Chapter 17: The Sister's Inquiry
The grey Yorkshire morning leaked through the cottage windows, a soft, woolen light that found them still tangled on the rug. Freya woke to the solid, steady beat of Aidan’s heart under her ear, the weight of his arm a possessive anchor across her back. For a moment, there was only the peace of his breathing, the scent of their spent bodies, and the cool ash in the hearth.
Then memory, cold and precise, slid into place.
She stiffened. His arm tightened instinctively.
“Don’t,” he murmured, his voice sleep-roughened. “Whatever you’re thinking, just don’t.”
“Sarah knows.” The words were a dry crack in the quiet. “Everything. I told her last night, after you went for the keg. It’s worse than you think. I gave her numbers, names, details.”
He was silent for a long moment, his fingers tracing a slow path up her spine. “Then she knows.”
“She could hate me. She should hate me.”
“She won’t.” He shifted, rolling her gently until she was on her back and he was propped on an elbow, looking down at her. His eyes were clear, devoid of the shadow she feared. “But if she does, that’s her business. It changes nothing between you and me. The ledger is closed, Freya. You don’t get to keep punishing yourself on my behalf. I won’t allow it.”
He said it with a quiet finality that brooked no argument. He kissed her, a firm, claiming press of his lips that felt like a seal. Then he stood, a naked, magnificent silhouette against the dull window, and pulled her up. “Shower. Then food. We’re going to the pub for lunch.”
The Snug at midday was a different creature. Sunlight strained through leaded windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing over empty tables. The fireplace was cold. Maureen was nowhere to be seen, but Sarah was behind the bar, polishing glasses with a ferocious concentration that made the quiet clinking sound like gunshots.
She looked up as they entered. Her gaze went to their linked hands, then to Freya’s face. There was no smile, no warmth. Just a measured, assessing look.
“Mum’s at the market,” Sarah said, her tone neutral. “Emily’s on a supply run. It’s just me.”
Aidan gave Freya’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll check the cellar inventory. Give you two a minute.” He released her and disappeared through the back door without a backward glance, leaving her stranded in the pool of silent sunlight.
Sarah put down the glass and the cloth. “Sit.”
Freya slid into a barstool, the wood cold through her jeans. The air between them was thick, charged with the unsaid.
Sarah came around the bar and leaned against it, arms crossed. She didn’t offer a drink. “What Emily told me… is it true? All of it?”
Freya’s throat closed. She forced a nod.
“I want to hear it from you.” Sarah’s voice was low, intense. “No soft edges. How many times did you make him serve drinks naked? How many women watched him crawl?”
The clinical tone was a blade. It was easier than pity. Freya met her eyes, her own voice flattening into a report. “At least a dozen parties. Sometimes twenty women watching, sometimes just five. They’d circle him, touch him, whisper things. He’d stay hard the whole time, even when I could see the humiliation in his eyes. I told myself it was part of the game. That he wanted it. I was lying.”
Sarah’s jaw worked. “And the blowjob competitions? How many?”
“Seven that I organized. Maybe eight.” Freya’s hands were in her lap, fists clenched. “The first time, there were four of us. The last time, six. He came in every single mouth, and the loser—a Russian model named Irina—had to take him in every position while we watched. He came inside her four times that night. She was still dripping when we finally let her leave.”
A muscle twitched in Sarah’s cheek. She looked away, out the window, swallowing hard. When she looked back, her eyes were bright with something that wasn’t quite tears. “And the threesomes? How many different women did you bring in?”
Freya’s composure cracked. A tear tracked down her cheek, but her voice held. “I don’t know. A dozen? Two dozen? I’d find them at parties, at galas, on set. Beautiful, empty women who wanted to use him the way I did. We’d take turns riding his face, his cock. I’d watch him fuck them, his eyes closed, his jaw tight, and I’d feel nothing but a cold, jealous rage. I made him come inside every single one. Sometimes twice. I’d lie there afterward, his cum leaking out of me and another woman, and I’d feel like a queen. A monster queen.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Sarah stared at her, and Freya let her look, let her see the full, ugly picture.
“Why are you telling me this?” Sarah finally asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Because you asked. Because I’m done lying. Because Aidan deserves to have people who know the worst of me and still choose to love him. And if you want to hate me, I understand. I’d hate me.”
Sarah didn’t move for what felt like an eternity. Then, slowly, she uncrossed her arms. She didn’t reach for Freya’s hand. Instead, she placed her own palm flat on the bar between them, as if steadying herself.
“I don’t hate you,” she said, each word considered. “What you did… it’s ugly. It’s cruel. I think you were terrified. And I think you’re braver than you know, sitting here and telling me this with no excuses.” She paused, her gaze unwavering. “But I need to know one more thing. Do you love my brother? Not the idea of him, not the safety of him. Him. The man who digs my mother’s garden and hates kipper sandwiches and reads military history books for fun.”
Freya didn’t hesitate. “Yes. More than my career. More than my own breath. It terrifies me.”
A ghost of something—approval, perhaps—flickered in Sarah’s eyes. She gave a single, sharp nod. “Alright then.” She pushed off the bar. “He’s in the cellar. Go get him. I’ll put the kettle on.”
The descent into the cellar was a plunge into cool, earthy darkness. Aidan was at the far end, scanning a clipboard in the glow of a single bare bulb. He heard her on the stairs and turned.
“Well?”
“She doesn’t hate me.”
He dropped the clipboard onto a crate and closed the distance between them in three long strides. He didn’t kiss her. He backed her against the rough stone wall, his body caging hers, his hands coming up to frame her face. The intensity in his eyes was blinding.
“I don’t give a fuck what anyone else feels,” he growled, the raw emotion in his voice a stark contrast to his usual control. “But you… you’re free now. Do you understand? No more ghosts.”
He kissed her then, a devouring, desperate kiss that tasted of shared darkness and hard-won light. Her hands scrabbled at his shoulders, pulling him closer. The clinical recount to Sarah had left her feeling hollowed out, scraped raw. This—his heat, his hunger—was the only thing that could fill the void.
“I need you,” she gasped against his mouth. “Right here. Right now. I need to feel you, just you, no past.”
A groan ripped from his throat. His hands slid down, ripping at the button of her jeans, yanking them and her underwear down her thighs in one rough motion. He turned her, pressing her front against the cool stone. She heard the frantic slide of his own zipper.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded, his voice thick.
She obeyed, bracing her hands against the wall. He didn’t tease. He didn’t prepare her. He was as desperate as she was. The broad, blunt head of his cock nudged against her opening. She was wet, ready, her body singing for him.
“Fuck me,” she breathed, pushing back against him. “Hard. Please.”
He drove into her with one deep, punishing stroke, seating himself to the hilt. The force knocked the air from her lungs. A cry echoed in the dank cellar, hers or his, she didn’t know.
“Jesus, Freya,” he choked out, his hands gripping her hips, holding her still for a second as they both absorbed the shocking, perfect fullness.
Then he began to move. This wasn’t the tender lovemaking of the night before. This was a claiming, a conquering of every lingering doubt. Each thrust was a jolt, slamming her against the wall, the rough stone scraping her palms. The sound was obscene, wet and rhythmic, their ragged breaths and his balls slapping against her skin.
“This pussy,” he grunted, pulling her back onto him with every drive. “This perfect, tight pussy is mine to worship. You feel that? You feel how deep I am?”
“Yes!” she cried, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Her nipples scraped against the stone with every jarring impact. She was hurtling toward the edge, friction and emotion combusting inside her.
“You are everything,” he panted, his rhythm fracturing, losing its military precision. “So beautiful. So strong. Taking my cock like you were made for it. I am the luckiest bastard alive.”
His praise, filthy and reverent, was the final catalyst. Her orgasm detonated, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched around him, milking him, pulling his own release from him. He shouted, a raw, shattered sound, as he pumped into her, his hips stuttering, flooding her with hot, pulsing jets of his cum. He held himself deep, grinding as he emptied himself, until they were both spent, trembling, slick with sweat.
They slumped against the wall, his body heavy on her back, his breath hot on her neck. Inside her, he softened, but he didn’t pull out. He stayed there, connected, as their heartbeats slowly synced.
After a long while, he kissed her shoulder, a soft, apologetic brush of his lips. “I was rough.”
“I needed you to be.” She turned her head, seeking his mouth. The kiss was salt and sincerity.
They rearranged their clothes in the dim light, a quiet, intimate ritual. As they climbed the stairs, his hand on the small of her back, the world above felt newly made. Sarah was at the bar, two mugs of tea steaming before her. She took in their flushed faces, their softened edges, and said nothing. She simply slid the mugs forward.
“Mum’s back,” she said, her voice now holding a trace of her usual warmth. “She’s making steak and kidney pie. You’re staying.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an invitation into the fold, messy history and all. Freya looked at Aidan, then at Sarah, and felt the last shard of ice in her soul finally melt.
“We’re staying,” she said.