me for a long second.
Then he lifts his chin toward the glass in my hand. “How many sips is that?”
I blink. “What?”
“Count them.”
I stare. “Are you serious?”
His mouth twitches. “Deadly.”
I narrow my eyes. “Three.”
He nods like that proves something. “You’re rationing.”
I open my mouth—and realize he’s right.
I am rationing.
Like my body doesn’t trust that safe things stay safe.
Heat crawls up my neck, equal parts embarrassment and fury at myself for being so… visible.
Derek’s voice softens. “Audra.”
My name on his tongue should not do what it does. Should not make me think of long nights with him between the sheets of his bed. Sweaty, heart stopping-love making.
I force myself to meet his gaze. “I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile.”
His expression tightens. “Good. Because you’re not.”
Then, after a beat, he adds, quieter, “But you were hurt. And I don’t—” He stops, jaw working. Like the rest of the sentence doesn’t fit in his mouth.
I don’t let him off the hook. “You don’t what?”
His eyes flash—irritation first, because I pushed.
Then honesty, because he’s tired and I’m here and last night changed something.
“I don’t like seeing you like that,” he admits.
The room goes still.
Not tense.
Just… full.
My pulse thrums in my ears.
“Like what?” I ask, even though I know.
“Not in control,” he says. “Not sharp. Not… you.”
I swallow hard.
Because the truth is: neither do I.
And the second truth, the one that scares me more, is that Derek Pierce is standing in his own living room looking at me like he’d rather take the hit himself than watch me take it.
That is not safe.
That is dangerous in a completely different way.
I set the glass down carefully. “I’m not staying because you told me to.”
His gaze flickers. “I know.”
“I’m staying,” I continue, voice steadier now, “because I don’t want to be alone right now.”
The words hang between us.
Derek’s expression shifts—surprise first, then something like relief he tries to bury.
He nods once. “Okay.”
Just… okay.
No smugness. No teasing. No pressure.
Consistency.
He turns toward the kitchen. “I’ll make food. Toast first. Then bacon since that worked this morning.”
I watch him for a second as he walks away—controlled, steady, reliable.
My throat tightens again, but this time it isn’t tears.
It’s something like trust.
And that feels like the most reckless decision I’ve made in years.