Chapter 13: The Forgotten Vow
The silence after he finished was heavier than before. It wasn't peaceful. It was a spent, charged thing, full of the smell of sex and sweat and the slow, laboured sound of their breathing. Aidan’s weight shifted off her, the mattress groaning. Catriona lay exactly as he’d left her, on her stomach, wrists still bound to the headboard with the dark green silk. The belts had bitten into her skin, leaving angry red lines that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
She heard the soft rustle of his jeans being pulled up, the click of his belt buckle. Then his hands were at her wrists, his fingers working the knots loose. The silk slithered away. Feeling rushed back into her hands in a painful, prickling flood. She didn’t move, her face buried in the rumpled duvet.
Aidan sat on the edge of the bed. The dip of his weight tilted her toward him. His hand, warm and broad, settled between her shoulder blades. It wasn’t a caress. It was an anchor.
“Alright?” His voice was sandpaper-rough.
She managed a nod against the fabric. Her throat was too raw for words. Every muscle felt liquefied, used. The sharp, pleasant ache deep inside her was a brand. His brand.
“Look at me, Cat.”
It took effort. She turned her head, the side of her face sticky where it had been pressed to the sheet. Her hair was a ruined curtain across her eyes. He reached over and brushed it back, his touch surprisingly gentle. His expression was unreadable—a focused, quiet intensity that stripped her even more than the fucking had.
“I meant what I said,” he stated, no fanfare. “You’re mine. This is mine.” His thumb traced the edge of her swollen lip. “That clear?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Dave doesn’t get this. He never will. You understand that? This isn’t him. This is us.”
“I know.”
He studied her face for another long moment, then nodded, as if confirming something to himself. He stood, padding naked to the ensuite. The shower hissed to life. He left the door open. An invitation.
Catriona pushed herself up, her body protesting. She saw the marks on her thighs, the slight tremor in her own hands. The room was a disaster—a lamp knocked askew, a pillow on the floor, the indentation of his knees deep in the mattress. Evidence. She gathered the green belts, winding them into a neat, secretive coil which she shoved into her bedside drawer. The action felt futile, like hiding a murder weapon.
She followed the sound of the water. Steam billowed out, clouding the mirrors. Aidan was under the spray, head bowed, water sluicing down the hard planes of his back. She stepped in behind him. The water was scalding. He didn’t turn, but he shifted, making space for her under the jet.
She stood there, letting the heat beat on her neck and shoulders. He reached for the soap, worked it into a lather in his palms, and then his hands were on her. Not with the ruthless ownership of minutes ago, but with a thorough, almost clinical care. He washed her shoulders, her back, the backs of her legs. He turned her gently, his soapy hands moving over her breasts, her stomach, between her legs, cleaning away the physical proof of him. She stood passive, her forehead resting against his collarbone, her eyes closed.
“He’ll be home at six,” she murmured into his skin, the words almost lost in the drumming water.
“I know.”
“What do we do?”
He rinsed her, his hands pushing the suds from her body. “We live here. We eat dinner. We watch telly. You’re his girlfriend. I’m his mate who lives here.”
“And this?”
He turned off the water. The sudden silence was loud. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his hips, then another, which he placed over her head, rubbing her hair dry with a rough tenderness. “This stays in this room. Or my room. Or on the phone when he’s not here. It’s a compartment, Cat. You lock it when he’s around.”
It sounded simple. Impossible.
They dressed in silence. Catriona put on loose jeans and a soft jumper, armour against the coming evening. Aidan pulled on a clean t-shirt and trousers. He gathered his discarded clothes from her floor, a mundane act that felt more intimate than anything else. He paused at her bedroom door, looking back at her.
“You’re not sorry,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She met his gaze. The shame was there, a cold, slick stone in her gut. But beneath it, humming in her veins, was a satiation so profound it felt like peace. “No,” she whispered. “I’m not.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his mouth. “Good.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
The performance began at five-forty. Catriona was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a stir-fry, her movements precise. Aidan was at the small table, scrolling on his laptop, a mug of tea beside him. The flat smelled of ginger and garlic, clean and normal.
Dave’s key scraped in the lock. Catriona’s knife stilled for a split second, then resumed its steady tap-tap-tap.
“Alright, you lot!” Dave called, dumping his work bag. He came into the kitchen, his face tired but brightening at the scene. He went straight to Catriona, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, nuzzling her neck. “Smells amazing, love.”
Over his shoulder, Catriona’s eyes met Aidan’s. Aidan’s gaze was flat, neutral. He gave a tiny, almost bored shrug before looking back at his screen.
“Good day?” Catriona asked, forcing lightness into her voice, leaning back into Dave’s familiar, safe embrace.
“Same shite, different day. You?”
“Quiet. Shelved a lot of returns.”
Dave kissed her temple and released her, going to the fridge for a beer. He popped the cap and leaned against the counter, looking at Aidan. “You’re back early. Job finish up?”
“Wrapped it yesterday,” Aidan said, not looking up. “Just had the report to file.”
“Good to have you back, mate. This one mopes when you’re gone.” Dave jerked a thumb at Catriona, grinning.
Catriona felt a flash of real panic, hot and sharp. She focused on tipping the chicken into the wok, the sizzle loud and distracting.
Aidan finally looked up, a lazy smile on his face. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Does she? Surprised she notices with you around.”
Dave laughed, taking a swig. “Cheeky bastard.”
Dinner was a study in surreal normality. They sat around the small table. Catriona and Dave on one side, Aidan opposite. They passed dishes. Talked about a film that was streaming, a friend’s upcoming wedding, the relentless drizzle outside. Aidan’s foot brushed against hers under the table. She froze, a spear of broccoli halfway to her mouth. He didn’t move it. The pressure was light, casual, a secret laid over the commonplace chatter.
It was a claim. A reminder.
Every laugh from Dave felt like a lie lodged in her throat. Every casual glance from Aidan felt like a hand on her skin. She was splitting in two, right there at the dinner table. The girlfriend, attentive, nodding, smiling. And the used thing, still throbbing, owned by the quiet man across from her who was now discussing carburettors with her boyfriend.
Later, they all watched a comedy panel show. Catriona sat with her legs curled under her, Dave’s arm around her. Aidan occupied the single armchair, scrolling on his phone. During a loud punchline, Dave’s laugh booming, Catriona saw Aidan’s thumb move on his screen.
Her phone, lying face down on the coffee table, buzzed once. A discreet, dull vibration.
She waited until Dave got up for more beers, then she flipped it over.
A single message from an unsaved number.
Next time, I want your mouth. Page twenty-three. Think about it.
She deleted the message and put the phone back down, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at Aidan. He wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the TV, a faint, unreadable expression on his face as the studio audience roared with laughter he didn’t share.