Page 61 of Deliria

She screws her face up with more scorn, more disgust. “Your piece of shit father.”

Relief washes over me, just for a second. It wasn’t him; it wasn’t my brother. Rafferty hasn’t laid a hand on her.

But I was also very clear with my father, very explicit about the rules. He could fuck her all he wanted, he could hurt her, use her, do what he liked, but only in my presence. When she was alone, when I was not with her, she was off limits.

Apparently, he’s broken that rule.

I let out a huff which is met with a firm shove from Scarlett. “You bastard.” She screams again. “You sick, disgusting piece of shit.”

The maid hands me the needle as Scarlett does her best to fight, but she’s no match against me, against the staff either. I let them haul her back, pinning her flat against the mattress.

She shakes her head, she kicks out, but her legs meet nothing but the stale air.

I kneel over her, shoving my groin into her pelvis just for the sheer kick of seeing that fear in her eyes. It’s the only downside to the drugs, that it mutes her emotions, it tarnishes these moments. I jab the needle into the furious vein in her neck, pushing the plunger down, and within seconds that fight has gone entirely.

She slumps, she gasps, her limbs fall still, and the maids step away.

“There,” I soothe, brushing the sweaty hair from her face. “That’s better. It’s all better now.”

She doesn’t reply, though she tries to. A soft gurgling noise comes from her lips. I brush my thumb over them, feeling how cracked they are. Her skin looks dry too. She looks unkempt. She looks like a mess.

She’s practically unfuckable in the state she’s in.

“Get her washed.” I say. “And brush her hair too.”

The maids nod in unison, but I don’t stay to see it done. I need to find my father. He broke the rules, he disrespected me in going behind my back, and I need to make it clear that I won’t stand for it.

I push the door open,my gaze immediately falling on my father seated behind his grand mahogany desk. His silver hair is slicked back, a testament to his fastidious nature, and his eyes, a mirror of my own, are fixed on the neatly laid out paperwork before him.

My mother is behind him, standing like a beady little bird, staring down over his shoulder.

“Father,” I begin, my voice steady despite how pissed off I am. “We need to talk about Scarlett.”

He doesn’t look up, his attention seemingly consumed by the columns of numbers that occupy his time. “What about her?” he asks, the dismissiveness in his tone igniting the simmering rage beneath my skin.

“You’ve gone behind my back,” I accuse, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. “We had an agreement. She’s my wife, and you had no right?—”

“No right?” he interrupts, finally deigning to meet my gaze. “I have every right. She belongs to this family, just as you do. Just as I do.”

My mother remains silent, her cold eyes watching the exchange with an air of detachment. It’s as if she’s merely a spectator. In moments like this, I wonder whether my father drugs her too. But then she doesn’t need such measures to keep her under control. She’s had years and years of practice, years of training. He taught her what it meant to be a Forster long before I or my brother were born.

The air in the room grows thick with tension, a palpable force that seems to choke what little life there is in this opulent space.

I can feel the weight of my mother’s gaze, yet her silence is a void that offers no comfort, no counsel.

“She’s not just a piece of property to be used at your leisure,” I retort, my voice a low growl that betrays the thin veneer of control I’m struggling to maintain. “We had a deal, and you broke it. You disrespected me.”

My father leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him as he regards me with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

“Disrespected you?” he echoes, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Alexander, I think you’re overreacting. She’s just a woman—a means to an end, as you well know. Why should it matter when or how I choose to enjoy what’s rightfully ours?”

My mother shifts uncomfortably, her eyes flitting between my father and me, but she remains mute. Her loyalty to the man who rules this house is as unyielding as the stone walls that contain us.

“It matters because you made a promise,” I insist, though the words sound infantile even to me. “Because when you take what’s mine without my consent, you undermine everything we’re working towards. You make me look weak.”

My father scoffs, waving his hand as if to dismiss my concerns. “Weak?” he repeats. “Weak? You’re a Forster. Weakness is not in our blood. Clearly this business with the girl is clouding your judgement. There are greater machinations at play here than your petty jealousies.”

“It’s not petty…” I begin but he cuts across me.

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