Page 85 of Deliah
“Deliah!”
Damion’s voice was far away at first, muffled like it was underwater. Then it sharpened. Closer. Panicked. He dropped to his knees beside me, pale as death. His hands hovered above me like he didn’t know where to touch. “Baby—fuck—baby, are you okay? Talk to me!”
I couldn’t. My throat was thick with copper and shock. My body wouldn’t move. He gathered me up like I was weightless and kicked open the staffroom doors. Cherry was standing right there.
She screamed. “What the fuck happened?! She’s bleeding!” she cried, eyes wild, running after us. “What did you do?!”
“I didn’t fucking do anything!” Damion shouted, voice cracking with rage. “We have to go—now.”
He cradled me in the back seat like something breakable. I barely registered the slam of the door or Cherry clambering in beside me, whispering my name like a prayer.
Damion was gone and back in seconds, pressing a cold cloth to my scalp, swearing under his breath, trying to keep pressure where it poured. The car roared to life. Tyres screeched. Their voices blurred, melting into shouts and static. I couldn’t tell if they were yelling at each other or at themselves or at the sky. All I knew was the blood on my hands, the spinning lights of Marbella, and the black pulling me under like a tide I couldn’t fight. And then—nothing.
I woke up to bright lights and a pounding in the back of my skull. Everything felt hazy—thick, like I was underwater. Damion was hunched over me, holding a blood-soaked cloth against my head, his hand trembling slightly. On the other side of the bed, Cherry sat stiffly in the visitor’s chair, eyes red, mascara smudged like she’d been crying. They both looked terrified.
“What’s happening?” I croaked, my throat dry like I’d swallowed sand.
“You passed out, baby,” Damion said softly, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “They’re coming to stitch you up now, alright? You’re okay. You’re safe.”
My vision swam again. “What… happened?”
“Shhh.” His voice was low, soothing. “Don’t worry about that now. Just rest. I’ve got you.”
The doctor came in a few minutes later. Young, efficient, barely looked me in the eye. They cleaned the wound, numbed me, and began stitching as Damion sat beside me, hand gripped tight in mine. I flinched with every tug of the needle, but I didn’t make a sound. I just stared at the ceiling, trying to piece everything together like a dream that kept slipping through my fingers. The fight. The blood. Charlie’s voice calling me a whore. Damion throwing punches like a man possessed. And then nothing.
I drifted in and out of sleep for the next hour. I could hear the murmur of Cherry and Damion talking quietly beside me. At one point, I felt Cherry squeeze my hand and whisper, “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Get some rest.” I think I nodded. Or maybe I imagined it. Tommy came to collect her.
And then it was just me and Damion. He carried me to the car and strapped me into the passenger seat so gently it made my chest ache. The drive was silent, the kind of silence that says everything without needing words. When we got home, he carried me into the house, straight through the darkened villa, and into the bedroom. He laid me down like a fragile little baby. Tucked the duvet around me. Sat on the edge of the bed, brushing his thumb over my temple like he didn’t want to stop touching me—even for a second.
“I’m here,” he whispered again. I closed my eyes and let sleep take me.
Chapter 28 –
Vanilla
Ididn’t wake up until nearly one in the afternoon. My head throbbed with a deep, dull ache, like a storm rolling behind my eyes. The room was quiet, dimly lit by the afternoon sun spilling through the curtains. Everything felt still—too still—except for the steady, warm weight of Damion beside me. He was still there. Still by my side. He looked exhausted. Dark shadows sat beneath his eyes, and his jaw was tight with tension. His knuckles were swollen and bruised, and a purpling mark had bloomed beneath one of his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Like he hadn’t moved. Just waited. Watching. Guarding. Blaming himself.
As soon as my eyes fluttered open, his head turned sharply towards me. Relief washed over his face like a wave. “Hey, baby,” he said softly. “You okay?”
I blinked. Tried to answer. But nothing came out. A second later, I broke. The tears came hot and fast, spilling down my cheeks like they’d been waiting all night. I didn’t even know what I was crying for—shock, pain, humiliation, fear—maybe all of it. Maybe more.
Damion didn’t flinch. He just wrapped his arms around me, pulling me gently into his chest. “Shhh, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I’m here.”
I buried my face in his chest and sobbed harder.
“I’m so sorry you got hurt,” he whispered against my hair. “This is my fault. I should’ve protected you.” His voice cracked at the end, low and filled with something heavy. Guilt, maybe. Or grief.
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. I just held onto him like a lifeline while he rocked me gently, pressing slow kisses into my temple as I cried myself back to sleep. By the time I woke again, the sun had dipped and the room was filled with a soft golden glow. I stared at the ceiling for a while, not moving, just letting the weight of everything settle over me. Charlie’s words were still echoing in my head. Twisting. Repeating.Just another one of his whores.A tear slid down my temple.
Damion noticed I was awake and immediately pulled me closer. His arm came around my waist, and I let out a quiet whimper as the pain in my head flared. “Here, take these,” he said gently, reaching for the painkillers he’d already set on the bedside table. He handed them to me with a glass of water and waited until I’d taken both before setting them down again. We sat there in silence for a while. Just breathing. His thumb traced slow, comforting circles on my hip, grounding me in the moment.
Eventually, I spoke, my voice barely above a whisper. “I need a wash.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he said, brushing a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll run you a bath.”
He disappeared for a few minutes, then returned to help me sit up. He stripped me down gently—like he was forbidden to touch me, careful not to rush or ask questions. He didn’t make me feel weak or helpless. Just held me with a kind of reverence I wasn’t used to.
When we got to the bathroom, the tub was already steaming, soft candlelight flickering from the windowsill. He stepped in behind me, fully clothed, and lowered me between his legs, my back pressed to his chest. I didn’t speak. He didn’t ask me to. He picked up the sponge and washed me slowly, carefully, as if each movement was an apology he didn’t know how else to give. His touch was gentle, soothing. His lips occasionally brushed my shoulder as he whispered, “I’ve got you, baby. You’re okay now. I won’t let anything happen to you again.”
