Page 137 of Deliria

It’s not near me.

It’s the other side of the room from where I’m being pinned down and raped.

I can’t see the shooter from where I am, but I know in my heart who it is. I know exactly who is there.

High above, that beautiful Tiffany skylight cracks. I can see the lines as the fractures spread all along it like tiny little claws reaching out, claiming every piece.

It’s going to fall down.

It’s going to kill us all.

I tilt my head, staring up at it, entranced by all the beautiful colours. They look like snowflakes, like a rainbow, all fragmented, flittering to the floor.

Only, they’re not flittering softly down. They’re falling. Like bombs. Like tiny blades, slicing through the air.

And they’re coming right at us.

Rafferty

No. It’s not possible.

It can’t be him.

My mind is already a minefield of hallucinations and half-formed shadows, so it takes a full second to actually believe what I see. But then the figure steps forward, and I catch the sharp, chiselled angles of his face, the glint of familiarity in those cold, calculating blue eyes.

My breath snags in my throat.

Lionel Heath.

Scarlett’s father. Supposedly dead and buried. At least, that’s what my family were stupid enough to believe.

Yet here he is, walking down the staircase toward me with the kind of slow, deliberate movements of someone who knows he doesn’t need to rush. Someone who knows all their carefully laid plans are coming into fruition, as if God himself ordained it.

The man radiates power, and it’s not just the broad shoulders, the tailored black coat, or the faint scar that bisects his left eyebrow, giving him a permanent air of menace.

No, it’s in the sharp weight of his presence, in the way the air shifts just from him being here.

The door slams shut behind him, and I flinch at the echo. His voice follows, smoother than oil and twice as slick. “Well look what a fine mess you’ve made of everything, Rafe.”

I glare up at him, my wrists still straining uselessly against the chains. “What, how?” My voice sounds wrecked, like it’s been scraped over sandpaper. But me? I’m the one who’s made a damned mess?

I guess in a way he’s right. I didn’t stick to the plan, I didn’t stick to any of it.

I’m not meant to be here, in this god forsaken dungeon. I was meant to leave, to disappear days ago so that today, I’d be the one meeting him on the mainland. I’d be the one ensuring he got safe passage.

But did he really think I’d just leave Scarlett to it? Did he really think I was capable of that? Throwing her to the wolves and letting them feast on her carcass?

“What the hell are you doing here?” I snarl. It’s not me that needs help. It’s not me that he should be prioritising. Scarlett is out there, somewhere in this house. And now that she’s of age, there’s no more reason for her to keep breathing.

Lionel stops just short of where I’m chained, feet planted with a kind of command usually reserved for generals surveyingtheir troops. He smirks, God, I can see exactly where Scarlett gets her smirk from. But while hers is soft around the edges, his is razor-sharp.

“Cleaning up your disaster, boy. Isn’t that obvious?” He snaps back.

My teeth grind. “You’re the one who allowed your daughter to be used as bait. So, you don’t get to call this my mess.”

He kneels suddenly, so close that his face swims into terrifying focus. He smells like clean leather and cigarette smoke, an elegant menace all wrapped up in a tailored package. “That’s not the argument you want to be making, considering your treatment of her.”

I still, waiting for whatever words are next to come out of his mouth.

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