Chapter 6: Old Ties, New Wounds

Carter apologized to me.

His cocky mask slipped, replaced by a sweaty, nervous grin. He shuffled his feet, glancing between me and Derek like a kid caught cheating on a test.

He said reluctantly, "Ms. Wells, guess I was punching way above my weight. I swear, I won’t bother you again."

As he said it, he glanced nervously at Derek.

The latter lifted his eyelids, looking back in silence.

Derek’s stare was icy, unreadable. Carter withered under it, his usual bravado shriveling. You could practically hear the gulp in his throat.

Carter’s face turned pale, miserable: "Uh... Mr. Langford?"—like a kid caught by the principal. "I really didn’t know she was your woman. Otherwise, even if you gave me ten times the guts, I wouldn’t dare touch her."

I coughed lightly, clarifying: "I was, but now we’ve already gone our separate ways."

I tried to keep my voice steady, my hands folded tight in my lap. It was the truth, but I didn’t like the way it sounded in the open air.

Derek glanced at me, saying nothing. After a while, he turned his head coldly: "Still not leaving?"

Carter slunk away.

He all but ran, scurrying across the parking lot like a scolded child. As Carter’s taillights faded, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The parking lot felt bigger—emptier.

The temperature in the car seemed to drop lower and lower. I couldn’t help but shiver.

The Tesla’s leather seats were cold against my bare arms. I pulled Derek’s jacket tighter, breathing in the sharp, woodsy scent.

Derek casually pulled off his jacket and tossed it onto me.

It landed across my shoulders, heavy and warm. I caught the faint scent of his cologne—something sharp, expensive, familiar. I remembered a dozen other nights, sitting in his car, borrowing his jacket while pretending I didn’t care.

I had dressed lightly today, wearing a camisole because of the heat. Derek never liked me wearing anything that showed my arms or legs. He had a kind of obsessive possessiveness over my body.

I remembered the way his gaze would linger, the way he’d pull at my sleeves, his mouth twisting in irritation if I wore anything too revealing. Sometimes it felt sweet; other times, stifling.

In my memory, his cool fingers would press against my skin, inch by inch, his voice low and tight:

"Here, here—and here."

That slender finger would suddenly curl, and I’d let out a low whimper.

He’d speak slowly: "All mine. Not allowed to let others see, and even less allowed to let others touch."

"Whoever touches, pays."

......

I coughed lightly. "Then I... should leave too?"

My voice was thin, uncertain. I twisted the hem of Derek’s jacket in my fingers, not quite meeting his eyes.

Derek’s long lashes drooped, as if he hadn’t heard me. After a while, he looked at me calmly: "Where do you live? I’ll take you home."

His tone was softer now, almost gentle. The offer hung in the air between us, tempting and dangerous.

I waved my hand. "No need, I’ll just take the subway back. It’s convenient."

My words felt flimsy. The idea of sitting next to him in silence for twenty minutes was almost worse than braving the late-night train alone.

Derek was silent for a moment, then sneered slightly: "Afraid of me?"

He cocked an eyebrow, lips curled in a half-smile. There was a challenge there, like he wanted to see if I’d flinch.

I was stunned, and he mocked: "I’m not Carter. I wouldn’t lay a hand on a married woman."

The words stung, even though I knew he meant them as reassurance. For a second, I almost wished he’d lie.