Plausible Deniability

Niall makes her wait until her face is no longer swollen and bruised, but then Aila is back to work at Bobby’s. The job is more fun than she expected when she was hired, and it’s killed her to not work for weeks. She doesn’t even care she wasn’t making money while she wasn’t here; she cares that she was missing her new friends.

The cellar rings with the thud of footsteps upstairs, the muffled shouts of patrons as they watch the games. Aila shakes her head with a tender smile. Her shifts are always so full of noise, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s all in good fun, and she feels less alone.

She bends down to read the labels on the bottles, frowning in the dim lighting. Someone needs to put in better bulbs, she thinks even as she grabs three whites and a red. Cheap stuff, though no one complains. Alcohol isn’t always easy to come by in Primden, not with Ashton controlling the docks and having a hairpin trigger on his temper.

She wishes she’d brought a dish-bucket down with her as she carefully moves the bottles more securely in her arms.

“What the fuck!”

Glass shatters between her chest and the cellar wall, and wine sears along the fresh cuts. The brick scrapes against her cheek as a body presses to her back. She can’t breathe—whoever is behind her is larger. Stronger. She can’t win against them. It doesn’t mean she can’t get to fight back. Aila squirms, kicking out with her feet, and shoves against the brick.

She freezes when something cold, metal, digs into the back of her neck. She almost hears the skin splitting beneath the blade.

“Keep moving, and I’ll make you regret it,” an unfamiliar voice growls, followed by a chuckle so dark. “You’d be loads of fun, wouldn’t you? I mean, I’m not here for that, but I wouldn’t say no. Would you say no, darling?”

“Go—” she starts, squeezing her eyes closed when teeth grab sharply at her earlobe. His leg forces hers apart, and a hard, thick length slips between her thighs. His free hand slides around her waist, presses to her core through wine-soaked cotton.

“Doesn’t matter. I get what I want.” He shoves the blade even deeper, snapping his hips forward. His groan floats on a sour breath as he bites her neck. She gasps, and the man moans and moves against her again. “Oh, darling, that was beautiful. I’d love to hear it again. I’d love to make you cry. Maybe even beg for your life as I take you again and again.”

Brick scrapes against her cheek, her chest. Her hips slam into unyielding stone over and over until the man stills behind her, teeth sunk into her shoulder. Damp warmth fills the space between them. His cock twitches as it empties. She hates her body for reacting to his touch, for the way he’s brought her an orgasm of her own with clumsy fingers. She hates herself.

His hand moves to her hair, and Aila’s eyes water when he tugs roughly. “I’d make you clean up the mess you made, but I don’t have time. Tell your fiancé that next time, it won’t be your precious little messenger. And darling? I’ll be back for you.”

The hand yanks her head back. All she sees is a shadow against flickering bulbs, then he slams her forehead against the wall. She cries out, but he’s already gone, knocking a shelf over in his escape. Bottles shatter on the concrete. Aila collapses to the floor and stares at the ceiling. She should be crying, shouldn’t she? Panicking? Dust swirls in the light.

Why isn’t she crying?

“I’ll be back for you.” The words echo in her ears. The solid line of muscle still pins her to the wall, the cloth-covered dick that spilled a release between her thighs. She can smell his breath as he groaned into her ear, held her skin between jagged teeth. She gags, rolling over to vomit on the floor.

As a piece of broken glass slices into her cheek, she finally sobs.

“Aila, you’re taking—Fuck! Honey, what happened?”

Aila smacks at the hands reaching for her. Red smears along Ivan’s skin, but she can’t focus on that. The colourful shards surrounding her, deep burgundies and clear yellows of wine seeping through gaps. She screams at him. Shrieks for him to never touch her. Ivan raises his hands in surrender and sits back on his heels.

“Okay, I won’t. Not gonna touch you, I promise. But I’m not leaving you alone. I’m right here, all right? Do you want me to call—?”

“Don’t.”

“Aila, love... He needs to know.”

Aila curls her knees into her chest. The stone hurts her cheek, or maybe it’s the glass embedding itself into her skin. She doesn’t know. “I’ll kill you. I swear, I’ll fucking kill you if you tell him.”

“Can I phone him to let him know you’re coming home?” At her reluctant nod, he stands again. Aila can almost see the concern on his face, dark eyes made darker with worry. “Pilar will be right down to take you home.”

When did she get here? The walk up the stairs, through the bar, to Pilar’s car. The drive forty-seven minutes outside of the city. Aila remembers none of it. Now Robert guides her from the backseat, thanking Pilar quietly, and shuts the door. His hands tremble on her arm when he turns back to Aila. She wants to shove him away.

“Miss Aila, what’s happened? Are you—?”

“I want to go to bed,” she whispers, staring at the stone steps in front of her.

“I’m sorry, dear. Mister Niall would be most angry if I didn’t take you to him.”

Aila clings to the valet’s arm, a sick mimicry of all the times he’s escorted her around the manor. This time, the comfort is tainted.

Niall is sat at the table in the War Room, leaning back in his chair as Zayn circles things on a map in front of them. Ledgers clutter the table. Low chatter fills the room—routes and plans being debated and agreed on, schedules changing and changing back. Robert clears his throat, and Niall glances up then back to the map. His gaze immediately snaps to Aila’s face once more.

Eyes flashing, he rises to his feet abruptly as the conversations die out. “What happened?”

“I’ve no idea, sir. Ivan said he couldn’t tell at the risk of bodily harm from Miss Aila.”

“Thanks. You may go. Aila? Speak to me, what happened?”

“‘Next time, it won’t be your precious little messenger’,” she mumbles, staring at a spot over his shoulder. It isn’t what she wants to say. It’s a message she has to give. “‘Next time, it won’t be your precious little messenger’, ‘next time, it won’t be your precious little messenger’.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he snaps as she only repeats herself, again and again.

In the far recesses of her mind, Aila knows he’s hoping to startle her to awareness. To this moment. All she can do is repeat the message. Niall has to know, he has to understand. The man swore to come back for her. Niall has to know.

She screams when someone’s cold, slender fingers bend hers as far back as they will go without breaking. Niall reaches for her, but she recoils and scrambles to stand against the wall. No one can come up behind her again. Never. Harry gapes, green eyes wide, and even Mully lets his worry show. It’s Niall’s face that frightens her most of all.

He approaches slowly, voice brooking no arguments as he demands an answer. The anger is muted by—fear. He’s scared of what happened to her. He’s terrified. She holds her aching fingers with her other hand and gulps in the silence. Everyone waits.

“He—he said, ‘Next time, it won’t be your precious little messenger’. He wants me.”

“Who?” Sighing, Niall steps closer as she continues staring past him. Zayn’s face is ashen. Tania has grown paler than normal. “Aila, who is ‘he’?”

Aila shakes her head, stifling a sob. “I don’t know! I didn’t see his face. He, uh, he—he had me pinned to the wall. I couldn’t see him. Niall, I’m sorry. I should’ve tried harder, I know I should’ve, and I’m so sorry. I wish I’d tried harder. Please forgive me. I—”

“Did he touch you?”

The curt tone, the question, brings her up short. Had he? Besides—

“He bit my ear,” she breathes. “My neck. Asked if I’d tell him no. He wants me. He said he’d have me no matter what I said. He... He... My neck itches. Why the fuck does my neck itch?” She runs her hand along the back of her neck and stares at the blood on her palm. “He cut me. It hurts.”

It does, beneath the ice in her blood and acid on her tongue.

No one speaks. No one has to. Tania, Liam, and Zayn sprint from the room. Mully follows behind, and Louis moves toward the telephone in the corner. Niall watches Aila with hard eyes. She shrinks away under his gaze. He’s angry. She should have fought back.

Their friends wasted all those hours teaching her to fight for nothing. She couldn’t even protect herself. Her breath comes out on a shuddering gasp, and her eyes burn at the failure. She climaxed because of that man, and she couldn’t fight him off.

Harry raises the first-aid kit. When had he grabbed it? “Do you trust me?”

“Please don’t hurt me,” she begs, and his face falls.

Exchanging a look with Niall, Harry sets about cleaning her wounds. The concern on his face grows when she doesn’t react to the stinging of the antiseptic. Niall’s face darkens at the bite mark left behind, exposed when Harry moves her hair out of the way. He murmurs an apology before cutting open the front of her T-shirt. Aila had forgotten about the bottles she’d been carrying when—

Niall is at her side the instant Harry steps aside. Aila stares at her fiancé through her lashes, head ducked and heart pounding. He’ll never want to marry her after this. His hands hover near her face. She’s so sorry for failing him.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Aila. This wasn’t your fault. Did you see which way he went?” She shakes her head, and he grips her cheeks. Forces her to look at him. “Think back, darling.”

Aila rips from his hold, hands automatically lashing out as her shoulders slam into the wall behind her. Niall pulls back when her palm connects with his cheek. “Don’t fucking call me that! I—I don’t like it. Don’t call me that again. Please, please,” she sobs, and she lets him wrap her in his arms.

“Okay. I won’t. Ever again, I swear. Now c’mon, sweetheart. Think back. What did you hear?”

“Glass crunching. Not from the bottles I dropped or the ones he knocked over. Further away.”

Louis curses under his breath before saying the cellar window was shattered. According to Ivan, the man had to have been waiting for Aila specifically—too many people had gone in and out all evening without anything happening. Whoever it was left no trace beyond the window.

“Ivan says he’s putting cameras in first thing tomorrow and Aila isn’t to come back until she’s ready.”

“Tell him I’ll have someone there before sun-up.” Niall brushes Aila’s hair from her face, ignoring the way she flinches at his touch. “Why don’t you go upstairs. Take a bath, let Mera sit with you until I get back.”

No, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. “Where are you going?”

He glances at Louis who nods, then turns back to her. “To get answers, my love.”

Robert stands at the door by the time Niall leads her from the room. In the valet’s hands is an oversized sweater, and he helps Aila slide her arms into the sleeves. He adjusts the front so the fabric covers her exposed bra, the cuts in her chest.

She stares at the floor, desperate to quell the quaking in her bones. The wild spinning of the world around her. A kiss to her temple, one smelling of whisky and mint and the love she has in Niall, then Robert escorts her up the stairs.

Mera takes over with washing Aila’s hair and carefully wiping dried blood from the wounds. All of them are superficial, they’ll heal soon, but Aila knows she will always feel them. She will always feel that man. That crushing helplessness as she struggled only to fail.

She fears this man far more than she did the men who kept her hostage.

Mera sits on the edge of the bed once she’s tucked Aila in. “I’m glad you’re safe, Miss.”

“He said it didn’t matter if I said ‘no’,” mumbles Aila as she stares at the canopy of the bed.

“Aila, believe me. Mister Niall will never let anything happen to you.”

“He… He came against me.”

Mera’s voice turns sharp, but the brusque tone doesn’t penetrate the haze in Aila’s mind. “Clothed?”

“Yeah.”

“Try to rest, Miss. I’ll be right here with you until Mister Niall returns.”

Aila wakes for the eleventh time from the nightmare. Instead of keeping post beside the bed, Mera is fast asleep on the other side of the mattress. Her hand slides along the covers to rest on Aila’s arms, though she sleeps on. The moon is on the far side of the sky—after midnight—and Aila is terrified to close her eyes again.

She slips out of the bed and stands at the terrace doors. The grounds are silent, not even crickets chirping in the dark. As if they know what happened and are showing respect. Lights flash steadily at the perimeter, double the normal amount, and a shadow leans against the balustrade. Something red floats in the air, illuminates a face dimly. When she pulls the door open, Viper turns to look at her.

“You should be sleeping.”

“Can’t.” She shudders and wraps her arms tightly over her chest. “Niall still gone?”

“Yeah. He’ll be back as soon as possible, though.” Viper blows out a stream of smoke then drops his cigarette to the stone. “Suppose I should apologise for being such a dick.”

“You had your reasons.”

Viper barks out a quiet laugh, gesturing toward a lounger. “Didn’t trust you. Didn’t realise he was so in love with you. You’ve changed him, no one can deny that. But I think I’m seeing it’s for the best.”

“What’s your real name?” she asks instead of remarking on his comment.

“Clint.”

“You were at the festival.”

“Usually am. But this time, I had no choice. Had to go even if I didn’t want to.”

“I’m sorry for what Niall did to you.”

“What? When I was a prick?” Clint laughs and shakes his head. His hand reaches out, but there’s no contact. “Believe me, he’s done worse to all of us for failure. For daring to speak with disrespect, out of turn.”

Aila snorts as she brings her knees to her chest. Stars glimmer overhead. There’s no comfort in them now. The man lingers on her skin. Clint must read something in her face; he hesitates for just a second then moves to sit beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

Clint holds her as Aila cries again.

“Everything is gonna be okay,” he whispers. “I promise you.”

She doesn’t bother replying. His words don’t feel hollow, a cliché vow. He means them. She wishes she could believe him.

“Sweetheart?”

Aila jerks awake at the soft voice. Morning sunlight blinds her, birds singing in the trees. Niall crouches at the side of the lounger, and she blinks slowly as she sits up. His movements are so careful, but he cups her cheek with a warm hand. His lips twitch as he uses his free hand to smooth down her hair.

“You fell asleep out here and gave poor Mera a heart attack.”

“Where’s Clint?” she mumbles, wiping sleep from her eyes.

Niall’s eyes widen minutely, then he smiles. “I see he’s learnt to trust you. I sent him home to get some sleep. But I need you for something.”

“What?”

“Come with me.”

Niall lets her grab her robe before he laces their fingers together and leads her from the bedroom. Aila knows she should be mortified at her state of dress, but everyone they pass in the halls saw her with a shirt cut open last night. The blue lace of her bra. She cuddles closer into Niall’s side as he guides her toward the back of the house.

To her surprise, he pushes open the door to the indoor pool. He needs her for a quick swim? Now? But then she sees what he wants to show her: A man sits in a chair at the edge of the water, wrists bound to the arms of the seat.

His fingers are crooked, and bones play peekaboo through the skin. Blood drips down his face. One eye socket is hollow. Empty.

“Speak,” Niall commands. He repeats himself when the man only glowers but doesn’t obey. “Zayn.”

Aila wants to want to throw up at the crack of another bone, the bitten-back scream as Zayn slices back flesh. She feels nothing.

“Next time,” the man gasps, spitting blood toward Niall, “it won’t be your precious messenger.”

Even with the wheezing, the grunts of pain punctuating each word, Aila recognises the voice. She yanks her hand from Niall’s and scrambles backwards. Her reaction is all Niall needed: He flicks his fingers toward the man, and Paul and Zayn tilt the chair backwards. The man tries to struggle, but Niall is there with a dagger in hand.

Aila watches with mute fascination as the blade disappears into the man’s chest—between the ribs, she believes, judging by the immediate bubbling of blood on his lips. Niall hisses something into the man’s ear before yanking the blade out and slashing it across the man’s throat.

Zayn and Paul let go of the chair. She watches scarlet bleed through the water, the ripples of water lapping over the edge. The man’s feeble thrashing sending bubbles to the surface before they fade away.

Aila isn’t horrified, despite her expectations.

She only wishes she was the one who took his life.

The door opens, and Tania’s voice fills the room, echoes off the walls:

“Davenport is dead.”