Milo must have had so many questions. If only I had the answers. After coaxing me to drink a cup of tea and take some more painkillers, he helped me to the bathroom. If he noticed I was a trembling mess from head to toe, or how I braced with a steadying hand against the wall as I relieved myself, half expecting to see blood in my piss, he didn’t comment. As much as I wanted to scrub away the feel of Cav’s blows, showering felt like a step too far.

  Settled on Frankie’s plush sofa once more, I couldn’t hold off conversation any longer. “I never imagined things like this happened to people like me.”

  “You were wrong.”

  I let out a deep sigh, then wished I hadn’t. At least one rib was cracked. “I feel such a fool, Milo.”

  “Trust me,” he responded grimly. “You’re not. And things like this do happen to people like you. They just use potpourri and scented candles to cover up the stink.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He acknowledged with a slight nod. “I do. But there is no stereotype, Mungs. People like you, articulate people with money and careers—with means—are just better able to cover it up. Mostly because other people around them are less suspicious." He spoke with the confidence of someone who knew. “They hush it up because they’re too ashamed to go to the hospital or report it to the police.”

  “I’m definitely not speaking to the police.”

  “I know,” he answered simply. “I didn’t even bother asking. Although, for what it’s worth, I think you should.”

  “I can’t.” My throat closed up suddenly. “I can’t explain why. I just… can’t. It’s bad enough that you’ve seen me like this. It’s so humiliating.”

  “It’s not. But I understand how you feel. And that’s exactly how Cav wants you to feel. It’s how people like him get their kicks. Making you feel worthless and ashamed makes people like Cav feel better about themselves. Superior.” His lip curled in a snarl. “I could fucking murder him. Except murder would be too good. That bastard wouldn’t suffer enough.”

  His eyes closed briefly as he collected himself, then reopened. He put his hand gently on my arm. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. But it’s true.”

  “Has your dad ever hit you?”

  “Yeah, of course.” He said it in a matter-of-fact tone, like I’d asked if his dad ever enjoyed a round of golf. “Once or twice. But I wasn’t his main target.”

  “Bloody hell, Milo. All that time we lived together, all the times they scrounged from you. And you never told me.”

  "You never asked.” His cool blue eyes met mine, hiding a lifetime of secrets. I had a feeling this was the first of many honest conversations between us. And though I was the one struggling right now, they were going to be a two-way street.

  “Would you have told me if I had?”

  A veneer of sadness tinged his smile. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d have missed it. “No, probably not. But if I hadn’t come knocking on the door, would you have told me your boyfriend beat you up?”

  God, how absolutely fucking hideous that sounded, how blunt. “Probably not,” I admitted truthfully. “But I’m glad you did, even though I hate you seeing me like this.”

  His gaze, softer now, cruised over my body. “Let me photograph your bruises, Mungo. Let me record everything that fucker did to you. In case you ever change your mind about reporting him.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You might, one day. And if we don’t act now, you’ll never have any proof. Humour me.”

  An inability to say no, to stand up for myself, had put me in this situation in the first place. He caught me hesitating.

  “Please, Mungs, do it for me. Let’s get it over with. Then I promise I’ll file the pictures away and forget I ever saw them.”

  I felt small, stupid, and not good enough. An impermeable blanket of fog shrouded my brain. “God, I don’t know what I want. I hurt all over.” Hot tears pricked behind my eyelids, and I brushed them away. “And I can’t stop crying. I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

  “No, absolutely not.” He laid a firm hand on my shoulder. “I think you’re in shock, scared, and in pain. You’re running on empty. So you’re not thinking rationally.”

  The new painkillers gradually kicked in, sweeping me away on a tide of Milo’s unemotional pragmatism. For now, I’d let him take his photographs, pamper me, and feed me pills. But I’d send him home tomorrow. Some wounds needed to be licked in a quiet corner. In private. Milo could mop my tears, stroke my brow, and tuck a duvet around my shoulders, but he’d never understand the pain of Cav’s betrayal. His anger had already shown me that. I needed time away from him, space to grieve the ordinary love we’d shared—fucked up on Cav’s part, perhaps, but love nonetheless. My heart, not broken exactly because it had never been Cav’s to break, felt bruised and battered.

  Letting him rearrange my cushions, I drifted in an unhappy daze as Milo methodically exposed each small area of my tender body, photographed it, then covered up again with a soft throw before moving to the next. Capturing my reddened cheek and the angry violet welt over my collarbone, and some older, yellowed bruises from Cav’s grip digging into the inner fleshy part of my upper arms. And my left flank, discoloured, overlaying a broken rib. An exquisitely tender swelling near my groin.

  A couple of silent tears rolled down my cheeks, unchecked, and he paused to wipe them away.

  Groggily, I watched his serene face as he worked, wondering, as I often did, at his thoughts. Wondering too, how it would be with him when we reached the other side of this. The injuries he was so carefully cataloguing would readily heal; they’d be gone within weeks. And then what? I wanted to ask him if he’d still him wait for me while I mourned. While I isolated myself to tend to the invisible wounds, the ones we wouldn’t ever be able to snap for posterity. The ones I’d carry with me always, the ones which could so easily poison the roots of a tentative new kind of relationship with him.

  With a washing-up bowl of soapy water and a soft face cloth, he freshened me up, cautiously sponging my face and my neck. His caring, non-sexual touch as he wiped the cloth under my arms, over my clammy palms and down my itchy, sweaty back, asked for nothing in return, which seemed bizarre, foreign, and a little bit uncomfortable. Like I didn’t deserve it, or worse, at any moment his solemn features would reveal the revulsion he was trying to conceal. Like he’d realise how useless I was and abandon me, just when I needed him the most.

  Was the damage already done?

  As I cleaned myself below, he turned away, offering me a towel, before taking the used water back to the bathroom while I changed into fresh underwear and one of Lysander’s clean bath robes.

  “Better?”

  “Yes,” I answered, because that’s what he wanted to hear. His worried gaze was becoming too much to bear. “I might have another nap, if that’s okay.”

  “Very okay.” He beamed. “The best medicine there is. I’ll clear up here and make us something nice to eat for later.”

  CHAPTER 17

  MILO

  You can look up the definition of torment in the dictionary, but no one understands what it truly means until they hear someone they love sobbing in their sleep. Like they’re having their heart ripped out. Mungo’s nightmare cut to my core, sending the knife I’d been using to busily chop vegetables for a stew clattering to the granite worktop.

  I ran from the kitchen to the sitting room, in time to see his confused, tearstained face lift from the sofa in a bewildered, half-awake befuddlement.

  “I’m here, Mungs, it’s okay. I’m here.”

  As I crushed him against my shoulder, his whole being shook. Beads of sweat coated his brow. I wished I was bigger as I tried to fold his head, his brawny arms and his broad chest into me. That I could truly envelop him like he could me, offer him the safe harbour he offered me whenever we faced Jason together, or the world at large.

  Climbing to my feet and kicking off my shoes, I did the next best thing. “Hey, let me cuddle you properly.”

  I joined him on the sofa. From behind, I wrapped my scrawny legs around him, my thin arms too, pulling his back against my puny chest, trying to glue myself to him. I breathed him in, my nose buried in the back of his thick hair, rocking him against me.

  “So sorry, Milo,” he said. Then repeated it over and over, through chattering teeth.

  “Don’t say that. You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all.”

  I pressed myself even closer. “You deserve to be loved so hard, my gorgeous man. So fucking hard.”

  I couldn’t recall ever seeing Mungo cry. Not properly, anyhow. But now he trembled and made a pained, choking sound.

  “I stood there and let him do it, Milo. He was so angry. And upset. And I just…” He sucked in dry heaves, like even the effort of breathing was hard. “I fucking let him hit me. Like I owed it to him. I just… I just kept thinking I deserved it and shouldn’t hit him back.”

  “I know, sweet, I know.”

  He shuddered while ugly tears finally fell. As I carried on rocking him, shushing him, and loving him, a white fury brewed within me, the likes of which this fancy apartment block had never seen. I was surprised flames weren’t shooting out of my ears.

  “I’m so sorry, Milo. Sorry for being so pathetic. For crying so fucking much.” With a shaky laugh, he rubbed his face. “It’s the shock, I think. I can’t seem to stop.”

  I reached around to kiss a wet cheek. “This isn’t crying, flower. You’re just watering your beard. That’s all. We don’t give people like him the satisfaction of our tears. Okay?”

  Darkness fell around us; Mungo’s shaking gradually lessened. Bit by bit, the tension seeped from his body. His eyes drifted closed, and his head relaxed onto my shoulder. His shuddering breaths evened out. As the last drops of adrenaline leached from him, he even dozed again.

  Wide awake, I watched the steady rise and fall of his chest and plotted one thousand and one ways to inflict an agonisingly slow death on Cav.

  God knows what time it was when Mungo roused. Late. We’d skipped dinner. On a timer, Lysander’s fancy blinds had already closed—I’d nearly screamed when they chugged into action. My phone was jammed under my arse, so I couldn’t reach it without disturbing Mungo.

  “Thanks for staying.” His voice was scraped raw. Much calmer though. My hands were still clasped together across his belly, and he squeezed one of them. “You give the best hugs, have I ever told you that?”

  No, but he could tell me every day for the rest of my life. “The second-best hugs, actually,” I corrected him.

  He chuffed, then flinched, pressing a palm to his sore ribcage. “Who gives the best?”

  “Who do you think?”

  He blew out a long weary sigh, and I pulled him even tighter. Above his waist, his towelling robe had fallen open, and I slid my hand through the opening, to find the warm skin of his belly. I traced my fingers over muscled ridges, forged from bending to the will of a partner undeserving of them. Objectively, they were the epitome of physical perfection, but knowing how and why he achieved them, I hated their existence. In long, slow, sweeping circles, I tried to smooth them away under my fingertips, imagining all the ways I’d make it up to my dearest friend in the days, months, and years ahead.

  Shifting fractionally in my arms, Mungo let out a low sigh. I stilled.

  “Shit, I’m hurting you, aren’t I?”

  He gave a small chuckle. “Um… not exactly.”

  Raising his hips slightly, he shifted again. A couple of inches below my palm, I spied the outline of his tented robe.

  “Oh.”

  Some emotional support pillow I was turning out to be. I withdrew my hands. Probably time to leave.

  “Don’t stop.”

  He twisted his neck around to look up at me, wincing. Shiny-nosed, puffy-cheeked, and red-eyed. Yet still the most wondrous sight. With the tip of my thumb, I brushed away the salty remnant of a tear, bringing it to my lips. His dark eyes flickered down to my mouth. Wordlessly feeling for my other hand, he brought it back to his belly, an inch or so lower than I’d been stroking, placing my fingertips on the shallow groove at his hip. The robe gaped further.

  “We’re not ready for this, Mungs,” I whispered, like the fucking voluntary flagellant I’d apparently become. “It’s too soon.”

  Despite my words, my deaf fingertips walked even lower, skimming the edge of coarse hair.

  “I know. But I want it. I need it.” His breath came in short, urgent puffs.

  “You’re confused, Mungs. Upset. In pain. You don’t know what you want.”

  Restless eyes dropped to my mouth again, in a slow visual caress. “I know that too.” He licked his dry lips. “Being here like this, with you. It’s… fuck, Milo. Just give me something good. Let me block it all out. I need something good.”

  As he reached up, I dipped down, closing the distance between us. We kissed, softly and carefully, long, and deep, the sort that could easily last three days. Mungo made a soft noise into my mouth, like a homecoming sigh.

  Lying across his hip, under his boxers, his dick waited for me, thick and proud. He whimpered again when I pushed them down and palmed it, his hips arching up into me. My other arm wrapped tight around his chest, holding him close. As he kicked off his underwear, his thighs fell open, the towelling robe dropped completely away, and I greedily drank in the view down his body, shadowy dips and curves in the dim light.

  “Are you sure this what you need, my sweet?” Like a cat, I rubbed my cheek across the smooth silkiness of his beard, wanting to climb inside and live there.

  “Yeah.”

  I traced the ridge of his damp swollen head with the pad of my thumb, spreading the pearly drops around until it glistened. I stroked him, in steady sweeps from his dark root to the leaking tip, riveted by the sight of my hand, slim and pale, curled around the darker skin of his length. Mungo’s much bigger palm splayed over his solid thigh, covering the purple bruise. His hips lifted rhythmically, his breath quickening. As I leaned forward, resting my chin on his shoulder, he lowered his gaze to watch with me.

  “My hand looks good on you, doesn’t it?” I licked and sucked into his neck. “Like it belongs there.”

  Moaning, Mungo slid his fingers up his thigh to his heavy balls, cupping them, tugging on them. His cock jerked, and more wetness collected under my palm, slicking a path. Lips parted and chest heaving, he was glued to the show too.

  My own cock throbbed painfully underneath him. Half of me wanted him to take charge, to turn this into something bigger. To flip me over, spread me wide, and use that delicious cock to break me apart. I so badly needed to know how that would feel. The other half couldn’t tear my eyes away from this near soundless, determined slide into intimacy. There would be no going back.

  Mungo’s thighs tensed; the muscles in his shoulder corded under my chin. Two more pulls. Then, with a strangled cry of pain and release, ropes of cum looped across his belly. Letting out a groan, he flopped his head back, covering my hand with his own, eking out the last few drops. His eyes shuttered, and gradually, the heaving of his chest subsided.

  “Thank you,” he murmured eventually after he returned to his senses. “I was… not expecting that.”

  “Me neither.”

  Awkwardness blossomed between us. I’d become cramped with his weight pressing against me. “Stay here,” I said. “Let me grab some tissues.”

  Reluctantly, I slipped from underneath him. After handing him a tissue, he cleaned up and retied his robe. I positioned myself primly on the edge of the sofa. Or as primly as a man could with a raging hard-on and an aching wrist that had just experienced an orgasm of its own. Watching Mungo come had been the hottest thing ever. But now he looked pale, exhausted, and in pain.

  “I’m going to ask one more time, Mungo. Are you sure I shouldn’t be taking you to hospital?”

  “No. It’s just bruising and a cracked rib. Nothing broken time won’t fix.”

  Nothing physical, maybe. The mental injuries were a different story.

  “Okay. I’m going to find you some more ibuprofen, help you to bed, and let you get some more sleep.”

  “You could always come to bed with me?” he said.

  The suggestion behind those words hovered so clearly between us I could almost taste it. But, ignoring my screaming nuts, like the totally responsible adult I was these days, I shook my head. “No. You’re not ready. And you know it. I’ll be peachy out here on this big comfy sofa. Within shouting distance.”

  “You’re always peachy.” His face flushed. “And you’re right. What we just did was awesome. I’d like to do it some more, but my head’s all wrong. It’s going to be all wrong for some time. So thank god one of us is thinking sensibly.”

  I laughed. “And who’d have guessed it would be me?”

  Mungo laughed too, then winced. Another reason not to dive into anything—he was too blooming sore. Tiredly, he rubbed his beard. “You… I remembered what you said to me outside the restaurant, Milo. How much you… you loved me. It got me through the last couple of weeks. But now… this.” He held out his hands in a helpless gesture. “After all of this, this mess. Am I still going to be what you want? I’m no prize, that’s for sure.”

  Christ, his confidence was going to take some effort to restore. “Listen. I’m not going anywhere, Mungs. Not tonight and not ever. You can take all the time and all the space you think you need. I’m going to be with you every step of the way. And every step beyond, for the good, the bad and the in between. If that’s on the end of a phone line, or in person, then whatever is right for you. But what you need now is me as your friend. Not… that. Not yet.”

  “But we’re going to have that, aren’t we?”

  God, his voice sounded so lost. I could have wept myself. “Absolutely, flower. With knobs on. Literally.”

  With a level of efficiency even Frankie would have applauded, I tucked Mungo into bed with a cup of tea and a hot water bottle. I was ready to leave him be. As I hovered over him, he pressed his palm to his lips, kissing it, then blew gently.