I Bit My Lip and Didn't Make a Sound (Harper's POV)

I shot to my feet and put on the most wounded, furious expression I could manage. "Vaughn," I said loudly, "what the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you making fun of me for being small down there? So what if I am — does that give you the right to humiliate me whenever you feel like it?"

I let my voice climb higher as I spoke, forcing heat into my face until I could feel the blood rising to my cheeks, making it look as though he'd struck a genuine nerve. Without waiting to see how he'd react, I turned and walked straight back to my room.

Once inside, I leaned against the wall beside the door and let out a long, slow breath.

That ought to do it. Hopefully.

Then I heard the front door open.

Was that — Derek?

I was still working that out when Vaughn's voice drifted through the wall.

"Derek, if a guy is small down there, does he still get wet? Like, the way a woman does — that slick, stringy kind of wet?"

I went completely still.

That bastard.

My heart lurched straight into my throat. I stopped breathing and pressed myself closer to the wall, listening.

Derek's voice came back flat and cold, edged with something close to contempt. "Vaughn. Don't get too involved with that scholarship case."

Something tightened in my chest.

Vaughn's reply was unhurried, almost bored. "Derek, stay out of my business. Worry about yourself. You might be willing to sacrifice everything for the family — I'm not."

"Shut up." Derek's voice dropped to something like ice. "I don't want to hear it."

Vaughn gave a soft, unbothered laugh. "You know I've never touched a woman either—"

"Enough." There was a crack of real anger beneath the control now. "Vaughn. Your name is Sterling. Don't you ever forget what that means."

"Derek." Vaughn's tone went languid, almost sweet. "I've heard that line so many times I could say it in my sleep. I'm tired of it even if you're not."

Silence followed.

I held my breath.

Had they gone?

A moment later I heard the soft click of a door closing, and I let the air out of my lungs very carefully.

There was no mistaking it — Derek didn't like me. He might have actively disliked me. The thought should have been unsettling. Instead, it felt like exactly the right kind of news.

Vaughn, on the other hand, was going to be a problem.

I pressed my fingers to my temple and exhaled. There was nothing to do but take it one step at a time.

---

Late that night, a full bladder dragged me up out of sleep. I stumbled half-awake toward the bathroom, and my foot came down on something slick. My balance went out from under me in an instant.

I snapped fully awake, grabbed for anything solid, and missed — going down hard against the side of the coffee table. The cake sitting on top of it came with me. By the time I stopped moving, I was covered in cream.

Footsteps on the second floor.

I looked up and found Derek standing at the top of the stairs in a dark robe, his hair slightly disheveled. His face held no expression at all. His eyes were open but unfocused, staring at nothing in particular, like the surface of still water.

"I — I didn't mean to," I said quickly. "There was cream on the floor. I slipped, I didn't—"

He didn't move. He just looked at me. Or through me, more accurately.

I cleared my throat. "Derek. I'm going back to my room right now. I won't bother you."

I scrambled to get upright, and the moment I found my footing he was already in front of me. He stood there, eyes downcast, not saying a word.

I opened my mouth to say something else — and then he bent down and lifted me clean off the floor.

I nearly made a sound. My whole body reacted before my mind caught up, and I grabbed at his arm. "Derek — put me down—"

He didn't answer. He didn't even blink. He simply held me and started up the stairs at a measured, unhurried pace.

Something was wrong.

I looked up at his face. His pupils were glassy, slightly dilated, covered by a faint film that made them look like frosted glass.

"Derek?"

Nothing.

That was when I understood. He was sleepwalking.

The moment the thought landed, I stopped struggling entirely. Waking a sleepwalker abruptly could cause seizures — or worse. I'd heard that much. I made myself go still in his arms, softened my breathing until I could barely hear it myself, and prayed I wouldn't do anything that jolted him awake.

He carried me up to the second floor, pushed open the door to his room, and walked directly into the bathroom. I watched him reach past me and turn on the showerhead. Hot water came out in a rush of steam.

He set me down. Then he reached toward me, and his fingers found the drawstring of my sleep shirt.

I grabbed his hand. My pulse spiked. "Derek—"

His gaze stayed empty. He didn't register my voice at all. He applied the smallest amount of pressure, and the knot came loose. The front of my sleep shirt fell open.

I crossed my arms over my chest on instinct.

I hadn't bound my chest tonight — I'd worn the wrap all day and my ribs had needed the break. I'd told myself it was fine, that no one would see me. I should have kept it on.

Derek moved with the blank efficiency of someone running on muscle memory alone. Before I could react, the sleep shirt was off me entirely. I was left sitting in the filling bathtub in nothing but my underwear, knees pulled up to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible.

His hand was warm when it touched my collarbone. He worked slowly downward, washing the cake from my skin with steady, mechanical strokes.

I bit down on my lower lip and kept very quiet.

When his fingers moved across my chest, his thumb grazed the most sensitive point almost incidentally, and my whole body jerked. My spine arched before I could stop it.

He paused — or seemed to — then his fingertips began to move in slow, deliberate circles against my skin.

The sensation came in waves, each one traveling from my chest all the way down to the base of my spine. My body was going soft in ways I couldn't control. My breathing was getting louder no matter how hard I tried to keep it even.

"Derek—"

I bit down harder and held myself rigid, waiting for it to stop.

Then his other hand slid down across my stomach and came to rest between my legs, at the place no one had ever touched.

My thighs clamped together. I nearly made a sound out loud.

I swallowed it. Forced it back down. Because if I cried out — if the noise startled him awake — he would see everything. I couldn't let that happen. So I kept my jaw locked and let the broken exhales come out through my teeth instead, small and shallow and as quiet as I could make them.

He didn't push further. His hand stayed where it was, palm resting against the thin fabric of my underwear, fingers moving in the same slow, repetitive rhythm — mechanical and precise, every pass of his fingers sending another shudder through me that I had no way to stop.

The feeling was unlike anything I'd felt before. I tipped my head back and let the hot water run over my face, and my grip on the edge of the tub went white-knuckled. My knees were shaking. I was starting to lose my grip on the porcelain when his arm came around my waist and steadied me, drawing me back against his chest. Even through his clothes, I could feel the heat of him.

Then, without warning, he stopped.

I let out a breath that had been sitting in my lungs for too long. My whole body went slack against him, chest heaving, not bothering to be quiet about it anymore.

He lifted me again. I let him. I didn't have the strength to do anything else — I was limp in his arms as he carried me out of the bathroom and laid me down on the bed.

Before I had time to think, he was leaning over me, and his lips found the side of my neck. Warm. Unhurried. The tip of his tongue traced lightly along my skin, and the sensation spread across my entire body all at once.

I turned my face up toward the ceiling, and the sound that came out of my throat was something I couldn't hold back. My fingers twisted into the sheets beneath me.