Page 14 of Deliria

He shakes his head, his eyes flashing bloody murder. “I am not your friend here, I am not your accomplice. I am not anything to you. Do you understand me?”

I take a step back, pulling myself free from his hands, but only because he allows me to. I’m torn between the desire to flee, and the desperate need for an ally in this house of horrors.

“I don’t need a friend.” I hiss. “I need help. Please, Rafe. You know what’s going on here, you know…”

“Shut up.” He snaps, slamming his hand over my mouth, beating those words back into me. “Shut up. Stop talking. Go back to your room and play the dutiful little wife before my brother finds out what you’ve been up to.”

What I’ve been up to? But I haven’t done anything. Is being out of bed at night such a cardinal sin as all that? I try to say just that but the words are a jumbled mess beneath his hold.

He pushes me in the direction of the door, watching as I tumble towards it without an ounce of compassion in his eyes.

“Go back to your bed, Scarlett. Go back to my brother.” He states, like he doesn’t know that Alex is not here. That for all intents and purposes, he and I are completely alone in this part of the house. That I could scream and fight and no one would ever hear me.

And he could do all manner of things, and no one would ever know.

Scarlett

The room spins in a dizzying waltz, the colossal chandelier above a blur of light and crystal.

My heart races, keeping time with a melody that becomes more and more haunting as it continues on.

The laughter of the guests swells around me, a cacophony of mirth that feels somehow malicious, as if each chuckle and guffaw is a knife aimed at my heart.

I take a step, my heels unsteady on the polished marble floor. The world tilts and I reach out, my fingers grazing the cool surface of a wall to steady myself. The air is thick with thescent of expensive perfumes and the musky undertones of too many bodies pressed together in the name of celebration.

And then the room is empty. Emptier. The beautiful women in their beautiful dresses are gone. The crowd has dispersed. It’s just me. Alone.

With them.

A glass, delicate and filled to the brim with red wine, topples from my grasp. It falls in slow motion, liquid arcing through the air like a spray of blood before it shatters against the floor.

The room grows darker, the edges of my vision dimming until all I can see is a pinprick of light, like a star flickering in the vast expanse of a night sky.

“Alex,” I whisper, though I don’t know why his name is the one on my lips.

And then he’s there, his hand encircling my wrist, his grip firm but not painful as he guides me away to the side room. His face swims into view, handsome and cold, his eyes reflecting the light of the chandelier above.

“Scarlett,” he says, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the noise in my head. “You’re making a scene.”

But I’m not. At least, I’m sure I’m not.

I try to speak, to ask him for help but my tongue is heavy, my thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.

I don’t understand what this is, why I feel so out of control.

I’m vaguely aware of being led through a maze of corridors that seem to stretch on forever.

Are we lost? Are we playing some sort of game? What is this?

We emerge into a room I don’t recognize, the decor more subdued than the opulence of the ballroom. Vincent is there, his silver hair gleaming under the soft glow of a desk lamp. He looks up as we enter, his expression unreadable.

His bow tie is undone. His shirt open.

He leans over me, his eyes searching mine for something I can’t quite grasp. Whatever words he says are lost on me. Forgotten before I can even take them in. Behind him stand two other men, men I know, men my family know.

They’re all here. All the people who orchestrated my family’s downfall. My family’s demise.

And then the hands.

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