Page 13 of Deliria

It’s identical to the one upstairs, down to the last, terrifying detail.

But how can that be?

Who painted this, and why are there two identical portraits in this house? What the hell is going on here?

I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t hear the footsteps approaching until it’s too late. A figure emerges from the shadows, their sudden appearance making me gasp and jump back in surprise, and my body slams into an old chest, no doubt earning me a new bruise to accompany all the others I have.

“Scarlett,” Rafe’s voice whispers, his dark eyes reflecting the scant moonlight that filters in through a small, grime-covered window. “What are you doing down here? You should be in bed.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words die in my throat. I’m acutely aware of the distance between us, the way he’s looking at me as if he can see right through the armour I’ve spent so long constructing.

It doesn’t help that beneath this robe, I’m wearing very little. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. But in an entirely different way to how I should.

This man puts the very fear of God into me. He’s huge, far bigger than Alex, far bigger than their father too. He’s all muscles, power, sheer fucking dominance and I don’t doubt he could break me with very little effort on his part.

And yet, beneath that fear, beneath that voice in my head that screams at me to run, I know Rafe is not my husband. I know he is not his father either. Yes, there’s a ruthless side, but is it naïve to think that he might be my saviour? My knight in shining armour in whatever this horrific nightmare is?

“I, I couldn’t sleep,” I finally manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted some fresh air.

His lips tilt up into a smirk and his eyes look around us both. He doesn’t have to point out the irony of where we are, how this air is the complete opposite of ‘fresh’.

“I found this.” I add, holding the painting up for him to see, the horror of my discovery evident in my trembling hands.

Rafe steps closer, his gaze flickering from me to the canvas and back again.

“Where did you find this?” he asks, his tone serious.

“Over there,” I gesture toward the pile of paintings. “But there’s another one in my studio. Exactly the same.”

Rafe’s brow furrows, a flicker of concern crossing his features. “Show me.”

He’s not asking, not imploring. He’s ordering.

I bite down on the stupid thrill that realisation has on me. He’s my brother-in-law. Alex’s younger brother. And yet, despite the fact that I know he is dangerous, I feel safer in this moment with him than I do with my own husband. Christ, I really have lost it, haven’t I?

I lead him back through the cellar, the painting now tucked under his arm after he took it from me, because apparently even that weight might be too much for my “fragile state”. We climb the staircase in silence, and it feels like an uneasy truce settles between us.

When we reach the library, Rafe takes the lead, guiding me toward the door that leads to the upper levels of the mansion.

We make our way to my studio, and because it’s in one of the larger towers, the view out the windows is more captivating than ever. But in this moment even that haunting beauty does nothing for me. It’s the portrait, that damned horrific piece of art that holds my full attention.

Sat on its easel, it seems even more sinister in the darkness, its twisted visage a grotesque mockery of my former self.

Rafe examines the painting, his fingers tracing the contours of my painted face. “This is... disturbing,” he admits, his voice laced with an undercurrent of anger. “I didn’t know this was here.”

“You didn’t know?” I echo, my eyes searching his for any sign of deception. “But you said—you warned me about the cliffs, about being careful. You know something, Rafe. You have to.”

I hate how desperate I sound. I hate how much I need him to agree with me, to validate all of this. To confirm that I’m not mad, I’m not paranoid, that there is something very, very wrong here.

He turns to face me, his expression unreadable. “You need to go back to your room, Scarlett.” He says in a way that sounds so contrived. “It’s not safe for you. You need to…”

“I need to what?” I snap, finally losing what little patience I have left.

His hands grasp me, his grip every bit as brutal as I’d imagine it to be.

“This isn’t a game.” He snarls, shaking me like he’s trying to push some sense into me. “There are real consequences. Do you want yourself to be hurt more…?”

“More?” What does he mean by more? What the fuck does that mean?

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