Page 22 of Unwritten Rules

I furrow my brow in confusion. “In your dreams?”

“No, Mila. In yours. You were crying – screaming at times. When did they return? The nightmares, I mean. How long have they been back?”

In my tiredness last night, I’d forgotten their usual nightly reappearance. But, of course, he’d have noticed. Their presence had been one of the main reasons we’d spent so much time together after the kidnapping – he’d been the one to chase them away.

I drop my eyes from his, unwilling to tell him the truth. That they’ve been back, front and centre, for the last ten months. That I’ve just learned to live with them. With myself. By myself.

He grips my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my head back and forcing me to meet his knowing gaze.

“It’s since Devon, isn’t it?”

And even though his words are a statement, not a question, I nod once. He flinches, but doesn’t drop his eyes; he doesn’t hide, and he doesn’t allow me to either. So we lie there, side by side, healing each other’s broken pieces, just like we’d done before.

“You were right.” His words are a whisper, sending a wave of goosebumps across my entire body. “When you said I’d live to regret it. You were right.”

He pulls me in against his chest, his arms drawing tightly around my body. I exhale heavily as all the pent-up emotions from the last ten months come rushing to the surface.

He’s here. He’s going to make everything right.

The knowledge allows some of the tension to fall away.

“I’ve missed you.” The words are spoken so lowly, that I’m not sure he’s even heard them until his arms tighten further.

“Not as much as I’ve missed you.”

CHAPTER 8

NATE

When I’d told Mila that I’d try to pull some strings at Walden-Forbes, I hadn’t mentioned my familial connections with the place, so in truth, all it had taken was a quick email to Branson Higgins’s secretary. Branson quickly agreed with my demands, especially following the Monica incident earlier this term.

I’d taken it upon myself to contact Mila’s current university, Bexley-Horton, a small private one in central London that I held in high esteem. They’d sent all her transcripts to my work email, and just like that – Mila DeMarco was now the newest student in Professor Nathaniel Hawthorne’s English Literature department at Walden-Forbes.

I can almost hear Olivia DeMarco’s voice in my head whispering one of her signature adages: “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Mila said she needed several days to set things up on her end. Her mother, Charlotte, was currently away on some kind of trip, so she didn’t need to spin any bullshit to her.

And I knew precisely when she told her brother, because as I finished my office hours on Monday evening, my phone rang with the call that I’d been expecting.

“Nate, I’m so sorry my sister is being an utter pain in the ass. Why she didn’t just enrol at Walden-Forbes in the first place is beyond me!”

I chuckle deeply, glad to hear she’s been mostly honest with my oldest friend. I’m grateful, as I don’t think he’d handle the real reason for her flight from London altogether too well.

“DeMarco, it’s no problem. Truly. I hold sway here, and helping Mila pursue her dream is an honour.”

He heaves a sigh on the other end. “I’m worried about Mila, brother. She’s not been herself lately. Liv’s noticed too, but when we broach the subject, she shuts us out.”

He inhales deeply, and I feel a sharp stab of betrayal at keeping her secret from this man, my lifelong friend. My brother.

“Perhaps she’ll open up more to you, hmm? You two connect on another level – even from the first time you met her, she’s hero-worshipped you.”

The knife twists deeper. From both the hugely inappropriate thoughts I’ve been having for the past year and the unmentionable incident in Mila’s bed on Saturday morning.

The same incident that has my cock leaking into my underwear, clearly uncaring of the guilt flowing through the rest of my body.

This whole idea is a car crash waiting to happen.

Waking beside her the other morning had been like old times. Those days when we would spend entire weekends holed up in either her house or mine, watching rom-com after rom-com, reading the classics in companionable silence and cooking the delicious recipes from Mila’s Nonna’s old recipe book.