TW //
This chapter contains mentions of violence (some in reference to children - the fights) and drug abuse/addiction. I haven't posted a chapter summary because it's a bit long and I want to get it posted but let me know if you want one and I can draft it up. :)
Remember to take care of yourselves and that you're loved! I love you and I am proud of you! <3
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Chapter 56
"Harry," I mumbled, voice hoarse from the past few hours of disuse. Non-surprisingly, I got nothing in response. "Harry," I half-whined a little louder, attempting to wriggle around to face him. "Wake up."
His phone had been ringing off and on for the better part of an hour now, something he seemed not to have noticed. His arms were wrapped tightly around me, chest pressed firmly against my back. With every plea for him to get up and answer it, he merely hugged me tighter and nestled his face deeper in the crook of my neck.
"Harry," I tried again, reaching up to grip his arms. "Seriously–"
"What?" he groaned lowly, the sound emanating from deep in the back of his throat. His mouth pressed against my shoulder, trailing a path up to my jaw where he murmured, "Mm. Shut up. Go back to sleep."
"I can't, idiot," I found my eyes fluttering shut under the feeling of his voice against my skin. "Your fucking phone's going crazy."
Harry drew in a long breath, seemingly trying to wake himself up before his hold on me loosened. "My phone?" he questioned, still sounding half-asleep, his voice raspy. With one arm still around my waist, he rolled onto his back and reached for the device that had only just gone silent a few seconds prior. "How long's it been going off for?"
"Like an hour," I muttered, turning onto my side and attempting to lift myself onto a single elbow. Harry's hand closed over my hip and he yanked me back down. "Dude–"
"Shh," he whispered, the corner of his mouth curving into a grin as he scrolled through his phone. "Stay still. I'm concentrating." His fingers mindlessly started tracing circles in the skin of my waist as he pulled me against him, leaving me little room to argue when he clicked something on his screen and held the phone to his ear.
With a roll of my eyes, I just settled myself beside him, trying to quell the butterflies in my stomach that erupted when he hooked a single leg over my own – drawing me even closer if that was at all possible. Until we were practically tangled amidst one another. He'd turned onto his side now and was looking at me while his phone rang, his hand having slid up from my waist to just beneath my shoulders, where he was toying with a few strands of my hair.
"Yeah?" it was an effort not to jump when he barked the word through the receiver, his entire demeanour changing in a matter of seconds. The soft lines of his face hardened and the hushed, intimate tone he'd been talking to me with vanished completely. Still, his fingers remained gentle as they fumbled through the strands of my hair, dropping down moments later to run softly over my shoulder. "What's up? Why're you blowing my fuckin' phone up this early?"
A muffled voice spoke on the other end, rambling out rushed words that I couldn't quite catch. Whatever they said though caused Harry to still, the skin between his brows creasing momentarily before he abruptly slid his arm out from beneath me and sat up. He swallowed hard, barely even sending a glance in my direction before he got out of bed and stepped out of the room, pulling the door almost completely shut behind him.
Through the small crack he'd left open, I could hear him speaking in a whispered, urgent tone to the person on the other line. Could almost visualize the way he was probably pacing, running an anxious hand through his hair. That alone had a pit forming in my stomach and I sat up, hauling the comforter up to my chest, wondering if it had anything to do with the events of Saturday.
When he re-entered the room minutes later, I wasn't sure if he was going to tell me any of what the conversation had been about, until he paused at the foot of the bed, chewing on his inner cheek as he muttered, "Two of the security guys on our team are missing. They didn't check in after they were supposed to finish on Saturday and were no-shows for their shift this morning."
"They're..." the words caught in my throat. "Oh my god, they're missing?"
Harry nodded slowly; eyes downcast as he looked at his locked phone screen. "Happens sometimes. Someone probably trying to get intel on our warehouses or upcoming drops that they're looking to intercept or..." his voice trailed off and he lifted his gaze to meet mine, the unspoken remainder of his sentence clear in both of our heads.
Or trying to find me. The whole reason the security had been out on Saturday anyway. The last of his men that he'd been able to scrounge up to watch me during the day while he'd taken the rest of them with him to Morocco.
A nauseating thought crept into my head and I wondered just which security men were missing. Because a certain four of them happened to have the number to my burner phone, the number which Damien had so conveniently acquired the same night they'd disappeared.
"Are they dead?" I blurted. "I mean, are you going to have people looking for them? They wouldn't be held hostage anywhere, right–?"
The panic must have been evident in my tone because Harry braced a knee on the edge of the bed and leaned toward me, head angling to the side. "It's okay," he said softly, reaching up to cup my face where he drew his thumb back and forth over the length of my cheek. "I already have some guys out looking for them, but they're trained for this. They're trained to be able to withstand any interrogations or potential–"
"Right," I cut him off, feeling my stomach turn over. The last thing I wanted to think about was any of those poor men getting tortured on my behalf. Or worse, dead because Damien had gotten what he wanted and disposed of them.
I needed to talk to Morgan and soon. I couldn't keep this to myself. It wasn't for sure that their disappearance was linked to me, but I needed to know just how paranoid I was in thinking that maybe it was.
"Hey," Harry's voice was gentle. It wasn't until he dropped his hand from my face and shuffled himself forward, to occupy a space beside me, that I realized I was shaking. "You're okay," he murmured, tugging the comforter off me to reveal only his shirt that I was wearing. He hooked an arm under one of my knees and carefully pulled me toward him – until I was in his lap facing him. His hands found my wrists, which he slowly placed on either of his shoulders before he trailed his palms down the length of my arms and smoothed them up my back, where he began reassuringly rubbing them up and down. "You're okay," he said again, leaning forward to softly kiss one side of my jaw and then the other. "It's okay. You're safe."
"It's okay," I repeated shakily, trying to convince myself. My arms slid around his neck. "Everything's gonna be okay."
My heart broke at the fact that Harry obviously thought my anxiety was surrounding my own mortality, that I had been scared because I was worried about my own death when in reality it was the death that I may or may not have been the inadvertent cause of. The death that I so badly wanted to be honest with him about.
I wasn't sure how long the two of us stayed like that. Me in Harry's lap, his hands having slipped underneath my shirt to run up and down the length of my bare back, his face close to mine – chin rested once more in the crook of my neck, but I knew that it wasn't just for me. That whatever was happening was to reassure the both of us, whether he'd ever be willing to admit that outright or not.
After what felt like an eternity, he whispered in my ear, "Feel like going to work today?"
My heart sunk a fraction. I knew that I should. I'd already missed a few days this month but with everything that had gone on, everything that was going on, I found myself mumbling, "Not really," only to immediately follow it up with a wince – worried for some reason at how Harry would react. If he'd think I was being lazy and stupid for staying home from the studio when I'd already told him before that we didn't do the best profit-wise to begin with.
"Good," was the surprising response I got when Harry pulled back to look at me. "I have plans for us."
"Plans?" I furrowed my brows. "What kind of plans?"
For a beat, he looked a bit apprehensive, before shrugging a single shoulder and mumbling, "Plans."
"Hmm," I hummed, narrowing my eyes, a smile creeping onto my face. "Interesting."
"Interesting?" Harry raised a brow, looking amused. "Why's it fuckin' interesting?"
"Because it's you," I shot back with a breathy chuckle. "Your idea of plans far differs from mine."
"Ah, but how would you know that? When have you ever just willingly gone and done something with me?"
I opened my mouth, ready to retort something, only to find myself closing it moments later. He was right. When had I ever willingly gone and done something with him simply because he'd asked? Something that he'd chosen for us to do himself?
"Okay, but whatever your plans are, they need to end before–"
"Before 6," he rolled his eyes, "Yeah, yeah, cause you've got your bloody paint class with all of those old gossips today. Right," his gaze met mine, amused. "I know."
My grin widened and I had to glance toward the ceiling to stop myself from looking like an idiot at the fact that I was so weirdly happy that he'd both remembered my paint class and seemed to know that, even though I wasn't going to the studio today, I couldn't let these poor women down.
Only my plan was quickly thwarted when Harry's hand closed around my chin and he gently brought my face back down toward his. "Don't," he said, suddenly serious, gaze dancing from my eyes to my lips. "Don't do that." He gently dragged his thumb over my mouth. "I like seeing you smile. Especially when it's because of me."
My heart skipped a beat. For a moment, I wasn't sure what to do other than just stare at him, before I allowed myself to fall victim to how I truly felt under his gaze. My grin reappeared, wider this time, heating my face in the process. Harry's own smile materialized on his face, deepening with each passing second, a dimple popping out on his cheek when I suddenly began to laugh. Until we were both laughing, staring at one another.
"There she is," Harry murmured a beat later, voice hoarse. He caught me completely by surprise when he leaned forward, our eyes fluttering shut at the very same moment when his lips landed on mine. His hand was still on my chin and it slid down to cup my jaw, tipping me up toward him. "Sweet girl," he mumbled into my mouth, "La mia bella ragazza."
"You know," I found myself saying, trying and failing to stay composed under his gaze when he pulled back. Trying not to focus on how he was quite literally staring at me. Feeling my face heat once more, I turned to look toward the windows, but Harry's fingers closed once more around my chin – pulling me back to face him while I finished speaking. "I'm going to learn a language just to spite you. And I'm going to talk in it all the time so that you have no idea what the fuck I'm saying."
Harry dropped his fingers from my chin, leaning back on both of his palms, looking slightly amused. "Yeah?"
"I..." my earlier confidence had left me considering how he was looking at me with such utter entertainment. "Yes. Yeah."
He angled his head to the side. "Mm, and what language were you thinking?" He paused. "Because I speak around seven."
"Jesus, seven?" I sputtered, shifting in his lap. "Who the fuck has time to learn seven languages?"
Harry shrugged. "Me," he ran his tongue along his inner cheek. "And if you pick one that I don't know, I'll go out of my way to learn it just to spite you."
"Great," I rolled my eyes. "More languages for us to fight in."
It took everything in me not to fall right backwards onto the mattress when Harry suddenly sat straight up, placing his hands flat against my back and pulled me close to him, so that he could whisper huskily in my ear, "More languages for me to tell you how good you are," the words vibrated against my skin, "More languages for me to tell you exactly what I wanna do to you. Would you like that, hm?" Before I had the chance to answer, he drew back to look at me. "How do you feel this morning, by the way?"
"A little sore," I admitted, feeling my cheeks pink. "But other than that, I'm fine."
Harry's hands slid to my waist, where he gave a gentle squeeze. "Your ass is sore?" he clarified.
I nodded, twisting in his hold to pull down the hem of his boxers that I'd chosen to sleep in. He'd tried to bargain for me to sleep without pants at all, but I refused. "Yeah, just a bit though. Probably bruised–" my words were cut off abruptly, eyes widening at what I beheld below the material. "Oh my fucking god."
"What?" Harry furrowed his brows, leaning forward to catch a glance at what I was seeing.
Before he had a chance to catch sight of it, I was whirling back around and snatching his wrists, holding his hands – palms extended toward the sky – before me. "How the hell," I muttered, tracing my fingers down to his rings, "did you manage to imprint an H and an S into my ass cheek when your rings are facing the other fucking way?"
"What–?" Harry choked out a laugh, his face lighting. "Are you fuckin' kidding?" he dropped his hands to my waist, attempting to twist me around. "Lemme see–"
"You asshole! You did that on purpose!" I laughed, mouth parting in disbelief, grinding my hips to hold me steady and refusing to budge. Harry hissed at the contact, a small noise leaving his throat and I relented at the sound of it, worried for a split second that I'd hurt him.
He, unfortunately, took this small moment of guilt as his opportunity to tighten his hold on my hips and suddenly spin me around, pinning me to the mattress beneath him. "Watch it," he threatened with a breathy laugh, slightly amused, pupils dilating when they met mine. "Don't start something you don't want finished." His hands left my hips to loop in the hem of the boxers I was wearing. "And I'll have you know," he went on, yanking them down, "that I did no such thing on purpose."
A small yelp paired with a laugh left me when he flipped me onto my stomach, pulling the boxers completely down to my knees.
He was silent for a moment, his wordless inspection of the skin he'd quite literally branded the night before sending a flutter of butterflies through me. It was an effort not to shiver when I felt his knuckle graze the bruise. "Well, would you fuckin' look at that," he managed, voice a little strained. He braced a knee between my legs, spreading them apart a fraction as he leaned down to cover my body with his, fisting a hand gently in my hair as he murmured, "My initials right where they should be. You wanna know what that means?"
My breath caught in my throat, another sharp laugh escaping me. "That you're an asshole?"
His fingers tightened in my hair, voice low and hoarse as he softly – menacingly – said against the shell of my ear, "It means you're mine."
Suddenly it was difficult to breathe at all and I swallowed hard, grateful I was face down so that he couldn't see me. Though it seems that I spoke too soon because moments later his hand left my hair, smoothing down my spine once more, before he spun me onto my back, the grin on his face so full of sick satisfaction that it only sent my heartrate increasing tenfold.
"You should warn a girl," it took everything in me to roll my eyes – to act like I wasn't seconds away from asking him to tie me up again and fuck me until I could no longer walk, "before you brand her like cattle."
The laugh from Harry that came next almost threw out the window every single negative and worrying thought I'd had this morning. It was so bright, so full of sunshine. He helped to shimmy my boxers back up before he tapped my hips a few times with his thumbs and shook his head, mumbling, "Like fucking cattle... As if your heart isn't going crazy right now and your cheeks aren't as pink as your ass." Before I could cut in, absolutely appalled at how easily he'd read me, he went on, "and for the record, these things–" he held up a single hand, twirling his 'H' ring around a single finger, "–are always fuckin' moving around. It was an accident but..." he trailed off, that same Cheshire grin near splitting his face in two as he angled his head to the side, "If you want me to do it again, I'd be more than fuckin' willing."
"Not necessary. I believe you," I shot back with a grin the same size as his own. "For now."
"For now," Harry mocked, bracing another knee between my legs. He crawled forward until he was hovering over top of me. He was still grinning as he teasingly said, "Getting on my last fuckin' nerve, ya know that? Maybe I'll have to show you what it feels like if I had been trying to mark you; if putting my initials on that lovely ass of yours was my intention all along–"
"Guess we're forgoing those plans then?" I asked innocently, cocking my head to the side. "The mysterious plans of yours that I've been wondering about since the second you brought them up?"
"Well, I can't leave you hanging, can I?" he said sarcastically with a shake of his head. "Not if it's all you've been thinking about." He grabbed both of my wrists in a single hand, lifting them above my head as he leaned down, giving my lips a swift peck. All of the kissing, the intimacy outside of sex was making me dizzy, but I couldn't say I wasn't thoroughly revelling in it – even if it wouldn't last long. His eyes met mine and they darkened slightly as he swallowed hard, voice a little hoarse as he added, "But you do have about five fuckin' seconds to get out of this bed and into the shower before I lock that door and do many, many very bad fucking things to you, Riv, that will have us going absolutely nowhere for the next week."
His hold on my wrists loosened and as much as I wanted to take him up on that offer – I more wanted to see what these plans of his were going to consist of today which was why I found myself shuffling out from beneath him, glancing back only once on my way out the door toward the bathroom to see him fall onto his back onto the mattress with a small groan, as I called out, "I'm gonna hold you to that promise, pretty boy, so be ready for when I call it in."
--
"Fuckin' fastest I've ever seen you get ready," Harry was muttering to me less than a half-hour later as he held the door of his Maserati open for me to slip inside.
We'd both already showered, fed Meatloaf and eaten breakfast. He'd made himself some eggs, toast and fruit and put together for me a plate of waffles, fruit and a lovely side of vitamins – which he wouldn't allow me to get up from the stool until I'd swallowed with a nice glass of orange juice.
I waited until Harry had shut the passenger side door and slid into the driver's seat to respond with a grin, "Well, we have plans. Can't be late for them. It would be very impolite."
"Mm," Harry seemed amused. He glanced over at me as he started the car. "Maybe I should tell you we have secret plans every day to get you out of here at a half-decent fucking hour."
"Yeah, but then it will lose its appeal," I countered, chewing on my bottom lip. "Only good for a limited amount of time."
Harry rolled his eyes, bracing a hand on the headrest behind me as he backed out of his parking spot. His gaze met mine and his entertained expression faltered for a split second. "Listen," he breathed once we'd pulled out of the garage. "These – they're not like... super fun plans or anything." He shrugged a single shoulder, drumming a finger on the steering wheel. "Not like any exciting shit you'd come up with. So..." he seemed almost embarrassed for a split second, "I wouldn't get your hopes up or anything."
For a moment, I just kept my eyes on the side of his face, noting the nervous way he chewed on his inner cheek. Only once he'd unlocked the gates and brought us out onto the road did I quietly say, "I'll like whatever we do. Just glad you want to willingly spend time with me."
He glanced in my direction, an expression I couldn't really make out on his face. His palm ran up and down the steering wheel a few times before he suddenly reached it toward me, closing his hand around my thigh, where he gave a small squeeze. "C'mon," he said. "Let's see what you've added to the playlist since the last time. God knows there were a million new songs on there when I shuffled it on the plane."
"You listened to it on the plane?" I asked, slightly ecstatic, and scrambled to connect my phone to the Bluetooth.
"I did, yeah," he said a little sheepishly, scrunching up his nose. "And..." he scratched the back of his head with his free hand before returning it to the wheel, "you were right. Helped to listen to music while the plane was landing and taking off, didn't make it as..." he trailed off, now for sure looking embarrassed.
"I get it," I nodded, having to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep the amused smile that was threatening to overtake my face at bay. This man and humanizing himself, I swear. I'd forgotten I'd told him he should try listening to music to distract himself when we were flying back from Italy.
I shuffled the playlist, trying to keep my heart rate level, as Harry began massaging his fingers against my inner thigh. For the majority of the ride, I didn't allow myself to think about where we could be going or what we'd be doing. I didn't allow myself that anxiety, mainly because Harry seemed nervous enough as it was – or at least as nervous as this man ever got – and I wasn't about to drain the only ounce of normalcy left in the car.
We chatted about Meatloaf, about how weirdly well she'd been adjusting to Harry's place, I hounded him once more about giving me a title to some of the audiobooks he'd been listening to – to which he'd only given half a sigh this time and said he'd see, which was as far as I'd gotten any other time, something that pleased me to no end. The rest of the stuff that we talked about was all in relation to my paint class, what I would be teaching them tonight and details about how long I'd been doing it for, if I liked it etcetera.
By the time we arrived at our destination, I wasn't entirely sure how much time had passed nor was that at all what I was focused on when Harry pulled the car into park on the side of the road. He drew in a deep breath before turning to me and quietly saying, "We're here."
Here seemed to be quite literally the middle of nowhere. He'd parked up beside a field on a deserted street that spanned for miles and miles, the last car we'd passed having been ages ago when we were still in the heart of the city.
"Here..." I repeated, glancing outside. "Well, this is it, isn't it?" I half-teased, turning back to face him. "This is where you finally kill me." Harry managed a small laugh but the expression on his face had me suddenly reeling the joking back in, my heart sinking at how nervous he looked. "Hey," ducking my head to meet his gaze. "I was just kidding. Let's go see what 'here' is, yeah?"
Harry only nodded, face void of any amusement he'd driven here with. He reached over, popping his door open and the gravel outside crunched beneath him as he stepped onto it. He was busy staring out at the field when I opened my own door and carefully made my way over to his side.
"It's..." I chewed on my lip. "Big. A nice big field."
A short laugh left him, and he was shaking his head when I glanced over. "It is, yeah."
When Harry reached up to drag a hand through his hair, my heart leapt into my throat to see that he was shaking. "Do you need a smoke?" I blurted, immediately trying to recall when the last one he'd had was. I'd caught him a few times reeking of it in the days after our fight on Saturday, when he'd been distant. I don't think he'd had one at all today.
"No, I–" Harry shook his head, looking down at me. "'M trying to quit."
"You're trying to quit smoking?" I clarified, wide-eyed.
"Don't sound so fuckin' shocked," Harry rolled his eyes with a breathy laugh. "You're the one who kept telling me it was bad." Our arms brushed against one another, his pinky nudging mine moments later.
"Okay, yeah, but I never actually expect someone to listen when I say that," I responded with a laugh of my own, instinctively looping my pinky through his.
Harry was silent for a moment. "I always listen to you, Riv."
He was no longer looking at me when I glanced in his direction and I allowed us to stand in a few seconds of solemn silence, before I carefully and softly said, "And I try my best to listen to you." I gave his pinky a small squeeze. "Wanna tell me why our plans consist of driving all the way out of the city to a big, uninhabited field? Seems a little random if you don't plan on burying my body here."
My lame attempt at a joke didn't strike true. Harry was busy still staring at the field – or rather, the ditch right in front of us, it seemed. "I'm not..." his voice was a bit strained, "super great at any of this. Haven't really told anybody a lot of shit that went on before I started work in the cartel."
The world seemed to slow for a moment and I instinctively stiffened. So that's why we were here. To talk. About him – about his past, it seemed. That was quite literally the last thing I'd expected to be doing today.
"You don't have to tell me anything, Harry," I found myself saying. "Not if you don't want to."
"I do," he responded quickly, turning to look at me. "I do, I promise. I wouldn't have brought it up if I didn't want to."
For a prolonged second, I wasn't sure what to say. Instead, I let go of his pinky and slid my hand fully into his, looping our fingers together. "Then go at your pace," I assured him softly. "We've got all the time in the world."
"Until your paint class at 6," Harry laughed, giving my hand a squeeze.
"Right, yeah," I laughed along with him, taking a few cautious steps forward beside him when he began to walk. "All the time in the world until then. But we can always tell 'em to go suck it if we need to."
"Yeah?" Harry raised a brow. "I'd like to fuckin' see you do that."
"You have no faith in me if you don't think I will," I gave his hand a squeeze back.
The two of us walked alongside one another in silence. Maybe minutes, maybe a full hour had passed, when Harry finally quietly said, "So you know I used to fight 'n shit, right? At those events?"
I nodded slowly. "I do." The last time we'd actually spoken about it head-on had been when he was drunk all that time ago after one of those very events that I'd gone and dragged myself to – something that had been a very poor, poor decision on my part. One I was still regretting to this day, having completely underestimated the severity of the very line of work Harry was involved in.
"Started doing it when I was 15," Harry said, running his thumb along the back of my hand. "Met Damien a bit before that. Think I was like 13 or 14." It was hard to quell the nausea in my stomach at his words, but I nodded, nonetheless. "I used to get in a shit ton of fights at my foster homes. Moved between a couple of them because I was always causing shit. None of the kids there liked me much, to begin with, they used to have so much fucking fun causing shit because I liked to draw – because I liked art and I wasn't very good at anything else."
"God," a flutter of rage overcame me. "What's with kids and wanting to pick on others because of the things they like to do?"
Harry ran his tongue along his inner cheek, huffing out a small laugh before he gave my hand a squeeze. "It wasn't just that. They'd pick on me because according to them, I was stupid. I wasn't able to do things at the same level they were. Read, write..." He paused. "I didn't go to school a lot for that reason, used to skip all the time because it just seemed harder than it was worth, and I'd get bullied for doing the shit I actually did like to do. I didn't realize until I was a bit older that it wasn't because I didn't understand reading and writing as well as other kids but that I physically couldn't do it." He cleared his throat, glancing over at me. "I'm dyslexic. Not a huge deal but enough that I struggled when I was younger and other kids picked on me for it."
The big font of his phone, him listening to audiobooks, making snarky comments about how painting and poetry shouldn't mix suddenly all made sense. And I immediately felt a pang of guilt for having ever commented on it.
Harry went on, "Anyway, eventually I started fighting the kids who were mean to me. I got really good at it, realized it would shut them up. When I got a bit older, it worked to scare them into giving me things like smokes and money." He winced as if remembering this was embarrassing to him. "It was shitty. I know it was shitty but–"
"It's not like you really had any other way to defend yourself," I gave his hand a squeeze.
He took a deep breath before continuing. "I guess one night I'd cornered one of the guys who was shouting shit at me into an alley and we really got into it. I don't entirely remember what happened but the two of us ended up in the back of a squad car, both refusing to tell the cops where we were from. We were driven to the police station where they called around all night trying to figure out where we belonged."
"The person that came to pick me up that night wasn't anyone from the foster home," Harry went on. "He was some fuckin' big ass guy in a black suit who ushered me into his car and drove me far, far away from where I was supposed to be heading back to. Don't know why none of the police ever checked him out – not sure if they even cared. He ended up dropping me at one of Damien's warehouses where, low and behold, I met the guy for the first time." A small pause. "He was scary. Scared the shit out of me when I first saw him. But he was also... weirdly nice. Calming. He told me that the fight – none of the fights I'd been in – were my fault. I guess he'd been watching me or something..." Harry scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. "Said I had potential. I didn't know what that meant at the time, but I was some angry, annoyed kid who'd never been told that before, so I was obviously interested."
I was trying my hardest not to let on that I was shaking and instead began to draw my thumb up and down the length of Harry's hand to distract myself – to distract us both like he'd been doing for me.
"He basically said he could make me rich. That if I wanted to make fighting my living, he could make it happen for me," Harry shook his head. "I was a kid, you know? It seemed like a great idea at the time. Looking back at it, I agreed way too fucking quickly, but all I knew was that I had a lot of anger I needed to get out and fighting the kids at the foster home wasn't cutting it."
I found myself nodding, giving his hand another squeeze.
"Damien promised that I'd get paid, that I'd get my own place and that he'd get me out of the foster home as soon as I turned 18. He just said I had to promise to go with him whenever he turned up to take me." He cleared his throat again. "The first fight he brought me to was a bit of a blur. It was the first time I'd ever killed someone. It was... five days after my fifteenth birthday. Or, at least, what I think was my birthday." Another moment of hesitation followed by a humourless laugh. "Don't know that either. They were honest with me at the foster home that because I'd been dropped off as a baby, they weren't entirely sure about my age or the day I was born. They were just guessing and gave me a random date."
It took everything in me not to make a noise at this revelation, to keep myself steady – needing to remain grounded for his sake. I nodded again.
"Sorry," Harry suddenly said, turning to face me. He pulled us to a stop. We'd been walking very slowly and had made it a few hundred feet from the car. "This is... a fuckin' lot, right? Need me to stop? Is it too much–?"
"No," I assured him quickly. "No. It's not too much. You're okay. Keep going."
Harry nodded, turning back toward the gravel where he began his slow pace once more. "When I realized what the fights were... what the kind of fighting was that I was supposed to be doing, I told Damien I didn't want anything to do with it. I'd thrown up nearly every day of the week following my first one just–" Harry's expression hardened, "–thinking about that fucking kid. Thinking about what it was like to watch him die in front of me. Damien, of course, refused. He said I was the best he'd seen in a while and that I would apparently get used to it the more fights I did." He shook his head. "When I told him that I wouldn't, that there was no way in hell I'd ever be able to become okay with doing that shit, he offered me a new kind of deal. One he 'didn't give to everyone'."
A pit formed in my stomach. Harry's eyes flickered with some unnamed emotion.
"I was fuckin' 15 when Damien started loading me with opioids before every fight. It was that and then it was coke, MDMA, any crushed up fucking pills he could find," Harry had pulled us to a stop now and was staring down at the ground. "But I loved it. Because I was so young and they got me so fucking high... so high that I couldn't ever remember anything. Nothing. I didn't remember any part of the fights."
"Oh my god," I blurted, my frown so deep it was hurting my face. "Harry, Jesus Christ. That's awful."
Another short laugh left him. "It was only awful once I got addicted. When I ended up spending most of the money I made on the fights on more fucking drugs."
"That wasn't your fault," I assured him, giving his hand another squeeze. "None of what happened was."
"It felt like it," Harry's tone was clipped. He was staring out at the field. "They used to drop me here. After every fight," a slight pause. "The first time they did it, I guess, was when I'd had a fucking breakdown after one of the events and told Damien I wanted out. I killed five of his men who tried to stop me from getting to him. I was like 16 or something at the time and the worst part was that I don't even... I don't even remember doing it. They started dropping me here so that I had time to cool off before I made it back to the foster home except... I never had any fucking clue where I was. So I just blindly used to walk miles and miles until someone took enough pity on me to let me in their car and drive me to the foster home. Pretty hard to find someone willing though when you're a teenage kid covered in blood," Harry's hand had dropped from mine and he was anxiously rubbing his arms up and down. "And that was what fucking got me. That was the worst part. I'd wake up covered in it. Never knowing if it was mine or someone else's. I never knew what I'd done or what other people had done to me while I was high and blacked out and I fucking hated it. I hated the feeling of even having to touch my own skin knowing what I was doing, let alone have someone else touch me. I felt like I didn't belong in my own fucking body."
"I'm sorry," my voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm so sorry, Harry."
He simply blinked a few times, gaze now somewhere over my shoulder. "Damien did keep his end of the bargain though. He got me out of the foster home when I was 18, paid me all of the money he'd withheld until then." Harry swallowed hard again. "I told him again that I wanted out. At this point, I was an 18-year old addict who had no future anyway. Seemed the least he could do was kill me if he decided against it. The fighting was only for kids, so he agreed but... he had another proposition for me. And I wasn't stupid enough to believe he'd let me walk away for good anyway. Not with everything I knew at this point. He said he'd seen some of the art I'd done, I guess at the foster home or whatever – I stopped doing it when I got into fighting, but he told me he was willing to make me a deal. That he was trying to gather new clients for shit that he was selling but his current fronts were making too much."
"He told me he was planning on opening a tattoo shop and that he'd love if I was the front runner for it," Harry's eyes were distant when they landed on mine. "He told me that it would be mine. I'd work there, front as a tattoo artist and could sell as much as I wanted, make as much as I wanted – provided I give him a profit – and step away from the fighting, the rings completely. I could have my own independence." He kicked at a stone by his foot. "I didn't know how to fucking tattoo, barely even knew how to write my own name, but I agreed without a second thought. Picked up the rest along the way."
"So, you just taught yourself?" I asked a little quietly. "To tattoo?"
Harry nodded once more. "Kept me busy. Was all I had, really. Damien knew exactly what he was fucking doing by giving me the cartel. I was selling shit I was addicted to. I don't think he figured it would last long and he probably planned to cut me out once everything got up and running. He just needed someone there to start it. Which was why I made the decision myself to get clean," his hands paused their incessant rubbing of his arms, "and god was that ever fucking hard. I relapsed like four fuckin' times and couldn't stand to be within a hundred feet of any of the warehouses where the shit was being packaged. It took me close to two years to fully get off it all."
"That's..." I reached out to grab his arm, sliding my hand up to his shoulder. "Harry, that's huge. I'm so proud of you. So, so proud of you."
Harry shrugged, glancing sheepishly toward the sky. "It's not a big deal. I was–"
"It is a big deal," I said, hating to cut him off but needing him to understand the magnitude of what he'd done. "Seriously," I doubted anyone had ever told him. "Not many people are strong enough to do that and you deserve a lot of credit." I gave his shoulder a squeeze.
We'd come to another stop, now facing one another. Harry's eyes roamed the length of my face and he angled his head to the side, reaching up to gently close his hand around my wrist before sliding it up to cover my hand which still rested on his shoulder. He knitted his fingers through mine.
"I didn't mean to come out here just to ruin your day," he said gently with a small laugh. "Was gonna start off slow. Ease into it–"
"When have you have eased into anything?" I found a grin appearing on my face, despite the circumstances, and my heart jumped when a smile crept onto Harry's own mouth as well.
"Very true," he nodded, reaching up with his other hand to toy briefly with the bottom of my hair before tucking a strand behind my ear. "Very true," he was silent for a moment, eyes locked wholly on mine, before he blew out a breath and said, "I... It's been over a decade since all of this shit started and... you're one of the first people that I'm telling everything to. One of the first people I feel comfortable enough to share this with."
"Thank you," I said softly. "Thank you for trusting me with it."
"I want you to know," Harry went on, taking a small step forward, "that whatever's going on with you, whatever you're working through – you don't have to tell me right away, okay? I didn't quite... have this reaction a few days ago because I was so mad, so upset but then I realized–" he shook his head, "It's taken me fucking years to be able to voice some of this shit. I'd be hypocritical to try and force out of you something that was obviously traumatic when I took so long to do the same."
Every part of me hurt at this admission. He was being so kind. So attentive to what had been plaguing my nightmares, thinking that whatever I was withholding was because I physically couldn't stand to talk about it, not because I didn't want to. It had me suddenly just wanting to open my mouth and explain everything that had gone on.
And I would, I resolved. Not right at this moment, when it had obviously taken a lot out of him today to even admit these parts of his past, which I was so proud of him for doing, but after I'd spoken with Morgan and when we could all sit down together and figure out our next steps. Part of me still wanted to clarify with him just what kind of work he'd been doing in Morocco, and I hoped that he'd want to tell me, with how honest he was being with everything else.
"Thank you," I found myself repeating, more quietly this time. Everything I'd wanted to say, everything I'd even entertained the idea of saying aloud, now seemed wrong. Silence – acceptance, was all I could offer him at this point. Support. My hand dropped from his shoulder to rest on his chest and Harry's breathing faltered for only a moment – his gaze dropping to where my fingers were splayed over the material of his shirt.
With every bit of caution left in me, I slid my hand around to his back – gently, exploratively, extra careful to gauge his reaction with every movement. When he did nothing but continue to stare at my arm, which was now completely draped around his waist, I did the same with my other hand, stepping forward until we were flush against one another and wrapped that next arm around him, looping my hands together behind his waist.
"Is this okay?" I asked quietly. So quietly I wasn't even sure he heard me.
Harry nodded slowly, his voice strained as he responded, "Uh, yeah. It's fine."
Then his arms found their way around my back, one hand resting low on my waist, the other snaking up the length of my spine to cup the back of my neck which he used to pull me completely into his hold.
Until we were hugging.
And I could have sworn it was the most blissful moment of my existence.
"You're still okay?" I clarified, my voice just as hoarse as his.
I could feel Harry nod, his chin on the top of my head now.
"I'm proud of you," I whispered against the material of his shirt, feeling his body sag a bit in my hold. "So very proud of you."
This was different than anything else we'd ever done before. Yes, he'd let me close to him in the morning, he'd held me back the night of the fight, he'd let me touch him during sex, but it had all been at his discretion. Under his guidance, with him more so covering me than allowing an equal balance between the two of us. I wasn't sure, in this moment, if he'd ever been hugged at all.
"Am I taking your hug virginity?" I stupidly – so fucking stupidly found myself blurting.
Harry's chest rumbled with a deep laugh, one that brightened up every last nerve in my body. He held me closer, pulling back only enough to place a kiss to the top of my head, where he murmured, "You most certainly are, weirdo. Is that a kink for you or something?"
"Maybe," I shrugged, nestling my head against his chest. "Wanna know something?"
"Mm?"
"I happen to quite like these mystery plans of yours and I think we should do them more often."
"Ah, you want to make re-hashing my trauma a daily thing?"
My heart just about stopped dead. I scrambled to pull away from him, wanting to look him in the eye as I clarified, "What? No! That isn't what I meant–"
Harry refused to let me go, closing his arms tighter around me. "I'm joking, you moron," he teased. "Trying to pull away already? Figured you'd at least try to make it last a bit longer since it's my virginity you're taking and all. You'd wanna make it memorable."
"You're actually insufferable," I breathed against his chest, refusing to admit that I happened to like the fact that he wouldn't let me go.
"Wanna know what I think?" Harry asked, his hand stroking the length of my back.
"I'm sure you're going to tell me whether or not I say yes anyway."
"Smart girl," he shot back. A yelp left me when he suddenly let his arms fall from around my waist, leaning down in one swift movement to haul me over his shoulder.
"Harry, oh my god–"
"I think," he continued, starting his way back toward the car with a firm grip on my waist, "that it's time for us to get some food and for me to show up some old fuckin' ladies at a painting class, how's that sound?"
"It isn't a competition," I grumbled while trying to catch my breath, refusing to dwell on his sudden shift in energy, how I was currently tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes or that he'd just insinuated he was going to sit in on my paint class. "There are no winners or losers."
I could practically hear Harry grinning as he responded, "Everything's a competition if you make it one, Riv, and today? I'm in the mood to fuckin' win."
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a/n: ah the lovely dark harry trauma! </3 anyway love you so so so very much, thank you so much for 850k wtf???? insanity