Page 1 of Deliria

Scarlett

Metal crashes into metal. It screeches, it bellows, it caves in, fracturing into a mass of indistinguishable carnage.

That sound, that blaring, continuous screaming of the car horn rings out in my head.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

The world is swallowing me whole, devouring me entirely.

My legs are trapped. My body is forced into its unnatural position, suspended in place by a seatbelt too twisted to get loose.

I know my left leg is broken, that the bone has shattered, splintered. I can feel bits of it piercing through my skin, emerging into the world.

But none of that matters.

Not the pain, not the screaming sound of the horn. None of it.

Because my brother is there, within touching distance, and yet, he is gone. Dead.

His chest is still, his eyes are open, staring off at something that no longer matters, and there’s a faint trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

I should be freaking out. I should be reacting. But I’m not, I’m just there, staring at his face like I’m waiting for some miracle, like I’m too stupid to understand that nothing can undo this.

As I gasp in one violent breath of air, it slices through my lungs and my own blood splatters across my lips. I reach out, trying to grab hold of him, and the whole vehicle lurches forward, pitting us onto a steeper, more treacherous angle.

We’re hanging on a knife-edge, dangling literally between life and death.

“Seb…”

My voice sounds as pathetic as I feel. As useless too.

He is gone. Dead.

And if fate has its way I will be too before any chance of rescue comes.

So I shut my eyes, I try to calm the hammering in my chest, fearful that even those tremors are forceful enough to upturn us, and I lay there, waiting for death to sweep in and take me back to them, to him, to my family.

“Sebastian…”I cry out the name as my legs kick me awake.

The room is hot, sweat is already pouring down my skin and my hair is plastered to it. The sheets are tangled up, as if I spent the night fighting them instead of actually sleeping.

I blink, once, twice, forcing my vision into focus as I take in the unfamiliar surroundings.

The room is opulent, walls papered in a pattern I don’t recognize, the curtains drawn back to reveal a vista of crashing waves and brooding dark sky.

It’s beautiful. Stark. Dramatic in a way that feels daunting, frightening even.

I sit up and the silk sheets shift enough to let that tepid air coming in from the open window steal the warmth from me. I’m naked, and that realisation puts me more on edge. I’d never sleep naked, that just isn’t me. My fingers graze the thick band of metal on my left hand, a weight that shouldn’t be there. And the diamond, the huge diamond that feels more weighty than a millstone glints mockingly back at me.

Oh god, I’m married.

To him.

Alex Forster, the man whose face is both a comfort and a puzzle I can’t quite solve.

How? When did this happen? It feels like a freight train has just slammed into me, and my head is suddenly pounding.

Memories come in fractured flashes; laughter over candlelit dinners, the hum of a helicopter’s blades slicing through the air as we embark on some fancy trip or other, the cool touch of his hand on the small of my back.

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