Page 23 of Deliria

My father grunts, stalking off to the bathroom, evidently unimpressed with having to play nursemaid. But I can’t leave her in that state. I can’t leave her filthy and unkempt.

I hear the taps come on, the sound of rushing water hitting porcelain.

Her underwear is more damp than her dress. That too gets tossed.

She’s freezing cold. Her nipples are so hard they could probably cut diamonds. Her skin erupts into goosebumps despite the warmth of the room, and it has a purply blue shade to it that’s more than a little alarming.

I carry her easily. Even if I didn’t work out as much as I do, it wouldn’t be a particular struggle. She barely weighs a thing these days.

I need to keep a better record of her calorie intake. Did she even have lunch?

My father steps back as I ease her into the tub. And then I reach over, grabbing the expensive bubble bath and pour a load in. The water is only up to the halfway point, but I need her to warm up, and standing around waiting won’t do her any good.

“Is that necessary?” My father asks, eyeing the bottle in my hand.

“She stinks.” I state.

“No one wants a wife that smells like shit.” He replies, like that’s some new philosophy he’s just discovered.

Yeah, that’s true. I doubt anyone would argue with that.

“No one wants to fuck a wife that smells like shit either.” He says, picking up a strand of her hair and dropping it like she’s worthless.

I narrow my eyes, suppressing the rush of anger, and do my best to block out his voice.

She’s completely defenceless right now. I could do anything to her. I could clean her, hurt her, push her down under the water and watch her drown. People talk about power, but no one really understands what that is until you have another human being completely at your mercy.

I lean over, grabbing the sponge and bit by bit I wash her clean, feeling like I’m Jesus washing away the sins, washing away the chaos.

Only, I know, come tomorrow, she’ll probably end up in the same state. And I’ll be here, taking care of her again. Being the dutiful husband, as if that is what I signed up to on our wedding day.

In sickness and health - I didn’t expect those words to actually come to fruition.

At least, not like this.

A tap at the door makes us both look up. Rafferty stands blocking the entire frame, his face set in his usual scowl. I’m still more than furious that he’s even here, that my father relented and let that piece of shit back into the family fold. As if he’s all forgiven.

I grit my teeth, trying to control my fury as he stares down at Scarlett with not even a bit of shame.

She’s my wife. Mine.

And besides, he’s already made it abundantly clear he doesn’t want a part of this.

“Doctor is here.” He says in that bored, disinterested tone.

“Send him up.” Our father says but I cut across him, shaking my head.

“Have him wait for us in the drawing room.” I order. “I’ll finish up here. You go down.”

Our father meets my gaze with a hard look before he gets to his feet. “Fine.”

No doubt he was hoping to stay longer, to also leer at my wife more. I guess I should feel more protective of her, considering the state she’s in. But I don’t. I’m long past caring about preserving her dignity, because she threw that out the window the moment she became such a fucking nightmare.

I don’t move until they’re both gone. The water already feels like it’s cooled. Scarlett has somehow slipped a good foot while I wasn’t paying attention, and her chin is now just beneath the surface. If I walked away, she’d probably slip under and it would all be over.

Nice.

Simple.

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