I'm mesmerized. The contortion of her body, the flush coating her chest, the way she mewls and twists. I had no expectation for the night to turn out this way, but I should have known better. Harper has mastered this craft. She's practiced in harnessing her weakness, in walking through the fires of her pain and emerging like the stunning Phoenix she is. Harper isunapologetically herself, taking what she needs and reveling in what she wants. She won't be denied, she doesn't shy away when others would. For that reason, as I watch her emerald green eyes rolling back into her skull, the final piece of my resistance withers away. I'm in love with this girl. I was a fool to ever think I could walk away from this.
Behind her, Rhys worships every inch of her body he can reach. We don't make eye contact, barely acknowledge that we're both present. All that matters is stoking Harper's desire, fulfilling her every soft cry and desperate whim. Her cunt flutters and clamps down around my length, the slickened noises becoming obscene, her screams becoming louder. I don't pick up my pace, steadily thrusting into her, allowing her to savour every inch. This is about reminding Harper that she's alive, she's safe, and she has us in any and every capacity she desires. It's a promise being woven into the fibres of our souls. For as long as she wants us, this is exactly where we'll be.
I lose count of Harper's orgasms. All I know is, I'm not chasing my own. Once her grip on my hair loosens and her limbs become weary, I withdraw and settle her against the cushions. Rhys lowers himself between her legs, driving one last climax from her with his tongue and fingers. She barely has the strength to scream, her limbs trembling past the point of exhaustion, but she cums for him so beautifully, I can't tear my eyes away. She passes out in the next second.
Ignoring the straining of our own cocks, we silently tuck her into the sheets and kiss her forehead in turn. Gathering my clothes, I head into the bathroom first, washing off and dressing just as the first hint of daylight grazes the hotel window. Rhys is fully dressed and leaning against it once again, but this time he is facing outwards. His palm and forehead rest against the glass, his breathing bordering labored as his shoulders shift and fall.
I frown at the sight of him. I'm not his therapist, and I'm nowhere near his friend, but I don't have it in me to completely ignore him. Not when I know from experience how volatile he can become in a matter of seconds, and I was going to attempt a few hours of sleep. I'm sure whatever outburst follows would be aimed directly at my head.
“What is it?” I ask after double-checking the mic on the dresser is actually switched off. Last thing Harper needs is to be disturbed because Rhys is struggling to keep his ego in check or whatever this is. “You’ve been off ever since her phone call came in. Is it because she called me instead of you?”
Rhys cuts me a look so sharp, I’m surprised the glass behind him doesn’t crack. As if I’m the one being ridiculous here. We won. We should be celebrating, patting each other on the back and agreeing to stay out of each other’s way from now on. Inhaling deeply, Rhys returns his forehead to the imprint he’s left on the glass. The longer his silence stretches, the more worried I become.
“Seriously, what is up with you?” I nudge his shoulder, something I’m far more comfortable doing these days. A few months ago, it would have been at risk of receiving a few broken fingers. He sighs again, so much weight held in the sound, and he turns to stare somewhere past my head.
“I…I’m such an idiot,” he shakes his head whilst I nod.
“You sure are, but why specifically this time?” He huffs and his throat bobs. For the first time since I’ve known him, Rhys Waversea looks like he might actually be afraid. No, not quite afraid. More like haunted. I sober in an instant, the twisting of my gut not sitting right with the elation I want to feel. “Jesus, spit it out already.”
“I know who Della-Mae is,” he finally admits, his voice as rough as gravel. I still, a grave expression passing over my face.
“Who is she?” My jaw clenches, my pulse kicking up a notch. He still won’t look at me. The muscles in his neck work overtime, like the words are dragging barbed wire up his throat. “Rhys, who is she?” He finally focuses on me, his eyes dark, glassy, and punctured with something I’ve never seen in him before.
“She’s my mom.”
Morning comes far too early, although none of us has truly slept. We just lay there half-awake, minds running laps we couldn’t slow down. Instead of waiting in the hotel lobby, we move to a cramped café across the road from the police station that smells like burnt espresso and buttered toast.
Spring sunshine pours through the street-facing windows in harsh, accusing streaks, lighting up every jittery movement and exhausted blink. The place is too bright, too normal for the mood we’re dragging around with us. Harper walks in the middle, her knuckles brushing mine like she’s checking I’m still here.
A waitress leads us to a booth near the back, where we can see the station doors through the glass but can pretend that those inside aren’t impatiently waiting for Harper’s statement. Rhys orders three breakfasts, and Harper quietly asks for a coffee. The steam curls around her face, softening the tension in her jaw, but her eyes stay locked on the wood grain of the table as if she’s memorizing it. I want to pull her into my side, but I’m not sure I trust myself to let go.
“The lawyer’s here,” Rhys nudges his head towards the doorway. Two men step inside, one being the sharp-suited professional Rhys called in when sleep wouldn’t come. The otheris a cheery-looking man, his brown suit bobbled and limp as if it’s been dragged from the back of a wardrobe. Upon their approach, he spots Harper and flies into an introduction with his hands. He’s the interpreter, I quickly realise, as Rhys and his lawyer share a few hushed words in the ruse of pulling over a few more chairs.
Last night, we decided, somewhat painfully and reluctantly, that Rhys’ revelation should wait until after Harper’s interview. Withholding information from her goes against everything I stand for and everything she hates. Being left out and lied to, being shielded from whispers happening behind her back. But the knowledge of whose house she was being held captive in would taint her recollection, her mind working overtime to play detective instead of getting the facts down quickly and cleanly. We want her in and out, so we can work on taking her far away from here.
Rhys rejoins the booth on her left, his posture tense and elbows braced on the table. His eyes flick to her face, just briefly enough to check she’s still with us mentally and physically, before dropping his chin onto his knotted fingers. After politely signing back to the interpreter, Harper returns to her coffee mug, blowing the steam and sipping slowly. I watch her shoulders rise and fall beneath the oversized hoodie she’s drowning in. One of mine, or rather one of the hoodies Rhys’ assistant purchased on my behalf. I half expect him to present me with a bill at some point, adding it to everything else I owe him.
Harper’s eyes track the lawyer as he pulls out a notepad, the interpreter positioning himself at an angle she can see clearly. My chest tightens at the helplessness of it all. I can’t go in there with her, can’t do anything to protect her from the trauma she’s about to relive. I can only sit and listen to the advice being given,my foot sliding across the floor beneath the table to intertwine with hers.
“You only answer what you’re asked. You don’t need to recount anything more than the essentials unless they specifically ask. You’re allowed breaks. You are not required to sit alone at any point,” the lawyer reels off.
Behind him, the interpreter repeats each word with a fluid sweep of his hands. Harper can lip-read better than most, yet her eyes lift to watch those hands move. Maybe she finds comfort in someone who’s able to communicate with her on her terms, as opposed to her being forced to accommodate a world only fit for the hearing. I look at my own hands, vowing to keep practising the sign language I’d started to learn. I’ll create a safe space modified for her needs, not the other way around.
“Okay,” Harper sighs softly, setting her cup down. “I can do that.” The relief that sweeps through me is short-lived as he keeps talking, evidently not even close to being finished.
“You’ll be asked to verbally confirm your identity, your understanding of why you’re here, and to walk them through the timeline of events leading to the call for help.” Glancing over his pre-written notes, he flips a page. “They’re focused on establishing the kidnapping, the location, the physical condition of the property, and any injuries sustained.” And the list goes on. Rhys releases a breath, though it comes out thin and rattled. I share the same sentiment. She’s going to be in there for hours. “They won’t press you about Kenneth just yet?—”
“How is he?” Harper interrupts to ask, perking up slightly. All of the men at the table share glances, unsure if they should answer. The lawyer clears his throat and closes his notepad.
“Stable,” he nods quickly and rises to stand. “Shall we?” He gestures to the door. I shift closer, letting my knee brush hers under the table and my hand clasping hers on top of it.
“We’ll be right here when you get back,” I tell her quietly, and despite her reading my lips, I catch the flurry of movement as the interpreter mirrors my words. Harper looks so small at this moment, helpless as she slides the coffee mug away and rises. Rhys steps out of her way, dragging her in for a quick hug before she leaves.
Head hanging low, Harper leaves the café with the small ding of the bell above the door, crossing the road like a lamb walking to the slaughter. The men flanking her sides stand tall, far more confident as they open the station doors for her. My hands ball beneath the table, nails biting into my palms. Across from me, Rhys watches her disappear, his jaw so tight a muscle twitches near his temple.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. We don’t need to offer base-level reassurances. We know she’ll be fine, she’ll come out swinging and telling us to stop fretting over her. The arrival of breakfast snaps us out of our trance, although I doubt I’ll eat. Rhys dusts his plate with salt and pepper, his posture steeling itself as he stabs a sausage with his fork.
“We need to have a plan sorted before she returns,” he says, straight to business. I’m glad for the lack of small talk.
