Chapter Twelve #2
“The road’s flooded,” I tell her, leaning against the counter. “I was going to take you shopping for some clothes, since you don’t have hardly any.”
She grins, a playful spark in her eyes. “That’s okay. You three have plenty of T-shirts.” Her cheeks are pink as she realizes what she’s said, and she draws back a little, but I just laugh, grateful for the flash of humor in the middle of this mess.
Ayla shifts awkwardly, her gaze flickering to the floor as she hugs her coffee mug a little tighter.
It’s just the two of us in the kitchen, and the silence grows heavy.
I’ve seen the way she looks at me, and I definitely heard what happened with Zayn last night—the walls here aren’t exactly soundproof.
She probably thinks she’s broken some unspoken rule, like she’s supposed to choose, and the guilt is written all over her face.
But I wish she could see what I do: that wanting comfort, wanting connection, especially after everything she’s survived, isn’t a crime.
I just want her to know she’s not alone in this mess, and she doesn’t have to be ashamed.
"Ayla, can I ask you something?" My voice is soft, careful not to break the uneasy calm between us. The cabin feels too quiet, the air thick with the storm outside and the storm inside both of us. She looks up, wary, her eyes darting away from mine. I can see her bracing herself, like she’s waiting for this to hurt.
Still, I press on, gentle but honest. "Why are you so scared of your father?
And how did Derek even know him?" The questions hang in the air, heavy and raw, and for a second I wish I could take them back.
Ayla drops her gaze, her hands tightening around her mug until her knuckles go white.
I see the shimmer in her eyes before she can hide it—the tears she doesn't want me to notice, the shame and terror she’s carried for so long.
She’s silent, shoulders tense, her whole body curling inward like she’s trying to disappear.
I realize how much she doesn't want to talk about this—how deep the wound runs, how every word costs her. Still, I need to understand if I’m ever going to help her, if there’s any hope of untangling this mess.
I reach out, lightly tipping her chin so her big, brown, watery eyes meet mine.
"Darling, it’s okay," I murmur, voice breaking as I see the pain she’s holding back.
"But I need to know. I want to help you, Ayla. "
She shakes her head, her lower lip trembling, and I can see her fighting not to fall apart.
The silence stretches between us, the only sound the is rain pounding on the roof.
I want to reach for her hand, to take some of that weight, but I force myself to wait, to let her set the pace.
My heart aches for her, for every moment she’s had to keep these secrets locked up, for every time she’s been afraid to speak.
I see her swallow hard, her breath coming shallow, and for a moment, I think she won’t answer.
But then she lets out a deep, shuddering sigh, her voice barely a whisper—fragile, breaking.
“When I was seven, that was the first time he came into my room. I was his little princess, and he pushed too fucking far. It was just touches at first—my legs, my arms. But over the years, it got worse. He started asking me to touch him. I was about thirteen the first time he took me to what he called ‘the castle clubhouse’ and he…” Her words snap off, cut to pieces by her sobs, her whole body shaking.
She claps a hand over her mouth, trying to hold it all in, but the pain pours out anyway—raw, ugly, unstoppable.
I move without thinking, sliding across the floor to her, gathering her up in my arms. She buries her face in my chest, her tears hot and desperate, her hands clutching at my shirt like I’m the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
I press kisses to the top of her head, rub her back, and whisper, "You’re safe now.
He can’t touch you here. I promise, I won’t let anyone hurt you again.
" The words are soft, but the promise in them is iron.
I hold her until her breathing starts to steady and the worst of the storm passes—until she finally lets herself be held, if only for a little while.
I grab her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. “How did Derek know him?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers, her voice barely holding together. “I never told him anything about my father. I never told anyone, not after I ran from him.”
“Derek was trying to get you to go to lunch with him. Why?”
“I don’t know,” she says again, sounding even smaller.
The helplessness in her face twists something sharp inside me.
I’m left with more questions than answers, my mind spinning: Did Derek know what happened between Ayla and Charles?
Or did he just think Charles was some upstanding guy?
Was he working with him? Using her for leverage?
So many fucking questions and not a single answer.
Before I can open my mouth again, Ayla speaks, her voice trembling. “Derek seemed like he knew about my father.”
The words hit me like a punch; suddenly, everything makes more sense and less all at once.
The silence between us grows heavy—thick with worry, suspicion, and a dawning, terrible understanding that whatever web Ayla escaped from, it was always bigger than just Derek.
I see the fear in her eyes, the way she curls in on herself, and my heart aches with the urge to protect her from every ghost still haunting her.
She clings to me, shaky and small, and I keep my arms around her, anchoring us both in the eye of a storm.
The room is quiet, but the air hums with everything we aren’t saying—grief, rage, and that thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, we can build something new from all this ruin.
For a long moment, I just hold her, letting Ayla breathe against my chest, her fists curled in my shirt, her cheek pressed to my heart.
Gradually, her trembling slows, the raw edges of panic softening into something else—something warmer, more open, a yearning she can’t quite hide.
I ease my hand up and down her back, gentle and steady, letting the silence work its magic.
When she finally looks up, her eyes are glassy but searching, as if she’s asking whether it’s safe to want anything good after so much hurt.
I brush a strand of hair from her face, my touch deliberate, lingering.
She blushes, her lips parting in a shaky breath, and I see the shift—fear receding, desire inching in.
The air changes between us, slow and careful, every heartbeat drawing us closer to something neither of us is sure we deserve.
I trace my thumb along her jaw, pausing for her to pull away, but when she doesn’t, I take it as permission to close the gap.
My mouth finds hers—soft at first, just a question—and she answers, her kiss hesitant but hungry, tasting of old wounds and new want.
The kiss deepens, building heat between us, each brush of lips and gentle press of tongue a promise that we’re both still here, still alive, still capable of wanting.
Gradually, my hands drift down her spine, my palms resting at the small of her back as I pull her closer.
Her body melts into mine, the tension dissolving into something raw and electric.
I dip my head, my lips brushing her ear as I whisper, "By the way, darling, I heard you last night. The way you moaned Zayn’s name.
" My thumb circles lower, teasing the edge of her T-shirt, the heat between us impossible to ignore.
"I want to make you sound like that, too." My mouth brushes the curve of her neck, slow and lingering, as my hand slips beneath her shirt, caressing bare skin. Her breath catches, her back arches into my touch, and for a suspended moment, we’re both caught between comfort and something far more dangerous. Before she can answer, I pull her tight against my chest, letting her feel exactly what she does to me—how the line between tenderness and hunger blurs until it’s almost unbearable.