Rhys went out of the room, the silence of the suite pressing down on him like a physical weight. He carried a pillow and a blanket, the soft fabric feeling almost alien against his skin, a stark contrast to the rough texture of his anger. He placed them on the couch, a makeshift bed that offered little comfort, its cushions a poor substitute for the warmth of Heather's presence.
He wandered to the kitchen, the cool tile a stark contrast to the burning in his chest, the raw, visceral anger that pulsed through his veins. He was planning to drink a glass of milk, a soothing ritual, a desperate attempt to find some semblance of calm, but his hand instinctively reached for the bottle of beer instead, his fingers closing around the cold glass.
He needed something stronger, something to numb the raw edges of his anger and fear, to dull the sharp edges of the images that replayed in his mind.
He finished three bottles, the alcohol a dull ache in his veins, a fleeting sense of numbness spreading through his body, but it did little to quell the storm raging within him. He went back to the living room, the darkness amplifying the feeling of isolation, and turned on the TV, muting the volume, the flickering screen casting long, distorted shadows across the room.
He switched the channel to the news, his heart pounding against his ribs, a morbid curiosity drawing him in.
The news report played out in stark, clinical terms, the reporter's voice detached and professional, but the images were a brutal reminder of what had happened, a visceral assault on his senses.
"A violent home invasion occurred last night at a private residence," the female reporter's voice droned, accompanied by blurry footage of police cars outside Heather's house.
"The victim, a young woman, was reportedly attacked by an intruder. Police have apprehended a suspect, who is currently being held for questioning."
The report then showed a grainy image of the intruder being led away in handcuffs, his face obscured by a blur. "The suspect, identified as a known stalker, has a history of similar offenses," the female reporter continued. "Authorities are investigating the motive behind the attack."
"The victim's condition is currently unknown," another news anchor said, her voice laced with manufactured concern. "But sources close to the investigation say that she's receiving medical attention."
Rhys's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to shatter the screen, to erase the image of the man who had tried to violate Heather, to obliterate the memory of her terror.
The reporters didn't mention her name, a small mercy, a thin veil of privacy, and when Marjorie and Anthony appeared on the interview, their faces were blurred, and their voices were altered for their privacy, a shield against the prying eyes of the public.
"We are deeply saddened and disturbed by this incident," Marjorie's distorted voice said, her words a carefully crafted statement. "Our priority is the safety and well-being of our family. We are cooperating fully with the police investigation and trust that justice will be served."
"We appreciate the public's concern and support during this difficult time," Anthony's altered voice added, his tone firm but measured. "We ask that everyone respect our privacy as we navigate this situation."
When the criminal's face was shown, albeit briefly, Rhys's breath hitched, a wave of pure rage washing over him. He wanted to throw the remote in his hand and smash the TV, to vent his rage against the glass, to shatter the image of the man who had dared to touch Heather.
But he restrained himself, his mind replaying the scene, the way the man was on top of her, tearing her clothes, the way Heather had looked, her eyes wide with terror, her body trembling.
A wave of possessive rage washed over him, a burning need to protect her, to shield her from any further harm. No one touches her. No one.
He felt the anger coming out of him again, a hot, corrosive tide, a burning desire for vengeance. Just thinking about that bastard made him want to go to the police station and beat him to death, to inflict the same terror he had inflicted on Heather.
I need to calm the fck down or I won't be able to sleep, he thought, his jaw clenched, his muscles tense.
Rhys got up, went back to the kitchen, got another bottle of beer and drank it in one go, the liquid burning a path down his throat, a futile attempt to extinguish the fire within him.
When he returned to the living room, he changed the channel back to the movie, a mindless distraction, a flickering screen filled with empty images, and then switched it off, the dark screen reflecting his own tormented expression, his eyes filled with a burning intensity.
He removed his top, the cool air of the air-conditioning a welcome sensation against his skin, and laid on the couch, the cushions offering little comfort, his body tense, his mind restless.
He stared at the ceiling, the darkness amplifying the feeling of helplessness, his thoughts consumed by the image of Heather's fear, the memory of her trembling body.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Rhys was awoken by a sound of crying, a soft, heart-wrenching sob that cut through the silence like a shard of glass. It was coming from Heather's room, a sound that tore at the edges of his sleep-fogged mind.
He got up slowly, his body stiff from sleeping on the couch, every muscle protesting the awkward position, and walked towards the bedroom, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet, each step a heavy, deliberate movement.
"No... No... No... Stay away from me..." Heather's voice was a broken whisper, punctuated by choked sobs, each gasp a testament to her terror. He could hear the frantic rustling of sheets, the desperate thrashing of her limbs.
When he opened the door, a sliver of light spilling into the darkened room, he saw her face stained with tears, her eyes squeezed shut, her body thrashing against the tangled sheets like a trapped bird.
His heart clenched, a sharp, visceral ache. She might have forgotten the details of what happened, but the trauma was still there, a phantom limb that throbbed with pain, a wound that refused to heal.
He went to her, his movements slow and deliberate, and touched her arm, his touch feather-light, barely a whisper against her skin. He wanted to wake her up from the nightmare, to pull her back from the darkness that held her captive, but he was afraid of startling her, of adding to her fear.
Heather flinched from the contact, her eyes flying open, wide with terror, more tears pouring from her eyes, hot and desperate. "No... Please..." she whimpered, her voice a broken plea.
"Come on, baby. Wake up. It's just a nightmare," he said, his voice soft, a soothing balm against her fear, his words a gentle caress. He shook her lightly, his touch gentle but firm, trying to coax her back to reality.
"No! Don't!" Heather pushed him away, her eyes wide with terror, her body rigid with fear. She scrambled back against the headboard, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Rhys hugged her, pulling her close, his arms a protective shield against the lingering shadows of her nightmare. He ran his hand in an upward manner on her back, his touch rhythmic and soothing, trying to calm her racing heart, to slow the frantic rhythm of her breathing.
"It's okay, baby. It's okay. You're safe. You're safe. It's just a nightmare," he repeated, his voice a low, soothing murmur, his words a comforting mantra.
Heather woke up from the nightmare, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling with residual fear. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his arms, her grip tight and desperate, her body shaking with the aftershocks of her terror.
"Sshhh... I'm here," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his words a promise he intended to keep.
Heather hugged Rhys, afraid that if she fell asleep, she would be back in her nightmare, trapped in the darkness of her fear.
"Don't leave me," she whispered, her voice thick with tears, her words a desperate plea. "Please, don't leave."
"I won't. I won't ever leave you," he promised, his voice a low, fervent vow, his words a solemn oath. He kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering against her hair, his touch a silent promise of protection.
"Go back to sleep. I won't go anywhere." He continued rubbing her back lovingly, his touch a silent promise of protection, a comforting rhythm against her trembling body.
Heather nodded her head, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, her body still trembling slightly, and after a few moments, she fell back to sleep, her breathing slow and steady, her body relaxed against his.
Rhys didn't know what time he fell asleep and how long he slept, but when he woke up the next morning, they were still locked in an embrace, his arms wrapped around her, her head resting against his chest.
His arm, the one Heather used as a pillow, was already numb, a dull ache that radiated through his shoulder, but he didn't mind it, the discomfort a small price to pay for her peace.
He turned slowly, his movements careful not to disturb her, and with his free hand, tried to get Heather's phone on the bedside table to check the time. Seven o'clock. Jess didn't mention what time he'll be picking me up.
Heather shivered from the loss of Rhys's body heat, she unconsciously moved closer to him, her body seeking his warmth, her breath warm against his skin.
Rhys smiled, a soft, tender expression that softened the harsh lines of his face, and just as he hugged her again, he heard the doorbell ring, a sharp, insistent sound that shattered the quiet intimacy of the moment.
Great timing, Jess. He sighed. Time to go to work.
"Hey baby, I have to go to work. I'm gonna need my arm back," he said, his voice a gentle murmur, his words a playful tease.
Heather groaned, not moving her head away, her body still heavy with sleep. Rhys chuckled, a low, warm sound. So cute. He pinched her cheek, a light, playful touch, and she swatted his hand away, a playful gesture that belied the lingering fear in her eyes.
"Come on, baby, Jess is already outside." The doorbell rang again, a persistent sound that echoed through the suite, a relentless reminder of the outside world.
Rhys slowly lifted Heather's head and moved the pillow closer to her, placing her head back down.
He covered her with the blanket so she wouldn't get cold, tucking it around her shoulders, and got out of the room, making sure the bedroom door was closed, leaving her in the quiet sanctuary of her sleep.
"Morning," Jess greeted him, his eyes filled with concern, his gaze searching Rhys's face for signs of weariness.
"Morning," Rhys replied, opening the door wider so Jess could come in, his movements stiff and tired.
"I brought coffee," Jess said, placing the take-away coffee on the table, the aroma of roasted beans filling the air.
He noticed the empty beer bottles scattered across the living room, a stark reminder of Rhys's restless night. "Did you drink last night?"
"Yeah, four bottles, I think. Saw the news last night and couldn't sleep," Rhys said, his voice heavy, his eyes dark with fatigue.
He sat on the couch and covered his face with his hands, his fingers digging into his temples. "And Heather had a nightmare."
Jess understood what he meant. If the same thing happened to his best friend, he didn't think he'd be able to sleep at night right away, even if the bastard was already locked up.
"Were you able to sleep at all?" Jess looked at him, worried, his gaze lingering on the dark circles under Rhys's eyes, a testament to his restless night. He looked like he hadn't slept at all.
"Yeah. Yeah. I actually just woke up seconds before you rang the doorbell. Though I didn't know how long I was able to sleep," he said, sipping from the coffee cup, the warm liquid a welcome sensation against his dry throat.
"Good to know that you were able to sleep, at least," Jess said, patting Rhys's shoulder, a gesture of comfort and support. "The meeting's at nine. You better start moving."
"Okay. I'll just take a bath. Wait for me. Here, you can watch some TV..." Rhys handed him the remote, grabbed the pillow and blanket, and went inside the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
He placed the pillow on the bed, folded the blanket and placed it on the foot of the bed, then went to the bathroom to take a shower, the warm water a soothing balm against his weary muscles, washing away the remnants of his restless night.
Heather woke up a few minutes later and heard the sound of the shower running and then turn off, the sound of water echoing through the bathroom. A second later, Rhys came out of the shower, his hair still damp, water dripping from his hair down his body, glistening on his skin.
If he were wearing clothes, you wouldn't think he had muscles, as he's more on the slim side. But seeing him topless, with just the towel wrapped around his hips, Heather could see how defined his body was, the lean muscles of his arms and chest, the subtle definition of his abs.
"You done checking me out?" Rhys asked, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, his eyes sparkling with amusement.