by Lisa Worrall
Micah shook his head fondly at Jenny, forgiving her high-pitched squeal and chuckling as she passed a tissue to Selena who was crying freely and muttering something about bloody hormones.
"I could get used to this," Harry mumbled into Micah's hair.
Micah smiled from where he was resting against Harry's broad chest, his legs stretched out on the sofa in front of him, and Harry's long fingers gently carding through his hair. "Good."
They were finally alone again. Jenny and Selena had left to do a spot of baby shopping in Winbourne and Jenny had been given strict instructions not to use his door key again today. Breakfast had turned into an emotional affair, but there were still some unanswered questions hanging in the air between them. Even after all this time, Harry knew what he was thinking.
"You're not going to let it go are you?"
"Nope."
"Could you, just this once?"
"Harry, if we're going to move forward we can't hold anything back. That's what happened six years ago, too many secrets. I don't want that for us this time." Micah stroked lazy circles on Harry's forearm where it lay across his chest. "Is it bad?"
"Yes," Harry said quietly, a world of meaning in that single affirmation. Micah made to tilt his head and Harry stopped him. "Here are the rules. I'm only going to tell this story once, so you can't interrupt and you can't look at me. I won't be able to tell it if you look at me."
"Okay." Micah swallowed hard and anger began to bubble in the pit of his stomach. Harry's tone was one he'd never heard before, and he already knew he didn't ever want to hear it again. He had a feeling when Harry was finished, he would be hunting Harry's father down and killing him with his bare hands. He lifted Harry's hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, and waited.
"I did my best to keep out of his way, you know. Did as I was told, fooled the world into thinking we were the perfect family, and for the majority of the time it worked. The beatings were still pretty much on a regular basis, and the brunt of them had been focused on me, instead of Mum. Every kick, every punch would be punctuated with venom, about how I'd shamed him. How I was an abomination, not fit to bear his name. How sick he felt when he thought that his blood ran in my veins, blah, blah, blah. But it meant he left her alone, so I got used to tuning him out." He huffed out a laugh and Micah closed his eyes at the utter desolation in the sound. "Of course, he made sure the bruises didn't show. He never got drunk enough to make that mistake.
"I was seen on the town with pretty socialites on my arm, just like he wanted. I attended all the high society and political galas, standing beside him, showing my support. Like I said, the perfect family. Until he caught the new chauffeur giving me a blow job in the gazebo."
Micah was sure the sudden lump in his throat was his heart. He swallowed hard, hoping what Harry said next wasn't going to be as bad as the scenarios pin-wheeling around his own head. He was right. It wasn't as bad as he'd imagined.
It was much, much worse.
Harry's voice had no expression as he continued and Micah longed to take him in his arms and kiss away his pain—but he didn't. He kept up the rhythmic circling of his fingers on Harry's forearm, and listened to that vacant monotone explain the lengths his father had gone to in his attempt to break Harry's spirit.
"His name was Liam and, looking back, I didn't even really fancy him; but it had been so long since anyone had touched me. Getting out of the house had to be planned with the precision of a military operation, and I hadn't been able to get to London alone for months. Hanging around in the back room of Heaven wasn't exactly some of my finest moments, but your right hand can only do so much, you know?" Harry sighed heavily. "I can't tell you how many times I stared at your number on my mobile, just one button away from hearing your voice—but I never pressed it. He intercepted all the post, including my phone bill, and I just couldn't take that risk."
Micah closed his eyes against the sting of tears. Knowing how Harry had suffered to protect him, and that he hadn't been able to do the same for Harry, sent anger, white hot, coursing through him. He didn't even have the comfort of trying to convince himself they'd merely gone their separate ways, and the missing years were only time that had been lost to them. Harry's father had stolen those years from them. Had denied them the chance at the life they'd planned together.
"He fired Liam, of course, but not until he'd signed a confidentiality agreement and pocketed the twenty-five thousand pound cheque my father gave him. As for me," another dead laugh. "He had something special in store for me. I spent three days locked in my room, minimal food and water, then on the fourth day he opened the door; but he wasn't… alone. There were two guys with him—big guys—I'd never seen before. My father said he'd brought them to help me… choose the right path. Then he tossed around an anecdote about how his own father had caught him smoking when he was thirteen and had then forced him to smoke a whole pack, one after the other, to cure him of the desire to ever light up again."
Micah's fingers stilled in their stroking of Harry's skin. No, please God, no."
"I remember staring at him for the what seemed like forever, knowing what these men were going to do, but not being able to comprehend that he would actually go that far. But then I saw something in his eyes as he locked the door behind him; something I'd never seen before—a cold darkness that sent a shiver down my spine."
"I pleaded with them not to hurt me. Told them I'd tell him they'd carried out his instructions, that they didn't have to go through with it. I tried to make them understand they could beat me all they wanted and I wouldn't make a sound; that I'd only ever been with one man, only ever wanted to be with one man, and begged them not to take that away from me. I remember the older one apologising as he forced me out of my clothes, but my father wanted evidence of everything. That he had something on each of them and they were left with no choice. I wanted to scream about my choice when the first punch landed, but in that moment more than any other, I realised I'd lost my right to choose when I was born a Wainwright."
Micah's tears were now free-falling, splashing onto Harry's skin. A sudden image of his own father's face behind his eyes. Never had Graham Lewis, nor would he have, ever caused his son a moment's pain if he could protect him from it. It was unfathomable to him that any father could not only stand by while such atrocities were visited upon his flesh and blood, but that he could be the engineer of them.
"My mother found me later that night and insisted Father call out the family GP, another official father kept firmly in his back pocket. He went completely ballistic, knocked her to the floor for daring to stand up to him. She looked so small curled up into a ball to protect herself from his kicks, and I couldn't help her. Fuck, I couldn't even help myself. But after she'd pointed out that if he allowed the GP to see me, it would be a lot easier than trying to explain to the media that I'd died under their roof from lack of medical attention. Not to mention how I'd received my injuries in the first place. Of course, the threat to his precious reputation was the only argument he was interested in, so he let her make the call.
"The GP came and somehow managed to talk my father into calling an ambulance. They made up a cockamamie story about me being mugged on my way home, but managing to make it to the house for help. Although the men had carried out my father's instructions to the letter any… how can I put it… damage that would have raised a whole other set of questions was minimal. Rapists with morals—who knew?
"I spent a week in hospital where I had all the time in the world to decide how I was going to get us out. When Mum told me about the baby on the day I was released, it just amplified the urgency for escape. I had to protect her, and the kid. There was no way I was going to let him ruin another life." Harry paused for a moment and then said gruffly, "The end."
Micah wiped at his eyes, needing to take a breath before he trusted himself to speak without choking on his own despair. He cleared his throat and pushed himself up to sitting, turned around in Harry's arms so they were facin
g each other, their limbs entangled. "I'm assuming he didn't just let you walk down the drive with your suitcases in hand?"
"Not quite," Harry agreed, pulling a face as he took a sip of his now cold coffee.
Micah untangled himself and climbed off the sofa to pad out of the room and down the tiny hall to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and took down two plastic tumblers, one decorated with balloons and the other with bright red poppies. Not exactly the most sophisticated way of serving wine but, after he'd broken most of the expensive set of glasses Sarah and Gary bought him when he moved in, it had been unilaterally decided he could only be trusted with plastic from then on.
Opening another cupboard, he picked up the almost empty bottle of brandy and shared what was left between the two glasses. If ever there was a time for the purely medicinal purposes of cognac, it was now. Micah carried the drinks back into the living-room and handed one to Harry before sitting cross-legged on the sofa, facing him, curling his fingers around his own glass.
"When did you leave?"
Harry took a healthy swallow of brandy and hissed through his teeth. Micah wasn't surprised, that much must have burned through Harry's sinuses.
"Three weeks later. We had to move quickly before the morning sickness kicked in. If he'd known about the baby, he wouldn't have let her out of his sight again," Harry ran a hand through his unruly dark hair. "First I emptied my bank accounts. I'd got some saved up, enough to get us a little place somewhere while we figured out what to do next. Mum took the more expensive pieces of her jewellery to pawn, and emptied her own accounts. She got quite a sizeable inheritance from my grandmother about five years ago, so we had that cushion—but I knew I'd have to get a job, one where I'd be able to work from home.
"We packed everything we could fit into two suitcases and three weeks later we left in the middle of the night. Mum slipped one of her sleeping pills into father's coffee and I'd arranged for a taxi to meet us three streets away. It all seemed too easy, you know? Every step we took I expected to hear my father's voice, or find the police hurtling towards us, sirens blaring, to drag us back—but it didn't happen. I don't think I took a single breath until we were in the taxi and it had started moving.
"Mum was terrified. Terrified the sleeping pill wouldn't work. Terrified he'd intercepted the taxi and it wouldn't be waiting for us—just plain terrified. Yet she kept her head up high, reassuring me, encouraging me. I was, and am, so proud of her. He'd kept her under his boot for so long, ground her down to almost nothing, but here she was, trudging along beside me in her Laboutins, telling me everything was going to be okay."
Micah sipped at his brandy. "I'm proud of both of you for having the strength to leave. Where did you go?"
"I wanted to keep moving around at first, while we still could, so first of all we caught a train to Cornwall and stayed in a bed and breakfast for a couple of weeks. We didn't have any ties in the area, so there was no reason he would look for us there, so for a while it was safe enough. Then we spent a month in Edinburgh, two months in the Welsh countryside, three months on the Isle of Wight, and then we came here to Little Mowbury."
"Why didn't you come here first?" Micah asked, confused.
"Because I hadn't planned to come here at all," Harry answered quietly. "I wanted to, God, I wanted to, but I'd hurt you so badly, how could I? You were safe and I would never have forgiven myself if I jeopardised that."
"But you're here now."
"Mum convinced me to come," Harry admitted. "I meant it when I told you the only time I'd ever felt safe was with you. She said Father had no idea who you were, or where you were, contrary to what he'd led me to believe. That if I didn't at least explain everything to you, I would spend the rest of my life wondering if we could have had a second chance at the forever we'd planned." He chuckled. "She reads a lot of Harlequin."
"Purple prose aside," Micah smiled, "she's right. Here is where you should be." His heart felt heavy in his chest, beating out its rhythm hard against his ribcage. He hadn't been there when Harry needed him the most. Hadn't protected him from his father, from those… he couldn't call them men, they didn't deserve the title… animals. He'd shouldered it alone to keep him safe. That knowledge in itself was even more painful than losing Harry.
Micah plucked Harry's glass out of his hand and put both glasses on the coffee table before rising onto his knees and settling himself between Harry's thighs. Staring intently into his eyes, Micah hoped everything he felt in his heart could be seen in his gaze. What Harry and his mother had been through was completely unfathomable to him. All he kept seeing were little snippets of his own father; kicking the ball around the back garden with him on a Sunday morning, fishing for hours—sometimes throwing back more than they caught, knowing the values Graham Lewis instilled in him were the cement in the foundation that made him the man he was today. How many times had he felt the weight of his father's hand? Micah couldn't remember a single instance.
In that moment he wanted to erase Harry's pain. Needed to show him what it meant to be loved unconditionally, without reservation. His heart pounded so hard it felt as though it were on the verge of bursting from his chest, like an over-zealous suitor in a bad cartoon. Would he have been able to find the kind of strength as Harry? The strength to sacrifice everything you wanted for another? He'd like to think so, but he wasn't certain. There was only one thing he was sure of—the past didn't matter—only that they were here, now, together.
Leaning in, Micah kissed Harry tenderly, a barely there brush of skin against skin, then stood up and, not saying a word, held out his hand. Harry stared at his outstretched fingers for a few moments and then took them in his and Micah helped him off the sofa, then turned on his heel and led Harry up the narrow stairs.
Inside the bedroom, Micah closed the door behind them, the sound of the latch catching loud in the silence surrounding them. Letting go of Harry's hand, he crossed the room to pull the curtains, shutting out the afternoon sunlight. He turned and began to walk slowly towards Harry. As he did so, he gripped the hem of his T-shirt and lifted it over his head, letting the fabric fall to the floor, not faltering in his almost predatory approach—until he saw the tears on Harry's face. Quickening his step, Micah reached up and thumbed away the dampness on Harry's cheek.
"Harry?" Micah's stomach sank.
"Don't hate me." Harry's voice was cracked and raw as though it were rolling over broken glass. Pain and despair in every shard.
"Hate you?" Micah shook his head. Hate him? What the hell was Harry talking about? Why would he hate him?
"From the very first moment I felt you inside me, I knew I'd never want to feel anyone else. But they…. I'm sorry for not… fighting harder."
Micah swallowed hard against the lump in his throat then guided Harry to the bed, where he sat, pulling Harry down beside him. His head spinning with thoughts clamouring for a voice. He took a deep breath.
"I tried so hard to stop loving you. You hurt me, hell, you broke me. It took me a long time to convince myself I was over you, and I thought I was. Right up until you walked into Lilac Cottage holding one of Doris's stupid bright pink carrier bags. You stood there like a deer caught in Eddie Stobart's headlights and I knew I'd only been fooling myself. How could I get over you? You're part of me, Harry. Nothing can change that. Not your father's prejudice, not those bastards' hands—nothing." Micah cupped Harry's face between his palms.
"Putting yourself last to protect those you love, shows the kind of strength most could never even hope to possess. I love you, Harry." He leaned in and kissed Harry softly. "No one will ever hurt you again. You can relax now. It's my turn." He kissed Harry again, a little harder. "Let me be your strength. I'll keep you safe."
Harry pulled Micah into his arms, bringing their mouths together in a kiss so heated, so desperate, Micah melted. Within moments, Micah had taken control of the kiss, determined to wipe away the memory of any touch but his. His fingers shook with emotion as he undressed Harry, lavis
hing attention on each inch of creamy skin he revealed until Harry was a quivering mass of want and need beneath him.
When Harry fumbled for the lube and condom in the bedside table and slapped them into Micah's palm, he stared at the items—almost as if he'd never seen them before. He needed Harry to know he loved him without reservation, that this was a new beginning for them, and the one thing he'd never given Harry before was himself.
"Micah?"
Harry's gaze questioned his hesitation and Micah smiled, softly. He took Harry's hand, held it palm up and put the plastic tube and the condom into it, folding Harry's fingers around them. Micah didn't speak, words would have been pointless at this moment. How could they be? There were no words for what he felt, with every fibre of his being. He only hoped that Harry would understand how much he wanted this, needed this—needed him.
"Are you sure?" Harry's voice was filled with awe as he stared up at Micah.
Micah nodded, a mere inclination of his head and lay back against the pillows beside Harry, his cock firm and already leaking a trail of pre-cum on his belly. Bending his right knee, he let his thighs fall apart in an age old invitation, revelling in the fire flashing in Harry's gaze as his tongue slipped out to moisten his lips. That familiar surge of satisfaction washed through him, tightening his gut in anticipation and quickening his pulse. He’d never given himself to anyone this way, preferring to take the more dominant role in the bedroom. Yet Micah found it odd that he wasn’t nervous, scared or apprehensive, or whatever he was supposed to be for his first time. But then it occurred to him and he almost laughed out loud. Of course he wasn’t scared. This was Harry, and although he hadn’t known it, Harry had been keeping him safe every day for the last six years, so why would now be any different? In Harry’s hands he would never need to fear.
The expression on Harry’s face was tender, his gaze a caress on Micah’s skin as he squeezed lube onto his fingers. Gasping at the feel of the cool liquid when Harry circled his hole, gently teasing his fluttering opening, Micah willed his body to relax. He couldn’t help but cry out at the first slide of Harry’s forefinger inside him, stretching that sensitive ring of muscles and pushing into him. After the initial discomfort, he took a couple of deep breaths. Of course, he’d experienced what he called arse-play before. Hell, he’d experienced it with Harry, for God’s sake. But it had been a while since he’d felt that heady fullness, and the whole different set of nerve-exploding sensations being penetrated sent in shockwaves through him.