the girl who lost it all [d.m]

forty eight: precari

[trigger warning: sexual assault, mentions of r*pe]

precari: beg, pray, plead

———

ELARA awoke slowly.

She came back into consciousness gently, feeling the rise and fall of the strong chest underneath her head, feeling the large hand splayed across her lower back, resting on the small expanse of skin above the waistband of her pajamas.

It took her a moment to remember what had happened last night—Draco showing up at her door, eyes lined with red, hands shaking. The tortured look in his eye, the way he'd dug his fingers into his scalp and how his voice had broken. She'd never seen him so out of control of his emotions, so vulnerable and scared.

For a second, when she'd opened the door and found him outside, she'd been tempted to turn him away. To say something that would hurt him like he hurt her in the library, to cut him open and let him bleed.

But she'd quelled that treacherous voice in her head that had wanted to hurt him to make herself feel better—and had instead opened the door wider for him.

The look of relief on his face had been enough to break her heart.

And he'd confided in her, had let his tears show for the first time. Hadn't bothered to wipe them away or hide them, had only let them slip into her hair as she held him, trying to soothe him, trying to calm the ache she knew he felt in his chest.

And when he'd fallen asleep, his breathing turning heavy, she'd only smiled and pressed a kiss to his soft hair, not intending on letting him go any time soon. And when she'd finally slept, she knew she'd had nightmares—but they didn't wake her and she couldn't remember them once morning came.

And now she was tangled up in Draco, her head tucked under his chin, her arm thrown over his torso.

She should move, she thought. She still hadn't forgiven him for what he'd said to her that day—but he was so warm against her and the scent of peppermint and teakwood was enough to make her want to bury her face in his neck.

He was still asleep, his face so peaceful and boyish, pale hair a tousled mess against the pillow. She was glad he had managed to rest, had managed to shut down.

She'd seen the dull tired look in his eye yesterday and had decided there and then that she was going to make him stay in her room to make sure he slept.

Draco stirred, slightly and Elara quickly shut her eyes, not wanting to him to see her awake. But he didn't open his eyes and so she cracked one of her own open, found him still soundly resting and let out a soft sigh of relief.

Her gaze roamed his face—the scar on his cheekbone, the small one right above his lip, the cut curve of his jaw. His elegant cheekbones, the straight line of his nose. His pale, long eyelashes and the silver that she knew lay behind them—her favourite colour, always.