Devlin and I did none of those things. I grew up in SoCal, so I knew men did stuff like that together when they were in a relationship, but I’d just never envisaged myself being able to do that.
Hell, I’d never really seen myself in a relationship with a man. The thought had me wincing as I veered around a woman pushing a stroller who was arguing on the phone while slowly walking her kid.
Being in a relationship was something I’d dreamed of, but it had been relegated to things I never thought would actually happen.
And that was officially the title of this. A relationship. He cared about me. And I cared about him.
He’d made countless sacrifices on my behalf. I knew his conscience was raw—that he felt that he’d facilitated Rhode’s attack, and maybe the company had. By letting her remain on the prowl, she’d had access to me, hadn’t she? But fired or not, it didn’t take a predator off the streets. Only the police could do that, and it was the justice system that had failed Robert Llewelyn, not Devlin.
But that was the burden every sexual assault victim carried, and it was a burden I’d never have imagined carrying myself.
Certainly not with a woman as my rapist.
Would I have done as Robert had if Devlin hadn’t found me?
He hadn’t gone for a rape kit, had just gone to HR to move departments. When they’d refused his request, he’d explained why, and they’d thrown the lack of proof, the lack of criminal charges against him. Hadn’t even started an investigation into it. He’d tried to go to the police, but too much time had passed so his bloodwork had come back clear, and when HR had told them their decision was final, he’d made a final decision too.
That was a failing, but it wasn’t Devlin’s fault even if he acted as if every minute part of his company’s management was his to personally oversee.
God, I should never have stopped running. This mad tangle of thoughts, the jumble of them, were only ever allowed to be freed when I ran. It was like letting poison spill free—truly liberating.
As I rounded the corner that took me back to the Crescent, I headed for the house, not the gated garden. I didn’t want to sit there today, my back buried in green grass that scented different than the stuff back home—I wanted to see Devlin.
I wanted to tell him he wasn’t to blame.
I hadn’t done that, and I knew it had to be wearing on him. The crazy thing was that I didn’t blame him. Not even the part of my brain that housed any- and everything irrational laid the fault on him.
He needed to know that.
A sports’ car whizzed past, making me jump, even as I twisted around to see who was driving. Devlin said a soccer player lived around here, and that his parents often complained about the noise. Even though I didn’t follow English soccer, I was still curious—that Ferrari? One of my personal favorites.
Unlocking the front door, I headed in and went straight to his office, but on the way, I heard his voice and Lizzie’s. They were evidently knee-deep in plans so, somewhat disappointed, I hit the brakes and veered away from his study, moving toward the staircase so I could go clean up first.
The only modern parts of the house were the bathrooms—thank God. They were modern and sleek, like that was the only place that could possibly contain anything that wasn’t two hundred years old without making a legion of Astley ancestors turn in their graves.
Or tombs.
I’d bet the Astleys had tombs.
Because that was pretty neat, and made me wonder about the Cumbrian estate I’d heard Devlin bitching about when he was on the phone with his father, I let my mind wander as I stripped off inside the bathroom and moved over to the shower.
Since that night, I’d had an issue with looking at myself in the mirror. It was stupid, but things like that often were, weren’t they?
This body of mine had worked against me.
My mind had been screaming, raging at Rhode as she fucked me. As she taunted me. Riding me, raping me, forcing me was one thing—technically, three—but when she’d leaned down to whisper in my ear, “You love this. You know you do. You want me,” I’d needed to scream.
But couldn’t.
My throat was paralyzed, my voice, my mouth—everything silenced by the drugs she’d given me.
“Your cock is so hard for me,” she’d crooned.
“You’re so fucking ready for me, Micah,” she’d purred in my ear. “I know you want me.”
Saying shit that was so messed up, because it was one thing to be forced, but for her to verbally coerce me felt like she’d been trying to rape my mind. Trying to make me think I was into it. Into her.
The thought had a frown puckering my brow, and because of it, I forced myself to stop on the way to the shower.
Staring at myself in the console mirror was harder than it should have been. For the longest while, I just stood there, naked, gleaming with sweat from my run that had dried and turned cold and clammy as I tried to face this, tried to face me. My heart was booming louder than it had been when I was running, and I just felt like I could puke.
That was one way to avoid the mirror—projectile vomit all over it.
My nose crinkled, because I’d dealt with enough puke to last me a lifetime when Devlin and I had that stomach flu. But the stupid thought had my chin tipping up, and I finally cast myself a glance.
Four weeks of avoiding mirrors and reflective surfaces boiled down into a look that lasted a millisecond but that felt like a breakthrough.
I hadn’t changed.
Even though I felt different.
My hair was still dark blond, my eyes were still green. My body was still trim and strong.
I was the same Micah of always, just inside, everything was mangled.
Because of her.
And I knew that belief wouldn’t go away for a long time.
Devlin had cautiously suggested I speak with a counselor back in New York, but I hadn’t wanted to. He was being kind—not pushing me, even though I knew it was killing him to be passive, to dance around me and my wishes when he wanted to take charge.
If this situation had done anything, it was to let Devlin break out of his mold. He still had odd moments, like the other day by the car when his arm had hovered there for a good five seconds as he wondered whether he could hug me or not—my lips quirked into a small smile at the memory—but the forceful, charismatic man who ran an international company, dated supermodels for a week before dumping them, and could charm the birds from the trees was there, simmering under the surface again. That he was tempering all that, oddly enough, gave me hope.
Hope for more.
Everything about this trip did that.
And hope was precious. If I hadn’t had Devlin, Rhode would still have done everything she had, but I’d be alone. Instead, he was here. Standing by me. Not tucking me away in the shadows, but bringing me into the light.
I bit my lip at the thought and cautiously raised my head once more.
For endless seconds, I stared at myself, seeing the same old Micah of always, but I knew that Devlin was right.
Just like with our relationship, tucking these feelings into the shadows would do nothing. They needed to be brought into the light.
I’d meet with a counselor.
I’d try to bring that old Micah back.
I deserved that. I deserved to be able to look at myself in the mirror without cringing. And I deserved to not feel this impotent anger that burned away inside me and that kept my lips sealed.