Page 138 of Deliria

He grabs my jaw, his grip unrelenting and brutal.

“I asked you to watch over her. Not to fuck her.” He growls. “But I guess I should have known what you’d do. You’re just like the rest of them, just like your father, you’re only capable of thinking with your cock.”

“That’s not true.” I spit back. “I didn’t force her, I didn’t…” My voice trails off because those words aren’t exactly true. No, I didn’t hold her down, I didn’t fuck her, but she wasn’t exactly consenting, at least not the first time.

If he thinks I’ll apologise for it, if he thinks I’ll go down on my knees and beg his forgiveness, he can fuck right off.

“We don’t have time for this.” I state.

He tilts his head slightly, watching me like he’s already planned ten different ways this conversation could end. Then, as if deciding to humour me, he pulls a sleek handgun from beneath his coat. He places it in my lap with unsettling grace, as if handing me a gift wrapped in silk ribbon. “Why do you think I’m here, Rafe? You think I’m capable of just marching in there and killing everyone single handedly?”

For a moment, I’m too stunned to move. Then urgency surges within me like wildfire. “The chains, get them off. Now.” My voice is more desperate than I’d like, but I don’t care. Scarlett’s name drums in my head, over and over, and it feels like any minute now all of this will be for nothing.

Lionel’s smirk twists into something closer to satisfaction as he removes a slim tool from his pocket and leans forward.

Why the fuck isn’t he the one panicking? Why the fuck isn’t he racing to save her?

The chains fall away with a metallic clang that echoes through the dungeon, and I don’t even wait to rub the circulation back into my wrists. I’m on my feet, grasping the gun he offers me in one hand, ignoring the ache in every muscle. Lionel rises lazily, unconcerned with my frantic energy.

“Careful where you point that,” he says, as I dart for the door.

“We’re here for Scarlett,” I throw over my shoulder, already halfway up the stairs. “You said it yourself.”

“I did. Scarlett is my priority. So don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m doing any of this for you,” he replies coolly, following with measured steps. The weight of his words lingers, but I don’t have the luxury of analysing them.

We barely makeit into the hallway when the first set of footsteps barrels toward us. I see the glint of a blade before I hear the shout.

Lionel’s already moving, faster than I anticipated for someone who talks like every second is an inconvenience. He doesn’t hesitate. Raising a second pistol from his coat, Lionel fires a single, silenced shot like he’s a practiced assassin.

The assailant crumples to the floor before I even have time to process the attack.

“Stay sharp, boy,” Lionel murmurs, cool and detached, like he just stepped out of a business meeting instead of taking a life. “There’s more where that came from.”

Boy? Fucking boy?I’m a thirty-seven-year-old man. I bite back the retort that’s on the cusp of my tongue.

He’s right. The commotion has drawn others. Shadows spill from open doorways as armed men charge toward us. My grip tightens on the gun, and for the first time since waking in that cell, I feel something close to control surging through me.

My aim is steady, my movements instinctual. It’s like I’ve been preparing for this moment my entire life.

The first man goes down with a shot to the leg. He bellows, collapsing into a heap, and I finish him with a kick to the jaw that sends his head snapping back against the marble floor. I turn just as another closes in on Lionel’s flank.

Before I can shout a warning, Lionel spins, moving as if he’s done this a thousand times. Two shattering gunshots later, the hallway falls silent again.

“Well, at least you’re not entirely useless,” he mutters, picking a speck of non-existent lint off his sleeve.

I ignore the jibe. There’s no time. Scarlett is all I can think about. Scarlett, alone in this house of horrors. There’s no telling what Alexander has done to her while I’ve been locked away.

My stomach churns with the images my mind conjures, possibilities too dark to dwell on. I grit my teeth and push forward, Lionel keeping an infuriatingly cool pace behind me.

The closer we get to the heart of the mansion, the louder the noise becomes. Music, twisted and warped, echoes from a distant source—the ballroom. Beneath it, I can make out the faintest sound of raised voices. Screams, maybe. My pulse quickens at the sound.

The next group of attackers comes at us on the grand staircase. They’re better equipped, but Lionel and I fight like men possessed. A bullet grazes my shoulder, and the pain is sharp but grounding. I barrel through the nearest man, slamming his head against the banister before shoving him down the stairs.

Blood splatters the carved wood, and I hear Lionel let out an exasperated sigh as he dispatches two others with a knife he’s somehow produced from nowhere.

“Are you always this messy, or is that just part of your charm?”

“Shut up and keep moving,” I snap, wiping blood from my face with the back of my hand.

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