Page 106 of Deliria

I shake my head again, throwing off his touch and storming into the suite.

We always stay here. In these rooms. This hotel is the finest in the area, and the fact that they built a heli-pad just for us ensures its usefulness.

I cast my eyes around the modern, polished furnishings. It’s a stark contrast from the heritage and legacy of our mansion, but I’ve always found it a nice reprieve.

That is, until today.

Today, it feels like purgatory. Like I’m trapped here, stuck, while everything I want is just the other side of that water. Is this how she feels? Is this her headspace? It’s almost ironic to be here, to be living her nightmare, if only for a few hours.

“Whose do you think it was?” My father says. He’s wandered over to the drinks cabinet, pulled out a nice vintage and has apparently already popped the cork like this is some sort of a celebration.

“Excuse me?” I snap.

“The baby. Do you think it was yours? Or perhaps it was mine.” His lips curl into a half-sneer, half-smile. “Imagine a child with that parentage, mine and hers.” He chuckles. “God would hope it wouldn’t have her hair colour, or her freckles.”

I can’t think.

I can’t fucking stand it.

He tips the glass back, practically gurgling the contents. “Maybe we should have thought this through better, had something more effective, an IUD, or we could even have had her tubes tied while she was out. Yeah, that would have been smarter. Then we would have known for sure…”

“Are you done?” I ask. Why the fuck is he rabbiting on about such bullshit like I give a fuck?

He pours out another drink and then knocks it back in one. “I always liked your mother when she was pregnant.” He states. “She was always so needy, and that glow she got…”

I walk away. I clench my fists, pretending that the old fucker isn’t there.

She was pregnant.

She was carrying my child.

I know it. I know it was mine. I fucked her more than anyone, ithadto be mine.

Maybe I should have bred her first.

But I didn’t want a child, I remind myself. And I certainly didn’t want a damned child with that bitch of all people.

So why the fuck am I acting like this? Why the fuck does it matter?

But it does matter. It does. She was carrying my child, and now she’s lost it. She stole that from me, stole another thing from my family.

That fucking bitch.

Before I can think, I’ve sent half the bottles on the side of the bar flying. They crash to the floor, shattering on impact and their contents spill out in a myriad of different colours.

“Alexander?”

Christ, even the way he’s saying my name is pissing me off.

He’s drunk, slurring his words, and I can barely stand to look at him.

I stalk back out, back into the storm, leaving the French doors to slam behind me.

She is there, practically within touching distance and yet I cannot reach her. Is she upset? Is she heartbroken? Is my brother even now comforting her, holding her, telling her that it’s okay, that he’ll make it better?

I bet he’s got his filthy hands all over her.

And I bet she isn’t even bothered, if anything I bet she’s rejoicing. She’s probably dancing for joy the way she did when she was off her head on the drugs and was dancing on the cliffs.

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