Playing for Rya

36. Perfect Storm

Song: Holy Grail by Jay-Z ft Justin Timberlake; Cover by Rajiv Dhall & twenty-seven.

Sunday Night

Derek placed his palms on the cool marble wall in his shower stall and leaned forward, bowing his head to allowing the torrent of hot water pouring from the showerhead, which offered only a modicum of relief from the ache in his muscles, to rain a beaten path down his neck and shoulders.

The past few days had turned out to be more of a strain than the relaxed satisfaction he had hoped to gain spending time on the island with Arya, and since he'd been back, he'd spent his time shuttling between his private study and the personal gym he'd set up in his apartment for times like these when he felt restless and needed to turn his attention away from pressing personal matters.

This time he needed the distraction of work and exercise to take away from the growing restlessness and the concern gnawing at the back of his mind for both of the women in his life who currently seemed hellbent on avoiding him.

Beverly, with whom he kept in constant contact with, even when they were apart for long periods of time, seemed to now be avoiding his calls, and considering how much attention, or the lack thereof, he'd shown her lately, he could understand why.

He wanted to go to her, to bridge the disconnect and reassure her about his feelings for her.

Except he didn't know what they were anymore. His supposed feelings were a confused, jumbled mess of concern and frustration targeted mostly at one person, the woman he'd spent the last couple of days with.

Arya.

'Fuck,' he muttered, hitting his fist against the wall and immediately regretting the action. He ran his hand down his face and over his head as he, again, mentally processed all that had recently been revealed to him.

When he first met her, there had been no signs of the ordeal Arya had passed through, at least none that he'd observed and he wondered now if he simply missed them.

Had he been too fucking eager to bed the beautiful young woman he'd set his sights on years ago, to pay attention to any tells that she may have put out? How many times had he fucked her while she was trapped in her mind reliving memories of a time she'd been raped? How many times had he given her to other men without a second thought and watched them take pleasure from her? How many times had he taken pleasure from watching other men take her while her subconscious reenacted a situation she'd been forced into?

He winced as he did every time he recalled her description of the events from her past which had triggered her recent reaction, he was well aware, despite her assertions to the contrary, that there were always repercussions, mentally, physically, emotionally or otherwise of being forced into a situation such as the one she'd been in and whatever reaction she had had to the incident, whatever damage had been done in the wake of it, his actions with her must have only served to enhance.

She had come into his life scarred, yet spurred on by memories of a wrongful sexual experience and he'd unwittingly fed those desires, taking from her at a time when she needed to simply receive, to be shown what it was to be truly desired and loved not as an object, but as a person.

He swore again and shook his head, raising his face to the hot pelting drops of water as he found himself in a rare moment of struggle on what action to take.

She had completely shut herself off from him for reasons he didn't quite understand. His head told him to give her the space she appeared to desperately want, yet he couldn't bear the thought of her hurting and alone.