Chapter 9
Ethan
“Iam going to fucking kill you,” I state as Aidan saunters into the penthouse like he didn’t just fuck up this entire thing by losing his temper. Although the fact that he punched the bathroom tiles while she was screaming my name while he fucked her, kind of takes the edge off my rage.
Aidan shuts the penthouse door behind him and heads straight for the bar. “You say that a lot.”
“I mean it a lot.” I move towards him, slow and deliberate. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
He pours whisky into a tumbler and turns to face me. His knuckles are split, swollen, ugly. “I was thinking she kept saying your name while I was buried in her cunt.”
My expression goes murderous. I can feel the darkness swarm over me. “So you crack a tile next to her head.”
“I didn’t hit her. What’s the big fucking deal?”
Moving towards him, I stop in front of him and look down at his hand.
“The big fucking deal is you hurt yourself in front of her, and now I have too as well. And try telling Callan when he eventually slopes out of his room for long enough, that he has to punch something with his weaker hand to keep up. I’m going to suggest it’s your fucking face. ”
“And that would cause even more of a problem, you fucking tosspot, so suck it up. Punch the wall with your right hand. Be done with it.”
I hold his stare for a beat and then turn, driving my fist into the concrete pillar by the window.
Pain explodes through my right hand. Skin splits. Bone jars.
“Happy now?” I spit out.
“Not even remotely,” he says, taking a sip of whisky.
“Why are you even here? Why did you leave her? If she wakes up and you aren’t there, she might start thinking too hard.”
“She won’t. She can’t even think for herself to get in the shower or eat. I had to spoon-feed her. Besides, she needs you now. I scared her. She needs the reassurance from you and your…” He waggles his fingers at me. “… nice triplet act.”
“Nice,” I scoff as he waves the red flag to the bull. “I’ll give you fucking nice.”
Callan emerges from the hall in black jeans and a white T-shirt, his hair still damp from a shower, face unreadable in that cold, distant way of his. His eyes drop straight to Aidan’s hand. Then to mine.
For a second, nobody speaks.
Then Callan says, “You two are pathetic.”
Aidan huffs a humourless laugh. “And now it’s your turn.”
Callan walks to the island, stops well out of reach of both of us, and studies the swelling across my knuckles. “Which one of you lost control first?”
“Aidan,” I say.
Aidan lifts his glass. “Honoured to be recognised.”
Callan’s stare sharpens. “Did she see?”
“Seeing as I had my dick in her at the time, yeah, she saw,” Aidan drawls, and I want to take my battered hand and break it with his face.
“Great,” Callan sighs. “Is there any reason why you sent the most aggressive one to her so soon?” he asks me.
“She needs his aggression,” I say, half-wondering the same thing. “If you had gone in there all soft touch and no fucking, she wouldn’t have eaten or cleaned herself, or be asleep right now.”
“I take offence to that.”
“Do. And then learn from it.”
“You think I would let her suffer?”
“If she fought you, yes, I do.”
“Well, you don’t have to panic. She isn’t fighting anything,” Aidan points out.
“She isn’t fighting because she’s drowning,” I say flatly. “That is not the same thing.”
Silence drops over the room for a second.
Callan reaches for a bottle, pours himself water instead of whisky, and takes the glass back a step.
He always keeps a distance when things in this place get too loud, too physical.
It’s why she can’t meet him yet. He is too different.
She will see straight through the charade and run.
His cold eyes move between us. “Did you tell her anything you can’t walk back? ”
“No,” Aidan says. “I lost my temper for ten seconds, not my fucking mind.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Aidan laughs under his breath. “You want details?”
“No,” I snap. “He doesn’t.”
Callan lifts one shoulder. “I already know enough. She asked about your hand?”
Aidan nods. “She noticed. I told her it was nothing.”
“Was she afraid of you?”
The question lands hard.
Aidan takes another drink before answering. “A bit.”
I close my eyes for a beat. Fury keeps moving under my skin, hot and steady. Not wild. Wild is useless. I need this contained. Useful. “You scared her while wearing my face. Now I have to do damage control.”
“Then why are you still standing here bitching at me? Go.” He gestures expansively towards the door. I stare at him for one more second, then head for the door.
“Callan,” I say without turning. “Do your right hand before morning.”
“I can’t punch with my right hand,” he complains.
“Just do it,” I grit out.
Aidan lifts his glass in a mock salute. “Family bonding at its finest.”
I ignore him and leave before I put him through the marble floor.
The lift ride down gives me thirty seconds to get my temper under control. By the time the doors open, my face is smooth again. My hand throbs, but it’s more annoying than sore. Blood has dried across my skin.
I get into the Porsche and drive into the midsummer night. It’s nearly ten, and it’s not even dark yet.
The roads empty out as I leave the city behind and head towards her little corner of nowhere. Summer light bleeds over the windscreen, too bright, too calm for the mess in my head.
Aidan fucked up.
Not fatally. Not yet. But enough that I now have to soothe what he bruised while keeping her exactly where we need her. Dependent. Settled. Ours.
I already know what state I’m going to find her in. Curled up. Exhausted. Vulnerable. He fed her, washed her, and put her to bed. Those are all pluses he won’t get credit for.
By the time I turn onto her street, the sky is dimming. Her cottage sits quiet and still, front curtains drawn. I park outside and cut the engine, sitting for a second with my injured hand resting on the wheel.
Then I get out and head up the path.
The new key turns smoothly. Aidan locked up properly. Also good.
Inside, the house is silent except for the low hum of the fridge and the soft ticking from the little clock on the mantel in the living room.
I take the stairs quickly and move into her bedroom. She stirs when I walk in.
“Where were you?” she mumbles.
“I had to deal with something,” I say softly, crossing to the bed. “I’m here now.”
Her eyes are heavy with sleep, her face pale against the pillow. The mark at her throat stands out in the low light, and something cold slides through me at the sight of it. Aidan’s work. I press my fingers to it, and she flinches.
“You left.” Not accusing. Just lost.
I sit on the edge of the bed and brush her hair back from her forehead. “I know. I shouldn’t have. Do you need anything?”
She shakes her head, but her eyes are suddenly more alert than they were a minute ago. She chews her lip.
“What is it?”
“I need to go to the chemist. Tomorrow.”
“What for? I can pick up whatever you need.”
“We didn’t…” she lowers her gaze. “We haven’t been using protection. I’m not on the pill.”
I go very still.
A sensible woman would be panicking about pregnancy after letting a stranger—strangers—come inside her multiple times in less than twenty-four hours. Annabelle says it like she is asking for paracetamol. Quiet. Practical. Another problem to hand over so she does not have to carry it.
I let that sit for a second. She is right in every normal way that matters. Normal does not enter into this. “Are you worried you’ll get pregnant?”
She swallows.
I grip her chin. “Look at me.”
She does.
“If that’s what you want, we can go tomorrow on your lunch break.”
She looks disappointed.
“Or I can go in the morning on my own.”
She nods, looking everywhere but at me.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” I ask cautiously.
Her gaze shoots up to mine. “Yes.”
I nod slowly, drawing in a deep breath. “Okay.”
Too soon, Eth. It’s too soon for her.
“Go back to sleep now, Annabelle. I’m here.”
She closes her eyes, but her fingers catch around my wrist before I can pull away.
I still.
Her touch is light. Barely there. It doesn’t matter. It goes through me like a knife. “Are you sure your hand is okay?”
“It’s fine.”
“Why did you hit the tiles?”
Fucking Aidan. Typical that I have to be the one to answer this question. “I lose my mind when I’m inside you,” I say, eyes narrowed. “I was stopping myself from coming so I could ride you for longer.”
“Why?” she whispers. “Why me?”
Because I saw you long before you ever saw me.
The truth rises fast and vicious, scraping at my throat. I bury it.
“Because it’s you,” I say instead, keeping my voice low and steady. “Some people get under your skin. You did.”
Her fingers loosen on my wrist, then tighten again. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to me.”
She searches my face, sleepy and uncertain, too wrung out to push hard enough. That is for the best. I’m not ready to tell her the parts that matter. Not tonight.
I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. You just scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her eyes widen slightly as the apology surprises her. It probably does. Men like me are not built for remorse. I am not built for it either. I feel it anyway.
“You were different,” she says carefully.
I keep my expression neutral. “Different how?”
“Rougher.” Her voice is small now. “More intense.”
I stroke her hair back again, slow and soothing. “I lost control. It won’t happen like that again.”
That is not exactly a lie. It won’t happen from me.
She studies my face as if she is trying to fit this version of me over the one from earlier, and I can feel the question building in her before she even asks it.
“Did I do something wrong?”
The words are so quiet they nearly disappear into the room.