Promised (One Night 1)

I draw my discarded knickers up my thighs, pick up my shoes and bag from the floor and walk out of his bedroom, knowing that this time I’ll be able to leave. And I do. The evident contempt that he feels makes me turn the handle of the door with ease, and I’m on my way down the corridor to the stairwell, my bare feet dragging the floor along with my fallen heart.

‘Please don’t go. I’m sorry for shouting at you.’

His soft voice halts me mid-step and rips my breaking heart from my chest. ‘Don’t feel obligated, Miller.’

‘Obligated?’

‘Yes, obligated,’ I say, starting down the steps again. Miller feeling guilty over his violent reaction isn’t what I need, nor is sympathy. I’m not sure what the happy medium is of those two, but acceptance and understanding might help. It’ll be more than I allow myself.

‘Livy!’ I can hear his bare feet coming after me, and when he lands in front of me, I mildly register that he’s wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts. ‘I’m not sure how many times I have to tell you,’ he grinds. ‘When I’m talking to you, you look at me.’

He’s saying that because he doesn’t know what else to say. ‘And what will you say if I do look at you?’ I ask, because I don’t need to see disgust or guilt or sympathy.

‘If you look at me, you’ll find out.’ He hunkers down to get in the field of my dropped vision, prompting me to glance up. I find his beautiful face completely expressionless, and while I usually find this frustrating, right now I’m relieved because with no expression, there is no contempt or any of the other emotions that I don’t want to see. ‘You’re still my habit, Livy. Don’t ask me to give you up.’

‘You’re disgusted with me,’ I whisper, forcing my voice to remain steady. I don’t want to cry on him again.

‘I’m disgusted with myself.’ He tentatively lifts his hand and seeks out my nape, watching me closely for any signs of denial. I won’t deny him. I’ll never deny him. I know my face must be as hard to read as his right now, and that is because I’m not sure what I’m feeling. Part of me is relieved; a huge part is still ashamed and another part, the biggest part of all, is acknowledging what Miller Hart means to me.

Comfort.

Refuge.

Love.

I’ve fallen. This beautiful man fills me with far more comfort and offers far more refuge than my life strategies ever have. When he’s not scorning me or reminding me of my manners, he’s overdosing me with adoration, but even the irritating parts of him are stupidly comforting. I’m as much in love with the fake gentleman as I am with the attentive lover. I love him – all of him.

His lips twitch at the corners, but it’s nerves. I can tell that much. ‘I hate the thought of you like that. You should never have been put in that situation.’

‘I put myself in that situation. I drank to get through it, even if it made me stupid. William sent me away when he realised who I was, but I was determined. I was stupid.’

He blinks lazily, trying to absorb being bombarded with my reality. My mother’s history. And my history, too. ‘Please, come back inside.’

I nod faintly, and he exhales in relief, putting his arm around my shoulder and tucking me into his chest. We walk slowly and silently back to his apartment.

After sitting me on the couch and placing my bag and shoes under the table, he goes straight to his drinks cabinet and pours some dark liquid into a tumbler, quickly downing it before refilling. His hands are braced on the edge, his head dropped. It’s too quiet. Uncomfortable. I need to know what’s ticking in that complex mind of his.

After the long, difficult silence, he picks his drink up and makes his way over to my shrinking form, taking a seat on the glass table and placing his drink down, shifting it a tiny bit. He eventually sighs. ‘Livy, I’m doing a terrible job of pretending that this hasn’t knocked me sideways.’

‘You are,’ I agree.

‘You’re so . . . well, lovely – pure in a healthy way. I love that.’

I frown. ‘Because you get to walk all over me?’

‘No, it’s just . . .’

‘What, Miller? It’s just what?’

‘You’re different. Your beauty starts here.’ He leans in and runs his palm across my cheek, hypnotising me with his intense blue gaze. Then he slowly drags it down my throat and onto my chest. ‘And goes all the way to here. Deep into here. It shines through those sapphire eyes, Olivia Taylor. I saw it the moment I looked at you.’ My emotions are choking me, the mention of sapphire eyes bringing back fond memories of my granddad. ‘I want to surrender myself to you completely, Livy. I want to be yours. You are my perfect.’

I’m shocked. But I don’t voice it. For Miller to say I’m his perfect, given his crazily perfect world, is . . . crazy.

He grabs my hands and kisses my knuckles. ‘I don’t care what happened years ago.’ His forehead wrinkles and he begins to shake his head. ‘No, I apologise. I do care, I f**king hate that you did that. I don’t understand why.’

‘I felt lost,’ I whisper. ‘Granddad kept things together after my mum vanished. He battled with Nan’s grief for years and disguised his own. Then he died. He’d hidden my mother’s journal all that time.’ I draw breath and continue before I lose my flow or Miller loses his mind. He looks more and more shocked by the second. ‘She wrote about all of these men showering her with gifts and attention. Maybe I could find that, and find her too.’