70 Emotional abuse

**Date = 1 July**
**Place = San Francisco (Damion’s house)**

**POV - Aria**

“I need you naked,” Enrique says, so straightforwardly it feels like an order and a confession in one breath.

We stumble into the bedroom, half out of breath, my shirt on the floor, before the lightning cracks again. Thunder rolls in after, deep and hungry.

It feels like slipping into another dimension — one where breath and skin and longing blur into something weightless. The air smells like rain and electricity, like something about to break. The storm outside is a distant hum, barely audible under the pulse of moans and gasps that fills the room like static.

Time doesn’t stop, but it bends. Warps.

It stretches thin until it feels like we’re floating somewhere between lightning strikes, caught in the space before the next crash.

Until the moment shatters, soft and final, and the world slowly returns to normal — the sting of air on sweat-damp skin, the thrum of blood in my ears, the ache of wanting something he still can’t name.

The world is quiet again, and the rain finally starts tapping softly and steadily against the windows, as if the turbulence worked itself out to settle for something calmer. We lie tangled in the sheets, the room dim with light, smelling like sweat and the weight of everything unsaid.

After all those orgasms, my thoughts are so jangled up that not even a comb can untangle them.

I trace a scar on his shoulder. Wondering what happened. But I don’t ask.

“So … still not sleeping with me?” he cracks through the silence like a grin you can hear.

I laugh and nestle a little deeper into his heat. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Hot, though.”

“I’m already regretting this.”

“Doubt it.” Yeah, I don’t regret any of it. The sex was amazing. He’s amazing. A bloody robot, but still amazing. But I want more than just amazing sex. I want him — the real, scarred, unreachable him.

I want love.

So I have to ask. “Are we still just a contract?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what I mean. He stares at the ceiling, hand resting just above my hip. “We never were.”

He turns his head then, his gaze finding mine through the dim light. His fingers brush my cheek once, tender enough to undo me — then fall away. “It’s always been real.”

That is as far as he can go.

I don’t push it. Not this time. But I will. I’ll ask again — when the time is right … when he has nowhere to hide.

The rain outside steadies into a lullaby, and the thunder drifts farther away. A soft, steady rhythm against the glass now, like the storm is catching its breath after tearing the sky apart.

The bedroom glows faintly with the silver light that filters through the curtains. Our breaths still mingle — slow, uneven, reluctant to separate.

“I need to tell you something,” he says softly.

I stiffen, and my stomach tightens instantly. “If you say goodbye and throw me out, I’ll kill you.”

“No,” he chuckles, the sound rough around the edges. “But the boys … they know about the contract.”

He told them?

I sit up a little, pulling the sheet around me. The warmth between us vanishes, getting replaced by cold shock. “What?”

“I don’t know how. But these people know stuff. About the contract. Other secrets. Which already made the rounds.”

I blink, brain fogged from exhaustion and adrenaline, trying to place it. “How the hell would THEY know?”

He squints his eyes. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No,” I start — then stop.

Stop breathing. Stop remembering wrong.

It slams back into me — sharp, merciless, a memory uncoiling like barbed wire.

That day!

The club. Brian. Amanda. The pregnancy. Her heels too high, too loud, too deliberate. Her perfume — sweet, chemical, cloying — sticking to my throat. Her face too smug. Her voice honeyed with cruelty, every word a tiny knife dipped in venom.

And me saying that exclusivity is not part of our contract — refusing to crumble, saying the first thing that kept me standing.

I didn’t even mean to say it. I just wanted to survive the moment. To not cry. To not scream. To not show them how shattered I was.

“Oh my god,” I whisper. “It was me. I said it. Not the whole thing — but I said the word.”

Enrique blinks. “When?”

“When Amanda told me she was having your baby.”

His jaw locks, the muscle twitching just once. The name alone is enough to chill the air between us.

“She was not.”

I snort out and roll my eyes.

“I know that now,” I hiss, “But back then, I didn’t. I was hurt. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how badly she got me.”

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Amanda must have told Chloe …” A small pause.

I stare at the sheets. “It was just a reflex. I didn’t even remember until just now.”

“Doesn’t matter now. Maybe it’s better … getting the secrets out in the open.”

The rain taps against the window, a metronome to our silence. “What other secrets do these people know?”

He hesitates. It’s subtle — just a flicker in his eyes — but I know that look.

He’s holding back.

“What?” I press. “Don’t you trust me?”

Enrique leans back, his expression tightening, his chest rising and falling with measured control. Something flickers in his eyes — pain, shame, something too complicated to name. “You think I don’t trust you?”

I sit up straighter. “I think you don’t let me in.”

The words hang there, trembling like a wire in the wind.

He glances at the window, jaw clenched, as if the storm outside might swallow his words before they reach me. “The person knows things they shouldn’t. About … the boys.”

A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the air. “Like what?”

He hesitates again — too long this time.

“Enrique,” I say softly but firmly, “you can’t do that. You can’t tell me we’re real one second, and then hide things from me the next.”

His eyes flick to mine. There’s guilt there. And fear.

“I’m not hiding,” he says, though even he doesn’t sound convinced.

His eyes meet mine, dark and storm-bright.

“It’s just not that simple,” he says. “There are parts of us that don’t belong to anyone. Not even ones closest to us.”

The room goes still again, save for the soft hiss of rain and the pulse pounding in both our chests.

I want to argue. I want to tell him that love means taking those parts too, even the broken ones.

“Tell me.” My voice cracks. “I want to know all of you … even those parts.”

He exhales, running a hand down his face before giving in. “Alright.”

The word lands heavily.

He pulls me closer as he speaks, voice low and unsteady against my temple. “The person said Axel was in juvie.”

For a moment, my brain doesn’t quite catch up. The word clangs through the air like a loose hinge in a storm.

“What?” I breathe.

He exhales slowly, like every syllable costs him something. “We were told it was a camp to get him away from all the crap that happened. But apparently … it wasn’t.” These boys are all so alexithymically stoic, it’s not even funny. No wonder they fit so perfectly together.

“What crap?” I ask, even though I can already feel him closing off. The tension ripples through him like a muscle about to lock.

“I don’t know all the details,” he mutters. “We don’t really talk about … our shit.”

“You must know something,” I pry, curiosity killing me.

He hesitates again. His throat works once, twice. Then, barely audible — “His stepfather abused them. Axel … snapped. Went after him with a knife.”

My breath catches. He keeps going, voice so calm it’s almost cruel.

“There was a closed trial … we were not allowed … his mom … eh …” He swallows. There’s something more … something he’s not going to share.

“One morning, the stepfather was assassinated on the steps of the courthouse, and Axel went to camp.” The word sounds poisoned now.

The room feels smaller suddenly, like the air is closing in. “Oh my god,” I whisper. “He never said —”

“He wouldn’t,” Enrique interrupts softly. “Axel carries guilt like it’s armor. He thinks it makes him stronger.”

I let that sink in, the rain filling the silence. My skin prickles, and I pull the sheet higher, even though I’m not cold. I have so many questions. But I know he won’t tell me anything more. This is as much as I’m going to get. But I try anyway.

“Who shot him?”

“Don’t know … the shooter was never caught.”

The room feels smaller suddenly, walls bending inward with the weight of what he’s said. The air smells like decayed sex and shadowy unknowns. I pull the sheet even tighter around me, but it doesn’t help — the chill’s under my skin now.

He runs a hand through his hair, the motion rough, frustrated.

“Did you know Alejandro’s mother was in an institution?” he asks softly.

“How would I know?” My voice is quiet, almost careful, as if the air between us might shatter if I speak too loudly. “Alejandro doesn’t share anything. You could sit next to him for ten years and still not know his full name.” It’s true. Alejandro is maybe the most reticent of them all. “I know his mom died of cancer. Maybe she had some kind of … mental collapse.”

The rain taps harder against the glass, like it’s listening.

“Maybe,” he echoes, though it sounds flat in his mouth.

I can feel it — the wrong kind of weight in his silence. It’s not those secrets that have him rattled. Not really.

“That’s not what shook you …” I say.

He exhales, a small, hollow sound that’s almost a laugh but not quite. “It’s Jackson,” he admits, the name like gravel on his tongue. “The guy said Jackson’s got lots of secrets. Like I didn’t already know that.”

The faint muscle tremor in his voice tells me more than his words do. I blink, trying to take that in too. “But it still hurts,” I say quietly. “That he doesn’t share …”

Outside, the rain softens even more — a kind of heartbeat against the glass.

“It’s not that he doesn’t trust me,” he says finally, voice raw. “It’s that we grew up keeping secrets because telling them got you hurt.”

His hand moves, open against my stomach, fingers twitching restlessly — like he wants to reach for something and doesn’t know what.

“I thought we were past that,” he adds under his breath. “But maybe we’re still just the same fucked-up kids, pretending to be men.”

I reach for his hand, fitting my fingers through his. His skin is warm, almost fever-hot, and he doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t grip back either.

For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. He just holds me as if he never wants to let go.

But something still presses between us. A different kind of tension. The kind that comes right before truth.

“I’m sorry. For dragging you into this mess,” he starts, softly and slowly. “But I was scared … I still am.” His confession rattles me. We stay like that — wrapped in silence, in guilt, in the small comfort of truth that still doesn’t solve anything.

With my free hand, I circle the scar again. About 4 inches — it runs down the curve of his shoulder — thin at first, then widening toward the middle before tapering again, a pale jagged seam carved into his tanned skin. How did he get it? His grandfather?

“Scared that something might happen to me,” my voice comes out strangled with emotion, then softer — “Or scared of your own feelings?”

“Both.” His body is stiff and tense. I lean into him, my head resting against his chest, feeling his heartbeat trip under my cheek.

I think about that for a moment.

“I can understand that. Hell, I’m scared too.” Time to be honest, I think. “What I can’t understand is that you moved on so fast.” Now he turns his head, his eyes shadowed in the dark.

“What do you mean?” He sounds truly baffled.

“Well, it took you just a few hours after I left your bed to find a new screw buddy. I saw the photos.”

I try to keep the jealous, predatory expression off my face, but my words are strained.

Enrique sniggers softly as if he finds this funny. “The photos?”

I pinch his nipple. Hard. He jolts and laughs, breaking the previous tension.

“Yes. The PHOTOS.” No more trying not to sound like an envious, bitter, green-eyed cow. “You. At the club. With the big-busted brunette.”

He blinks, like he’s searching through a mental Rolodex of women. “Who? Tina —”

I snort, ugly and loud. He actually knows her name.

“She’s Axel’s fuckhole.”

“R-e-a-l-y?” My voice comes out like it’s been dipped in acid and sarcasm.

“The girl fell hard for our broody firefighter.”

“Can’t blame her — the man walks around like he invented foreplay.” It’s his turn for a jealous snort.

“Yeah … they work together. Poor thing. One spark from Axel, and she combusted. Occupational hazard, I suppose.” I roll my eyes so hard they almost click. I’ve never seen Axel with a girl before. He’s as emotionally constipated as Jackson. But the man is as HOT as one gets … so fine — maybe I’ll let that one slide.

But my pulse is still thumping in my ears. There were more.

“Okay, scrap T-i-n-a … what about before that — the blonde. And also the girl in the gold dress who looked like she came with a nondisclosure agreement.” I’m pathetic, sounding possessive, clingy, and very territorial.

He exhales, a low, weary sound. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” My laugh is dry, mean, trembling around the edges. “Your escapades this week were all over the news.”

And it killed me. Every damn photo. Every headline.

“It’s not what you think. Nothing happened.” I can’t see his face, but his breathing becomes thin. “It was all for show.”

The air between us hums like a wire ready to snap — thick with jealousy, pride, and the ghost of every female wanting him.

I lift my head from his chest and look at him, unimpressed. Show? Breathlessly, I wait for him to explain, not able to speak normally right now.

“No, I mean that,” he says, more seriously now. “It was all … an act. Every laugh. Every hand on a waist. I wasn’t chasing girls. I was playing a role.”

“I invited the paparazzi into the VIP area, making sure they photographed me with each slutty bimbo that came to buy a drink.”

“Maybe it was dumb.” He pulls up his shoulders, “But I thought that if our enemy thinks I’m screwing around, spiraling out, they would leave you alone.”

“I was trying to protect you,” he says. “With the flirting. With the act.”

That’s actually not that stupid. I open my mouth to tell him that, but he takes a deep breath and continues, “And —”

I frown. There’s more? His voice dips.

“And I saw you all chubby with Brian … so …” He stiffens slightly again. “I was jealous and wanted to make you a little jealous, too.”

Now THAT is dumb. He pulls his lips together. I roll his nipple between my fingers. Softer this time. My stomach contracts into a tight ball.

I forget to breathe. My heart stumbles over its own rhythm, slows, then flutters into my throat. The realization hits me.

He came to the hospital. He must have. It’s the only place Brian and I met. He didn’t leave me alone. He’s jealous. It means he cares.

“I think it might have worked.”

“Yeah?” He sounds way too cheerful.

“And maybe next time, ask if I want to be safe,” I say, voice soft. “Maybe I want to be with you. Even if it is messy. Even if it is dangerous.”

He lifts my head to face him, eyes dark, stormlight flickering in them. “I’m not good at this.”

“You don’t have to be good. You just have to try.”

He turns his whole body towards me, so we’re lying face-to-face on the pillows, his eyes now gleaming with desire.

“Uh, how about I go check if the little one is still sleeping … then we can do something together … in bed.” His voice is all smooth suggestion.

I play along. Fluttering my lashes, I slip my palms onto his chest.

I glance at him innocently. “Ooh, like binge-watch the entire Twilight saga? I’ve been dying to reanalyze Edward’s brooding. Maybe we can compare it against Jackson’s.”

He stares at me, betrayed. “That’s not what I meant.”

I grin. “Oh? Not? Okay … we can throw in some Vampire Diaries, if that’s what you want. Make it a whole undead night.”

He groans as he walks out. “Fucking emotional abuse.”

And somehow, that’s enough to make me smile — because for all the storms between us, he always comes back.