Page 39 of Deliria

Vincent’s stare is cold and calculating, his gaze raking over me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. Irene doesn’t even bother to look up from her place setting, her disapproval evident in the set of her shoulders and the tight line of her lips.

But it’s Rafe who holds my attention. Even from across the room, I can feel the heat of his gaze, its intensity a stark contrast to the indifference he typically displays. His eyes lock onto mine, and it feels like a silent question hanging in the air between us.

Do you understand now? Have you been paying enough attention?

I tear my gaze away, focusing instead on the empty chair that Alex pulls out for me with a flourish. With as much grace as Ican muster, I take my seat, acutely aware of the way the fabric of the dress stretches taut against my thighs. My heart is now pounding in my chest, a frantic, staccato rhythm that matches the clinking of cutlery against China as the first course is served.

Around me, the conversation flows. It’s mostly a stream of idle chatter and polite inquiries that I answer with single-syllable responses because my focus is too divided between maintaining my compliant facade and navigating the labyrinth of my own thoughts.

Every word feels like it’s being pulled from my lips with great effort.

Every smile is a betrayal of the turmoil that rages beneath the surface.

I pick at my food, pushing the pieces around on my plate, their rich aromas now a nauseating reminder of my captivity. I tell myself that I’m not hungry, that it’s not fear constricting my throat like a noose, not anxiety churning in my stomach like acid.

When the meal is finished and the last of the dishes have been cleared, Irene rises gracefully from her chair. She offers a curt “Goodnight” to her husband and sons, air-kissing each in turn before disappearing upstairs without so much as a backward glance in my direction. Her departure is abrupt, leaving a palpable tension in her wake that seems to seep into the very walls of the dining room. It’s like she was making some sort of statement, sending some unspoken message.

Rafe follows her lead, muttering something I don’t quite catch as he pushes himself away from the windowsill. But I see that look on his face all the same. That way he’s intentionally avoiding all our gazes. His expression is full on bloody murder.

“Don’t you want to stay, brother?” Alex says. “We haven’t even had dessert yet. It’s nice and sweet, just how you like it.”

Rafe turns, glaring back at him with his hands curled into fists like he might just beat him to a pulp. Only, instead, he looks across at his father, and again my gut tells me there’s something unspoken there. Something I’m missing.

“I’m not hungry.” He all but growls before storming out.

His leaving seems to unsettle Alex, who watches him go with a narrowed gaze, his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. But why would he be upset? He hates Rafe, surely him retiring for the night would be a good thing?

“Is everything okay?” I venture, hating the way my voice wavers, the way it betrays the fear that I’ve fought so hard to hide.

Alex turns his attention back to me, his eyes softening as he reaches under the table to take my hand in his. “Of course, my love. Why wouldn’t it be?”

I have no answer to give him, no reassurance to offer. All I have are suspicions and half-formed questions that I dare not voice for fear of what might happen if I do. I swallow hard, forcing a weak smile onto my face, playing the part of the devoted wife, the meek and obedient woman who knows her place and keeps her doubts to herself.

Before I can say anything further, Alex rises from his seat, pulling me up alongside him. He leads me from the dining room, his grip now firm and unyielding, and into the dimly lit smoking lounge next door.

The heavy scent of tobacco hangs thick in the air, stinging my eyes and making my throat itch.

I don’t want to be here.

I know it. I can feel it. My head is screaming at me to leave, and yet there’s no tangible reason for it. No logical explanation.

Vincent strolls in with a cigar clamped between his teeth, and he reclines in one of the plush armchairs, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames in the fireplace.

His presence here sends a fresh wave of terror coursing through my veins.

I have to get away from them. Both of them.

I take a step back, then another, feigning a yawn. “I’m feeling tired.” I say trying to sound as calm as I possibly can. “I think I’ll go to bed, I should rest anyway…”

“You’re going nowhere.” Alex cuts across me. His voice is sharp, cruel. One I’ve heard numerous times, but never in my memory was it directed at me. It’s like that beautiful façade has come crashing down. Like the man who is my husband has just disappeared, morphed into a monster.

Confusion gives way to complete panic. Gone is my concern about keeping up appearances. Gone are all thoughts of pretending to be obedient. My eyes find the door and I fling myself at it.

Alex’s hand shoots out, grabbing my arm and I’m thrown back onto the plush rug.

His face is no longer that handsome one I’m used to. Instead, it’s morphed into that of a snarling beast.

He reaches down, wrapping his hand around my throat and hauls me to my feet. As I dangle, helpless and pathetic, he takes a fistful of my dress right at my cleavage, and rips it apart with terrifying ease.

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