Chapter 6: No More Talking
The water shut off upstairs.
The silence it left behind was thicker than before, a tangible thing in the room, broken only by the slow, metronomic tick of the clock on the mantel. Julie hadn’t moved from the couch. The towel was crumpled on the floor where she’d dropped it. The ghost of his weight, the sting of his grip, the cool air on her skin—it all sat on her like a second layer.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs, heavy and deliberate.
She didn’t look up. She stared at the dark, rain-blurred windows, seeing her own hollow reflection superimposed on the night. Her body felt used and unfamiliar, a map of sensations she didn’t want to read.
He walked into the periphery of her vision. Clean sweatpants. Bare feet. Damp hair. The scent of soap and steam cut through the musk of sex and spilled whisky. He stood there, looking at the empty bottle, the two dirty glasses, the space on the leather where he’d knelt behind her.
His gaze finally landed on her. She felt it like a physical touch.
“You’re still here,” he said. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw.
“Where else would I go?” It came out flat.
He didn’t answer. He just looked at her, at the way she was curled into herself on his ridiculously expensive sofa, her clothes in disarray. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools. The man from earlier—the one who’d shattered and then rebuilt himself into something harder—was still in charge.
He took two steps forward. His hand shot out, not for her arm, but tangling brutally in her hair. He didn’t pull her up gently. He used it as a handle, yanking her upright off the cushions with a force that made her cry out, more in shock than pain.
“Brad—!”
He ignored her, spinning her around, shoving her upper body down over the same arm of the couch. Her cheek smashed against the cool leather. The fresh, aching tenderness in her hips flared as his body pressed against the new bruises already forming there, a dark testament. He hadn’t even bothered to remove her jeans this time, just shoved them and her underwear down roughly past her thighs with his free hand.
“You wanted to fix things,” he growled, his mouth close to her ear. His other hand was still fisted in her hair, holding her head down. “This is the only thing in this house that isn’t broken.”
He was already hard. The realization was a cold shock. He pressed against her, not entering, just letting her feel the insistent, heated demand of him. There was no tenderness, no drunken fumbling. This was pure, focused intent.
“Don’t,” she breathed, but her body arched, a traitorous response to the sheer animal dominance of his posture. The pain in her scalp was sharp, clarifying.
“You could stop me,” he said, his voice low and vicious. “One word to Chris. One call to Meg. You won’t.”
He was right. The knowledge was a stone in her gut. She was complicit. She had stayed. She had wiped her hand on his sweatpants. She had come against the arm of his couch.
He pushed into her in one unyielding stroke. She was drier this time, tighter, and she gasped at the blunt, burning stretch. He didn’t pause, didn’t care. He set a ruthless, punishing rhythm, each thrust jolting her forward, the couch arm digging into her ribs. The grip in her hair was absolute, holding her in place for his use.
It was nothing like before. Before had been a frantic exorcism. This was a claiming. This was him stating, with brutal physicality, that a line had been crossed and there was no walking it back. The clock ticked. The fire popped. His breathing was harsh and regular in her ear.
Her own body betrayed her again, a slow, gathering heat building in the core of the violation. It was shameful. It was addictive. Tears of fury and helpless arousal welled in her eyes, spilling onto the leather. She hated him. She hated the part of herself that was rocking back to meet his drives.
“See?” he rasped, his pace never faltering. “Nothing’s broken here.”
She came then, silently, her body seizing around him in a violent, shuddering clench that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with release. It was a short-circuit, a system overload. A sob escaped her throat.
It triggered his finish. He slammed into her one last, deep time and held there, his whole body going rigid. A low, guttural sound tore from him, part agony, part triumph. He spilled inside her, the warmth a final, profane intimacy.
For a long minute, the only sound was their ragged breathing. He slowly loosened his grip on her hair. The sensation of his weight leaving her was a relief and a sudden chill. He withdrew, and she heard the soft sound of him adjusting his clothes.
Julie didn’t move. She couldn’t. She stayed bent over the couch, her jeans around her thighs, exposed and empty. She heard him walk away, then return. Something soft and dry landed on her back—a fresh towel, maybe a t-shirt.
“Clean yourself up,” he said. His voice was empty now, all the vicious energy spent.
She pushed herself up, her muscles protesting. She pulled her clothes up, not looking at him, using the fabric he’d thrown to wipe between her legs. The act was mechanical, degrading. She finally turned.
He was sitting in an armchair across the room, staring into the dying fire. He looked exhausted, hollowed out. The anger was gone, leaving something worse in its place: a numb, stark reality.
“I’ll go,” she said, her own voice foreign to her.
“Yeah.”
She found her shirt, pulled it on. It smelled like him, like whisky, like smoke. She located her shoes. The process felt like moving through deep water.
At the front door, she paused, her hand on the cold handle. He hadn’t moved from the chair.
“What happens on Monday?” she asked, not looking back.
“Monday?”
“Family dinner. At our place. With Meg. With Chris.” She forced the names out, made them solid in the poisoned air.
A long, terrible silence stretched out. She heard the leather of his chair creak as he shifted.
“We eat,” he said finally, the words slow and heavy. “We make small talk. We pretend.”
Julie closed her eyes. The simplicity of it was the most horrifying thing he’d said all night. She opened the door. The night air was clean and cold, washing over her feverish skin.
“Lock the door if you want,” she said, echoing his words from earlier, and stepped out into the dark.