A/N: This chapter (and a few more to come) are suggestive in places and not for the faint-of-heart. I tried to be respectful but factual about the psychological effects of sexual assault. It was not easy to write some of this; it probably won't be easy to read at times, either. But I hope you'll enjoy it as much as you can.

Big thanks to Bob Rhynoplasty for her help in beta-ing this story! Much love, mi amica :)

Wednesday, May 17

10:40 pm

Audrey was already drunk enough to dull the pain, and she knew it, so before her hand clasped the cold, slim neck of what could have been her fourth bottle of imported beer—the strong, 10% alcohol stuff—she backed away from the refrigerator and shut the door, a little unsteady on her feet, but no worse for wear.

Instead, she traipsed into the living room and sank deep into the folds of her sofa and the warm blanket she'd left behind minutes before. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she winced in pain, having forgotten for just a moment how broken she was. Her wrists and ankles still bore the ligature marks, angry red welts where her attacker had bound her to the bed. For an entire week. Kept in the dark. Bound, gagged.

Brutally raped.

She took little comfort in the fact that she would be the last in a long line of victims claimed by the worst serial rapist & murderer the city of New York had seen in a decade or more. What he'd done to her was seared in her brain, and etched on her skin.

She kept the lights off. She didn't want to be reminded.

Sitting in the dark, Audrey watched headlights on the stifling street two stories down out her living room window. The same thing she'd done the night before—her first night home since her abduction the previous Sunday—except last night she'd had company.

They wouldn't let her leave the hospital without someone to at least escort her home, but she had no one. So the detective handling her case had offered, not only accompanying her back to her one-bedroom in the Village but staying with her until she fell asleep. Sometime between her slumber and the humid dawn, he'd gone home; but he left his card with a hastily-scrawled message for her to call him, anytime, if she needed anything.

He'd stayed by her side at the hospital through a battery of tests and examinations. He held her hand while they collected evidence. Were all New York City detectives like this, or just this guy? It didn't matter. She had never really asked him to stay, but he'd come to her aid so unselfishly anyway. Nobody had ever done anything like that for her.

Audrey's head swam. He'd been the one to find her, barging through the barricaded door of the should-be-condemned apartment building and—while his partner and their backup chased down the bastard who had fled through the open window—kneeling at her bedside, releasing her bonds, and hauling her battered body against his with such a heady mix of ferocity and tenderness that she momentarily forgot how to breathe, pressed as she was against his chest, her arms slung around his broad shoulders, holding on for dear life.

The thought made her stomach swirl and whirl and bury itself deep within her core, settling between her legs.

In the darkness, she slid her hand beneath the elastic waistband of her favourite pink-and-yellow striped pyjama pants and dip between her thin cotton panties and the soft flesh of her lower abdomen while her inebriated mind wheeled.

She hears something on the stairs; shouting, footsteps. She struggles against the ropes lashing her to the bedframe. The door opens. He crashes in - crosses the room in two strides, cups her face with one hand, calling her name as he slides beneath the stained rag gagging her and lifts it from her mouth. She nods—confirming that she is who he thinks she is—and his fingers make quick work of the knots at her wrists and ankles. She weeps. He lifts her. Carries her down three flights of stairs. Wraps her in blankets in the back of a squad car while he calls for an ambulance.

Her fingers traced lazy drunken circles in the short tufts of hair between her legs. She closed her eyes and thought deeper.

Later. He drives her home. Walks her to the door. She presses her key into the lock, her hands shaking, so he turns the key. The tumbler falls heavy into its slot, and the door swings open. She puts down her things, turns to say goodbye. Even in the dark, his eyes are pure lust. "Need anything else?" he asks, and she nods. "I want to feel. Anything but this." And he knows what she needs. He closes the door with his foot and takes her in his arms, crashing his mouth against hers.

She threaded a finger between her folds and stroked, throwing her head back against the cushions. She was sore, still, and this reminded her of that, but she couldn't help it.

He carries her to the bedroom and stretches her out on the bed. Clothes disappear. He hovers over her, his face intense and filled with concern. She fights her fear. He strokes her hair. "Are you sure?" he asks. She nods. He kisses her, fills her first with his fingers, and she gasps out loud...

Tears stung Audrey's eyes. One finger landed on her clitoris. It hurt—she was torn and bruised six ways to Sunday—and she cried out into the darkness but wouldn't—couldn't—stop.

He kisses her hard. Tongues the gap between her front teeth. Draws her lower lip into his mouth. Fingers move slowly. Carefully. She looks him in the eye. He asks what she wants. Faster. Harder. He complies, pulls his hand away. She forgets for a moment that it was ever anything but this. He clasps her to his chest and thrusts.

Hot tears squeezed out between her tightly-pressed lashes, collecting in the hollow of her collarbone. She furiously pumped her hand, alternately rubbing and slapping; her other hand fisted the blanket at her side. It hurt so much. She bit her lip and tasted blood.

Short, hard drives bury him to the hilt. He groans his pleasure into her ear. "Come for me, baby," he snarls. The face she sees when she looks up at him transforms. Smooth skin turns stubbled; kind eyes, menacing.

Audrey's eyes snapped open; her hand stilled. It hadn't been the plan—she didn't want to see her rapist's face hovering above hers. That wasn't what this was about. She fought a wave of nausea and clamped her free hand over her mouth. Sick, sick, sick, she repeated as she shook her head and felt the swell of excitement fade away.

Bastard!

She needed what she was striving for, and as if he hadn't done enough, he was taking this from her too. Desperate to push his face from her reverie, she concentrated on what she remembered about the other man, the man with the big hands, the warm arms, the blue eyes. Pushed herself to remember the sound of his voice as she picked up her previous pace.

"Come for me," he mouthes, whisper-soft, against her cheek. She struggles to breathe. Pressure builds. She bears down, focusing below her belly button. Sweat clings to her brow and stands up on his shoulders. He dips his head and sucks at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She comes undone, cries his name, and he empties himself within her.

Audrey wailed. She pinched and twisted. But nothing happened. Unbearable pressure had built up; she was just waiting to go off. But nothing happened. Her tears ran free with the fury of her frustration, and when she finally pulled her hand out of her pants, there was blood on her fingertips. She waited, sobbing, ashamed, until her heart slowed, until the room around her came into sharp focus, until she regained feeling and control of her legs. Then she pushed herself up off the couch and hobbled to the bathroom.

With the light on but avoiding the mirror, she washed the blood from her fingers, watched as it dripped in diluted shades of pink and swirled down the drain. Her wrists were purple; a scab ran underneath her left thumb. For a moment she saw red behind her eyelids. She steeled herself against the porcelain bowl.

She splashed water on her face and glanced up. Bruises marred her skin - one on this cheekbone, another on this side of her jaw. Four stitches in the hairline above her right eye. She swept her dark bangs to the side but they didn't cover it, not by a long shot. He broke her aquiline nose, the long line from brow to tip now crooked a third of the way down. She would never look the same.

Dashing the light, she padded, unsteady on her feet, back to the sofa. His card was on the low table in front of her, illuminated by a moonbeam. She picked it up, fingering the heavy card-stock, the raised lettering of his name, the ten digits of his phone number. For a moment, she eyed the phone and considered calling him.

Instead, Audrey walked back to the fridge. Her hand clasped the cold, slim neck of what will now be her fourth bottle of imported beer. She couldn't feel anything and yet she feels everything—physical pain, staggering fear, the heavy throb of unfulfilled desire squatting next to a rapist's handiwork deep within the delicate walls of her vaginal canal.

Most of all, shame. Because the kind-hearted, strong-bodied detective who'd shown her so much warmth and compassion—who'd saved her life—would never have laid a hand on her, even if she'd begged him to. She knew that he wouldn't have—he was a police officer after all, and hadn't he mentioned he was Catholic, and wasn't that a wedding band on his left ring finger? He never would. Never.

But why, then, did she wish that he would?