Chapter 6: Silk and Starlight
The silk cushions were a deep aubergine, cool against Leah’s bare skin. Leo had arranged them himself under the pergola, a nest looking out over the city’s early evening glow. The scent of jasmine was overpowering, sweet and cloying, mingling with the clean, expensive bite of his cologne. He had been impossibly gentle since the kitchen, his hands a slow, apologetic prayer on her body.
He kissed the inside of her knee, his lips warm and soft. He moved up her thigh, his tongue tracing the faded yellow edge of the bruise from the desk. “I’m sorry for this,” he murmured against her skin, the words vibrating through her.
“Don’t be,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper in the rustling bamboo. “It’s a part of you. A part of this.”
He looked up, his eyes dark pools in the twilight. “It’s the ugly part.”
“It’s real,” she countered, and something flickered in his gaze—gratitude, or maybe fear.
He resumed his worship, his mouth traveling over her hip, the flat plane of her stomach, the undersides of her breasts. He took his time, licking and sucking, his hands spreading her open as if she were a manuscript only he could read. He was being careful, meticulously so. Every touch was measured, calibrated. It was like being loved by a ghost of the man from the office. The reverence felt like a cage, its bars gilded with the best intentions.
She writhed beneath him, a building frustration coiling in her gut. The bruises ached, a dull, sweet pain that called for a matching pressure, not this feather-light atonement. She wanted to be marked by the present, not just reminded of the past.
“Leo,” she breathed.
“Hmm?” His mouth was at her breast, his tongue circling her nipple with maddening patience.
“Please.”
He lifted his head. “Please what?”
She reached down, her fingers tangling in his hair, not guiding, but clutching. “Stop being sorry. Stop being careful. Just be you.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. The careful lover vanished, replaced by something feral and hungry. “You’re sure?”
Her answer was to arch her back, pushing her cunt against him. “Fuck me.”
It was like snapping a taut wire. A raw, guttural sound ripped from his throat. In one fluid motion, he shoved her thighs apart, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He wasn’t looking at the bruises anymore; he was seeing only her, open and wet for him. He fumbled with his trousers, his composure shattered, and then he was there, the thick, hot head of his cock pressing against her.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice ragged.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his. There was no polish, no heir, just a man stripped bare by want.
He shoved into her, a single, brutal thrust that stole the air from her lungs. He was big, seven inches of hard, unforgiving flesh stretching her, filling her with a breathtaking fullness. There was no more gentleness. This was claiming. This was collision.
“Is this what you want?” he grunted, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “This?”
“Yes! God, yes!” The words were torn from her. The pain from the bruises was swallowed by this new, glorious ache inside her. He was giving her what she needed—to feel him, all of him, without restraint.
He pinned her wrists above her head, his grip vise-like, intertwining their fingers. The position arched her back, driving him deeper. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a jolt that shook the cushions beneath them. The wrought-iron frame of the bench groaned in time.
“You take me so fucking good,” he snarled, his breath hot on her neck. “This perfect, tight little cunt. It’s mine. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she gasped, the concession thrilling her as much as the physical act.
“All of you. Mine.” He drove into her, over and over, the slick, filthy sound of their joining loud in the quiet garden. Sweat slicked his chest where it rubbed against hers. She could smell them both, sex and salt and jasmine.
He released one of her wrists, his hand sliding down her body, fingers finding her clit. He rubbed rough, urgent circles, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. The dual assault was too much, a firestorm building in her core.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice a broken thing.
“Inside me,” she begged, the obscenity fueling her own climb. “Come inside me, Leo. Please.”
It was the final undoing. With a roar that was part agony, part triumph, he pistoned into her, his body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside her in hot, pulsing waves. The feeling of it, the utter raw vulnerability of it, tipped her over the edge. Her own orgasm ripped through her, a silent scream contorting her features as her cunt clenched rhythmically around his still-throbbing cock.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city. He collapsed onto her, his weight a crushing, welcome anchor. He nuzzled into the sweat-damp hollow of her neck.
When he finally softened and slid out of her, he didn’t let go. He kept her pinned, his face hidden. She felt a warm wetness on her shoulder that wasn’t sweat.
He was crying.
She went still, the frantic energy of moments ago freezing into something fragile. He didn’t sob; the tears were silent, leaking against her skin.
“Leo?”
He shook his head, a minute movement against her. He didn’t speak for a full minute. When he did, his voice was wrecked. “I can’t lose you. And I’m so fucking scared that’s all I know how to do. To love someone until they break.”
She had no answer. She just held him, the stickiness cooling between her thighs, the scent of sex and flowers clinging to their skin. In the distance, a siren wailed, a reminder of a world that was not this garden, not this gilded cage of passion and fear.
She stared up at the first stars piercing the purple sky through the pergola’s lattice. For the first time, she wondered not if she could survive his love, but if she could survive the part of herself that craved its most violent, truthful form. The part that had begged for it. The part that, in the shaking aftermath, felt more alive than ever.
The part that, in the shaking aftermath, felt more alive than ever. His tears dried on her skin, leaving tight, salty trails. He shifted his weight off her with a tenderness that now felt like a performance, a retreat back behind his walls.
“Jesus, I’m heavy,” he muttered, his voice still thick. He rolled to the side, pulling her with him so they lay facing each other on the ruined silk. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. His touch was warm. His eyes, red-rimmed, searched hers. “Are you okay? I mean… really?”
“I’m okay,” she said. It wasn’t a lie, but the truth felt more complex than the words could hold. She felt scraped raw, hollowed out, and terrifyingly full all at once.
He nodded, believing her because he needed to. He kissed her forehead, then her lips, a chaste press. His hand slid down her flank, a possessive sweep. His fingers trailed over her hip, then down the curve of her outer thigh, coming to rest high on her inner leg. He was just touching, reclaiming the territory of her skin.
His fingertips came away sticky. In the dim light under the pergola, the substance coating them looked darker than sweat, darker than come. He brought his hand closer to his face, his body going preternaturally still.
Leah felt the change in him before she saw it. The air around them chilled.
“Leah.” Her name was a blade. He sat up abruptly, twisting to catch the faint light from a distant rooftop beacon. His fingers were smeared with a deep, rust-red black. “You’re bleeding.”
He scrambled off the cushions, his nakedness suddenly stark and vulnerable. He fumbled for his phone, turning on the flashlight. The harsh white beam was an invasion. It swept over her thighs, illuminating the mess of fluids there. Among the pearlescent streaks, a distinct, darker trickle had seeped onto the aubergine silk.
“Oh, god. Oh, fuck.” The phone clattered to the stone terrace. He dropped to his knees, his hands hovering over her, afraid to touch. His face was a mask of pure, unvarnished horror. “Where is it coming from? Did I… did I tear something? Are you in pain?”
“Leo, it’s—”
“Don’t say it’s fine!” The shout tore from him, echoing off the bamboo. He was shaking. “Look at it! I… I fucking hurt you. Again. I promised.” The last word was a whisper, devoured by self-loathing.
He reached out, his touch now clinical and terrified, trying to gently part her folds to see the source. She flinched, and he recoiled as if burned.
“We need to call Dr. Evans. Right now.” He was already crawling for his phone, movements jerky with panic.
“Leo, stop.” Her voice was calm, a flat plane over his choppy sea. “Look at me.”
He paused, phone in hand, the screen glowing against his pale face. He looked like a boy caught in a nightmare.
“It’s not from that,” she said slowly, methodically. “It’s too early for my cycle. But sometimes… after, when it’s… intense… it can just happen. A little. It’s capillaries. It’s not a tear.” She was reciting facts, building a dam against his flood of guilt.
He wasn’t hearing her. He stared at the blood on his fingers, then at the stain on the cushion. “I did this. I lost control and I did this to you.” He looked up, his eyes wide and shattered. “This is what he did. This is exactly what he did.”
The unspoken name—his father—hung between them, colder than the night air. He wasn’t just seeing blood; he was seeing a pattern, a legacy written in her flesh. His greatest fear, manifest.
“You are not him,” she said, forcing iron into her tone.
“Aren’t I?” He gave a broken laugh, gesturing to the evidence. “What’s the difference, Leah? Between a bruise and a bleed? Between loving too hard and damaging what you love?” He dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders hunched. “I can’t do this. I can’t be this for you.”
The words were a different kind of wound. She sat up, ignoring the chill, the sticky discomfort. She reached for his wrist, pulling his hand from his face. His skin was cold.
“Look at me,” she commanded, and he obeyed, his gaze drowning. “You asked if I was okay. I am. The blood is a thing that happened. It’s not a verdict. But this?” She squeezed his wrist. “This panic? This assuming the worst of yourself? This is what will break us. Not your hands. Your fear.”
He searched her face, looking for the lie, the placation, but finding only a weary certainty. The wild fear in his eyes receded, replaced by a deep, exhausted shame. He turned his hand, lacing his fingers through hers, clinging.
“I don’t know how to love you quietly,” he admitted, the confession ripped from a dark place.
“Then don’t,” she said. “But learn the difference between marking me and breaking me. I’ll tell you. You have to learn to hear it.”
He brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles. He nodded, a barely perceptible movement. “Let me clean you up. Please.”
She nodded. He stood, lifting her into his arms as if she were made of glass, carrying her past the gleaming kitchen, past the hallway mirror where she’d seen her curated self. He didn’t carry her to his bedroom, but to the vast, clinical master bath.
He set her down on the lip of the freestanding tub and turned on the water, testing the temperature with his wrist. He fetched a soft cloth, wet it, and knelt before her. With a focus that was almost religious, he began to wash the blood and spend from her skin. His touch was infinitely gentle, each pass of the cloth an apology, a question, a plea.
She watched the top of his head, the perfect, vulnerable part in his dark hair. The water in the tub filled, steam curling into the air. The frantic momentum of the garden was gone, collapsed into this silent, humid reckoning. He rinsed the cloth, the pink water swirling down the drain. He worked without speaking, erasing the physical proof, unable to touch the deeper stain on his conscience.
When he was done, he helped her into the bath. The water was scalding, a shock that made her gasp. He climbed in behind her, pulling her back against his chest, surrounding her in the heat and in his arms. He held her, his chin resting on her damp hair, his own skin flushing red from the temperature.
They didn’t speak. The only sound was the drip of the tap and the slow, laborious beat of his heart against her spine. Outside, the city’s lights blurred into a meaningless galaxy through the fogged glass.
He had noticed she was bleeding. And in that single, terrible observation, every unspoken fear between them had finally surfaced, raw and gasping for air in the sterile bathroom light. The security she’d bargained for felt like a thin sheet of ice over a black, bottomless lake. She closed her eyes, the heat of the water doing nothing to dispel the cold knot forming in her stomach.
His embrace tightened, a silent vow. Or perhaps it was just the grasp of a drowning man.
The bathwater lost its scalding heat, turning tepid around their bodies. Leo’s arms remained a locked band across her chest, his breathing finally steadying into the slow rhythm of near-sleep against her neck. The silence felt heavy, a third presence in the room absorbing the echoes of his panic and her hollow reassurances.
A low, deep twinge coiled in Leah’s lower abdomen.
She shifted slightly, dismissing it as a residual ache from the garden, a muscular memory of his thrusts. She focused on the way the condensation streaked the window, cutting the city lights into jagged shards. Another twinge came, sharper this time, a tight fist clenching deep within her pelvis. It wasn’t the pleasurable soreness from earlier; this was a different, grinding discomfort.
She held her breath, waiting for it to pass.
It didn’t. It intensified, radiating down the insides of her thighs. A cold sweat bloomed on her upper lip despite the warm water. The fist inside her twisted, a brutal, sudden spike that made her jerk against him.
“What is it?” Leo’s voice was instantly alert, his body tensing behind her.
“Nothing. Just a cramp.” The words came out tight. She tried to unclench her jaw.
His hands left her arms, sliding down to her belly, pressing gently over the water-warmed skin. “Here?” His touch was investigative, terrified of causing more pain. “Is it… is it from before? From the bleeding?” The dread was back in his voice, full-force.
“No, it’s just a cramp.” But another vicious twist stole her breath, hitching it into a soft gasp. Her eyes screwed shut. The pain was a live wire, connected directly to the raw emotional nerve he’d exposed. It wasn’t just physical. It was everything—the pressure of the wedding, the ghost of his mother in the hallway, the terrifying depth of his need, the blood on the silk, the certain, smothering future in this gilded apartment. It all converged in that single, seizing point.
A sob broke loose. It was a small, defeated sound, wet and ragged. Then another. She couldn’t stop them. They shook her shoulders, tears tracking hot and fast down her cheeks, mixing with the bathwater. She cried silently at first, then with deep, shuddering gulps for air.
“Leah. Leah, look at me.” He turned her in the water, his movements frantic. Her face was blotchy, contorted. Seeing her cry like this—not from passion or a fleeting hurt, but from a deep, unraveling distress—froze him. “Talk to me. Please. Is it the pain? Should I call Evans right now?”
She shook her head, unable to speak, wrapping her arms around her cramping middle. Her nakedness felt acutely vulnerable now, a layer stripped away to reveal something quivering and broken.
“You’re scaring me.” He framed her face, his thumbs wiping at tears that kept coming. His own eyes were wide, reflecting her pain back at her tenfold. “Was it the garden? Did I hurt you inside? Fuck, tell me what to do.”
The compassion in his voice, so genuine and terrified, only made it worse. It proved he loved her. It proved the cage was real, and its bars were made of his devotion. She cried harder, the cramps a brutal, physical echo of the trap she’d willingly walked into.
“I don’t know,” she finally choked out, the admission wretched. “I just… it hurts.”
He was out of the tub in a heartbeat, water sloshing over the marble floor. He grabbed a thick, white bath sheet, wrapping her in it and lifting her out. He carried her to the bed, laying her down and covering her. He fetched a glass of water and two small, white pills from his bedside drawer—not painkillers, but something a doctor had once given him for anxiety.
“Here. Take these. They’ll help the muscles relax.” His voice was clinical, the CEO taking over. But his hands trembled as he handed her the glass. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her swallow, his gaze scanning her body for any other sign of rupture.
The cramps began to dull, softened by the chemical haze and the warmth of the bed. The sobs subsided into shaky, residual hiccups. She felt hollowed out, empty.
Leo stretched out beside her, on top of the covers, and pulled her against him, bath towel and all. He didn’t ask again what was wrong. He just held her, one hand stroking her damp hair, the other resting protectively over her quieting stomach. The city’s lights cast the same silent patterns on the ceiling as they had the night before, and the night before that. The moment in the garden, the blood on the cushion, his tears on her skin—all of it had collapsed into this simple, terrible point: her crying in a dark room, and him holding on, waiting for the damage he was certain he’d caused to finally show itself.
The moment in the garden, the blood on the cushion, his tears on her skin—all of it had collapsed into this simple, terrible point: her crying in a dark room, and him holding on, waiting for the damage he was certain he’d caused to finally show itself.
A false calm settled over them, brittle as thin ice. He brought her tea, arranged the pillows, watched the clock as the minutes bled into an hour. She pretended to sleep, listening to the shallow rhythm of his breathing beside her. The chemical haze from the pills softened the edges of the world, but beneath it, a dull throb persisted.
Then it ripped through her.
One second she was floating, the next a white-hot knife was twisting in her gut. She jackknifed on the bed, a punched-out gasp escaping her lips. The pain was seismic, a rending deep in her pelvis that left no room for breath.
“Leah?” His voice was immediately there, close and panicked.
She couldn’t answer. She curled into a fetal position, clamping her arms over her stomach. A cold sweat broke across her brow. It wasn’t a memory of the garden; this was something new, something wrong.
“Talk to me. Is it the cramps again?” His hand was on her back, urgent.
“Worse,” she managed to grind out. “So much worse.”
She felt him leave the bed, heard the frantic tap of his phone screen. His voice, when he spoke, was a forced, low calm that terrified her more than shouting. “Robert. It’s Leo. I need the car at the private entrance. Now. And call Metropolitan, tell them we’re coming. Now.”
He ended the call and was back at her side, his fingers brushing the damp hair from her forehead. “Can you stand? I’ll carry you.”
She shook her head, then nodded, a spasm of pain dictating her movements. He didn’t wait. He scooped her up, towel and all, and moved through the penthouse with a brutal, focused efficiency. The city lights streaked past the floor-to-ceiling windows, a dizzying blur. The elevator descent was a silent, plummeting vacuum.
The car, a silent black sedan, was idling. Robert, the driver, held the door, his face a careful blank. Leo deposited her gently on the cold leather, climbed in beside her, and pulled her into his lap. “Metropolitan. Fast.” Robert simply nodded, the partition sliding up, sealing them in a moving vault.
“Look at me,” Leo said, his fingers under her chin. His eyes scanned hers, looking for signs of shock. “Keep breathing. Just breathe with me.” He took an exaggerated, slow breath, willing her to follow. She tried, but another cramp seized her, a vicious contraction that made her dig her nails into his arm.
“It’s not your fault,” she whispered into his shirt, the words frayed.
“Don’t,” he cut her off, his voice cracking. “Don’t do that. Not now.” He held her tighter, his face pressed into her hair. The car swerved through traffic, the city a streaking watercolor of fear.
They entered through a private corridor, the harsh fluorescent lights a violent contrast to the penthouse gloom. A nurse and a doctor in blue scrubs were waiting, their professionalism a wall against Leo’s palpable terror. They transferred Leah to a gurney.
“Mr. Carrington, you’ll need to wait here,” the doctor said, his tone allowing no argument.
“Like hell I will.” Leo’s hand was clamped around the gurney’s rail.
“Leo.” Leah’s voice was thin, but it stopped him. She looked up at him, her face pale under the lights. “Wait. Please.”
He saw it then, in her eyes—a need for him to not see whatever came next. A final, small privacy. His hand slackened. He watched, utterly still, as they wheeled her through double doors that swallowed her whole. The silence in the sterile hallway was absolute. He stood there, staring at the closed doors, his expensive shirt stained with her sweat and tears, his fists clenched at his sides, completely and utterly powerless.