Page 9 of Only ever you-Ana & Byron (Blindsided #2)

A na woke to sunlight spilling through the crack in her curtains, soft and golden. For a moment, there was warmth in her chest, a private, secret kind of glow inside her being that nothing could extinguish. She had known she was in love with Byron as long as she could remember.

Then she shifted.

A dull ache pulsed low in her body. Her thighs felt sore, heavy. Finger and hand-shaped bruises littered her upper thighs. When she moved again, she noticed the faint, rust-coloured smear on her bedsheet.

She stilled.

Memories rushed in -his breath on her neck, his mouth biting into her shoulder, the way he whispered her name like a secret wish he had never told anyone before. Their first time together.

A small, wobbly smile played at the corner of her mouth .

She traced the edge of her bracelet, now heavier with the latest charm he'd added and brought it to her mouth, biting down gently on the little silver boot.

She didn't regret it. How could she? But how could she look him in the eye again?

She checked her phone. No messages.

A minute later, a ping:

Byron: How you feelin'? Take somethin' if U're sore, yeah?

Her face flushed. She pulled the duvet over her head and smiled, even as her body throbbed.

***

She left the house early, scarf knotted tightly around her neck, not for the cold, but to hide the marks he'd left the night before.

Her breath rose in soft clouds, misting the air as her boots clicked on the pavement.

The wind bit at her cheeks, sharp and unapologetic.

It should've cleared her head, but it did not dispel the loving feeling in her heart.

It was almost over now, just a few loose ends: paperwork, certificate submissions, and an internship letter. She was even finalizing her university preferences.

Newcastle.

Northumbria.

Both close to him. Just in case.

She tried not to think too hard about that. Her first choices were Oxford or Leeds, and she had already received her acceptance.

Ana was halfway across the back field when she saw them. A group of boys, tucked behind the old supply shed near the perimeter fence.

Byron's silhouette was unmistakable, tall, relaxed, slouched with one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other holding a cigarette. Smoke curled into the air .

She was ready to give him hell for smoking again. Maybe flick it out of his mouth, call him a cretin. Something playful. Something them.

She stepped forward.

Then stopped.

Laughter.

"...Mate, no way. You proper did it?"

Another voice-someone she didn't recognize. Sharp, jeering, Byron's voice. So unmistakably his. That cocky drawl. The one he used with the lads, with strangers. Not with her.

Her stomach dropped, cold blooming in her chest. Instinct told her to stay still behind the hedge.

One of them chuckled. "Cathy owes you now. The prude's been deflowered."

There was a pause.

Then a different voice piped up, laughing, "Did she cry?"

"Oi, got a picture?" someone asked. "You've got that fancy phone, don't you?"

Ana didn't wait to hear more.

She backed away slowly. Her pulse was roaring in her ears, and every step felt heavier than the last. Her throat burned. Her hands clenched into painfully tight fists. The cold couldn't bite harder than this.

Ana's breath caught in her throat.

It felt like ice poured down her spine, chasing the warmth from her limbs. Her face burned, and her hands went numb.

A bet.

She backed away without thinking, her boots sinking into the wet grass. Then faster past the gate. Across the road. Down the hill where no one would see.

By the time she reached her street, her vision had blurred, but her feet somehow carried her home .

She couldn't cry yet.

Not until she was home. Not until she was face down in her pillow, muffling the sound from the world.

There was only the soft tang of salty tears in the air.

And the sound of a dream shattering into the smallest bits in the quietest and most final way possible.

A minute later, there was a tentative knock on her bedroom door. She had passed her Papa in her frantic bolt up the stairs, red-faced and trembling. Her Papa was never tentative.

"Ana..."

She couldn't answer. Couldn't let him see her like this.

The door creaked open anyway, just enough for her Papa to slip in. He stood there for a second, awkward in the pale sunlight filtering through the eyelet curtains. Then, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed without asking, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

His thigh brushed hers, warm, solid. He was always her quiet anchor.

He didn't say anything for a while. Just sat there, staring straight ahead and letting her muffled sobs puncture his heart.

Then slowly, he reached out and placed his hand on her head.

His fingers were coarse and clumsy, but his touch was feather-light.

He smoothed her hair back, again and again, the way he used to when she was a little girl too sick to sleep.

Her father wasn't a gentle man by nature. He had been a champion wrestler and still coached at the local community centre. But for her, he learned to be.

"I don't know what happened," he said softly, "and I won't ask. But I want you to remember something, alright? "

Ana blinked and looked at him with burning eyes. Her mouth wobbled.

"Ana, tesoro ... whatever this is, you're the strongest woman I know. Don't you ever forget who you are."

She didn't answer. Just lay curled on her side, face buried in the pillow while holding his much larger hand tightly in two of hers.

"People mess up. They say stupid things, do stupid things. Do you remember me when things didn’t go well with the shop?

I was an arse and I made your mum cry. I made you cry.

We all lose our way sometimes. Doesn't mean your path changes.

You're still you. Still, the most brilliant and most beautiful. And I couldn't be prouder if I tried."

He cleared his throat. "Don't forget, you’re Sicilian."

From under the blanket, her voice cracked out, dry and muffled. "Yeah. I read Mario Puzo."

After what seemed like a long time, after she had calmed down, he kissed her hair and stood up.

"Just tell me who I need to kill , tesoro."

The door clicked shut softly.

And Ana, alone now, turned on her back. Her eyes were dry now, and the wheels were turning.