Page 8 of Deliria

“She’s a whore,” Vincent replies. “Not sure what else you expected.”

“She’s my wife,” Alex snarls back. “And you will remember that.”

God, the relief I feel, the pathetic amount of joy that explodes in my chest at those words. So he does care then, he does. My lip trembles, I want to open my arms, to hug him, to show him that I’m so grateful in this moment, but I’m supposed to be asleep, unconscious, unaware of this.

I hang limply, continuing to play ‘the game’ while he continues to pull out more, more little sticks from where they’ve been lodged in my pussy like it’s some kind of secret compartment.

How did I not even feel them in there? How did I not even realise?

I glance at Vincent, and I can see he’s watching my face. He knows I’m awake. I know he does.

He did that to me, violated me, but why? What the fuck does he want?

Should I tell Alex, should I confess what his father did to me? Would he even believe me?

I know they’re close, that Alex trusts his father implicitly. All it would take is one word, one comment from Vincent and Alex would see me as some crazy person and not a victim at all.

I’m acutely aware of the fact that, even now. I’m still naked and Vincent is still here, standing beside my husband, staring at me. Alex doesn’t seem to care about that fact, does he? It doesn’t bother him that his father is gawping at his young wife like he wants to fuck her.

No, I can’t tell Alex. At least not yet. I can’t say anything until I figure out what the hell is going on here.

I need to find out the truth, no matter how painful or terrifying it might be. Because the only thing worse than the unknown, is being trapped in this waking nightmare.

Scarlett

It’s late when Alex comes to bed.

Rain is pattering against the glass and, because I didn’t close the curtains, the moonlight looks like it’s doing some skittish, manic dance over the furious waves.

I was too frantic to think about food.

I was too frantic to think about anything beyond this crazy situation.

I’ve already gone way past exhaustion in my confused and stressed state, but my mind won’t switch off no matter how much I desperately want to sleep, to dream.

I’m vaguely aware of him undoing his tie, taking his clothes off, tossing them into a pile for one of the maids to sort later.

His weight makes my body shift on the mattress, the cover is shifted, pulled off, and cold air replaces the comforting warmth.

As I’m manoeuvred around, I know what he wants, what is happening.

And yet there is no conversation, no discussion. Not even a check-in to see if I’m lucid.

For a second I wonder if he would still fuck me if he’d found that I’d dropped dead, but I don’t want to know the answer to that. I don’t want to think about it, to dwell on it.

He grabs my legs, opening me up enough for him to access and he yanks the silk shift he dressed me in right up so my breasts are fully exposed. With little tenderness he grabs at them, kneading them, fondling them, slapping them just enough that I gasp, and then there’s no doubt that I am fully awake.

But it’s the look he gives me, the hard, unblinking, arrogant stare he has as he meets my gaze and pushes himself as deep as he can inside me. All those cuts, those grazes, those nasty little wounds where his father buried those twigs protest as he begins to pound away.

“Al…” His name dies on my lips. Any plea is lost with it because this man doesn’t take no for an answer, doesn’t ever not get what he wants. This is his world. We’re all just his toys to do with as he wills. Maybe that’s what I should do, play the long game, play his perfect little toy for now, that would be the smart thing, the logical move.

“Fuck, you’re wet.” He groans, “So fucking wet. Have you been dreaming about me, waiting for me to come back and punish you?”

I gulp as those words still register.

“Pppunish. Punish for what?” I gasp.

His hand wraps around my throat as he lowers his mouth to my ear. “I know what you did today, Scarlett.”

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