Chapter 22
Laurette Devereux
No man I’ve ever loved has made me come the way a stranger did last night.
Light spills through the bamboo-woven shades before the alarm can scream, brushing over tangled sheets and skin still flushed from his touch. My body hums with satisfaction. Every nerve still tingles from the memory of him.
I stretch, sinking deeper into the mattress, into the scent of him still clinging to the cotton, soaked with sweat and cum, the heat of everything he left inside me.
A smile curves lazily across my lips.
“Bastien,” I whisper. His name tastes like a secret on my tongue.
Hearing it for the first time, whispered against my temple, snapped something open inside me. It’s a piece of the puzzle, a glimpse into the man who took me apart with surgical precision.
And those eyes.
Brown but not dark or dull. They burned golden in the candlelight. His eyes pinned me to the bed more than his hands ever could. Those eyes saw the real me. And despite everything—his mask and secrecy—I want more.
God help me, I want more.
Sleep-deprived and still aching, I roll out of bed. The space beside me is empty, sheets cooling and the impression fading, but the ache under my ribs? That’s all him. A slow, delicious throb that says he was real, and he was here.
I woke more than once in the night. He was still there each time I checked, breath slow and even. His arm remained wrapped around me, his body a shield between mine and everything else. I think I fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
He wore the mask when he came inside me and even when he held me afterward. At one point—somewhere between sleep and morning—I was tempted to tug it up. Just a little. Just to glimpse the man who shattered me.
But I didn’t. So the mystery continues.
He slipped away right before dawn, quietly and untraceable.
I try to focus on the day ahead, but he lingers in every nerve.
In the shower, hot water runs over my skin, but it can’t rinse away the evidence he left behind.
Not the new bloom of a second hickey on my neck.
Not the dusky smudges where his fingers claimed my hips.
Not the phantom pressure still ghosting along my throat, where his hand held me firm.
By the time I’m dressed, I catch my reflection in the mirror—and there he is. Not his face or body. But his presence.
It lingers in the flush that stains my skin and the way I stand. I’m marked from the inside out.
He still simmers low in my belly, in the ache I don’t want to soothe.
Because I remember.
His hands. His voice. Those golden-brown eyes burning behind the mask. The way he said my name like a brand he would wear forever.
He’s still on me. In me. Every step I take carries the memory of his mouth on my skin.
My heart flips as I remember how he came inside me and then stayed there for a while. Then he pulled me close and whispered that I’m everything he needs.
And the strangest part? I believe him.
I’ve never felt this before—not this wanted or seen, as if I could be everything someone needs.
And with him, it’s not just desire. It’s hunger. As though he’s been waiting his whole life to find me—and now that he has, he won’t ever let go.
And God help me. I don’t want him to.
Will you stay with me tonight, Bastien with the golden-brown eyes?
Yeah, I’ll stay, Babygirl.
Comfort threads through me as I remember the way his arms closed around me the instant I spoke his name—Bastien—as if that one word made me his in every way that counted.
But the spell breaks when my phone chimes. An email notification from work.
Unfortunately, duty calls, and I’m running late.
The district attorney’s office is all sunlight and sterility. Bright walls. Clean lines. A far cry from the shadows and sweat of last night.
The elevator hums on its way to the fourth floor. I step out, weaving through colleagues in suits who murmur about traffic, weather, and brunch reservations. It all blurs—background noise to the low throb still pulsing behind my ribs.
Halfway to my office, I remember the burner phone.
I unlock it. Still no message. My stomach knots, and I’m waiting on edge for what comes next.
My office greets me with its usual stillness—framed accolades on the wall, a teetering stack of case files, the bland carpet worn down by years of pacing. But one file sits front and center, daring me to look away.
State v. Evan Lemaire.
Accused rapist. Fraternity house. Underage girl unconscious. Assault caught on video. Wounds that needed stitches. A young life shattered by a golden boy who’s never heard the word no.
Some might call it hypocritical to resent his silver spoon when I was born polishing one of my own. But here’s the truth—it’s never about the spoon. It’s how you wield it, and I’ve chosen to carry mine with purpose.
The law is my weapon, and this bastard deserves the full weight of it.
My hands hover over the file for a moment. This is where I focus. Today, I pour every ounce of fire and resolve into justice for the girl who never got a choice.
This isn’t a case I can bury. I won’t. Not even for my father.
A soft knock on the doorframe pulls me upright. Richard leans in with an easy smile, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes.
“Morning,” he says. “Didn’t expect you in so early after… well.”
I arch a brow. “After what?”
He chuckles under his breath, stepping inside. “After last night. I heard the drinks at Ember & Oak went late. Figured you’d be dragging in this morning. But here you are, already knee-deep in Evan Lemaire’s file.”
My lips curve, a polite smile that deflects questions. I told the team I wanted to get an early start on this case. Let them believe I was trading cocktails for prep work.
But the truth? I had other plans, the kind that needed my full attention. Resistance play isn’t something you half-commit to. Not with Bastien. Not when you want to give him everything—and know he’ll take it.
Couldn’t risk blurring the edges with alcohol.
I chose Bastien and his darkness and everything he would give me without apology.
I chose his extraordinary dick.
Now I sit here, composed in a pencil skirt and heels, pretending I’m just another attorney with her head in the game, when every nerve still hums with the memory of last night.
“I skipped drinks.” I tap the folder with my fingers. “I’m going to nail this little son of a bitch.”
He nods, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Good. The media’s already circling, calling it another Brock Turner situation. They’ll want blood.”
His gaze sharpens. “You know who his father is, so be thorough, Laurette.”
“Always am.”
“He’ll have the best lawyer money can buy.”
I lift my chin. “He can throw money at the problem, but I’ll throw the law at him.”
Another nod. “Lunch later? You can catch me up on the case.”
“Sure.”
“Twelve?”
“Sounds good.”
Once the door clicks shut behind him, the quiet folds in, and I flip the file open.
Photos. Statements. Medical report.
I lean in, elbows braced on the desk, fingers threading into the hair at my nape as I stare down the file. Time to dig deep.
Every detail. Every page. Every line.
College party. Escorted upstairs by Lemaire and one of his fraternity brothers. A phone set to record. The assault was savage.
My pen moves without pause as I etch notes into the margins. My focus is laser-sharp. Every line of that report is a match struck inside me. Cold anger flares, steady and controlled.
Then I hit the toxicology screen. Positive for benzodiazepines. Blood alcohol level was nearly nonexistent.
She didn’t stumble into that room drunk. She was drugged and rendered defenseless. And Lemaire? He didn’t hesitate. He took what he wanted from a girl who couldn’t even open her eyes.
And the others? They watched. Filmed it.
Laughed.
No one stopped it. No one helped.
My stomach knots so hard I press a hand to it.
A man taking a woman’s consciousness into his hands. Stealing her voice, her agency, her right to say no—that’s a violation carved from the same poison. A choice he made while she had none.
This girl was left needing stitches to put her back together. He treated her like a thing he could toss aside when he was done.
And they want me to make it disappear? Not a fucking chance.
The intercom buzz cuts through the quiet.
“Laurette? Jon David’s here to see you.”
My fingers freeze on the folder. My heart drums.
What’s he doing here? I made myself clear the last time we saw each other.
No apologies or excuses. No more claiming it was nothing and I should let it go because I was confused.
“Send him in,” I say, voice flat.
The door swings open, and there he is. All polished charm and courtroom arrogance. The aftermath of my exposing him doesn’t exist. The reality he destroyed doesn’t matter.
His smile is soft. The same one that used to melt me in two seconds flat.
“Morning, Laurette.”
I stay seated, leaning back in my chair, arms crossed. “What do you want?”
He steps in, too confident, hands tucked into his pockets. “I figured we should talk.”
I let out a low laugh. “Then talk.”
His brow pulls into a practiced concern. “Come on, Laurette. Don’t do this. You’re blowing things way out of proportion.”
Something detonates in my chest.
I shove back from the desk so hard the chair wheels shriek against the floor, and I yank open the drawer.
A single folded sheet—I slam it on my desk between us.
“Read it.”
He blinks, and a flicker of unease cracks his perfect composure. “What’s that?”
“My test results.” My voice is sharp enough to draw blood. “Positive for benzodiazepines. From that night.”
For one heartbeat, he freezes.
The panic is there—briefly—then the mask snaps back into place.
“Okay, let’s slow down—”
“Fuck you.” I’m on my feet now, the air between us tight enough to strangle. “Don’t dare dismiss me. You… drugged… me.”
His mouth opens with the practiced calm of a man who’s talked his way out of worse. “Laurette, you need to calm down.”