She hugs her uninjured leg, less like a shield and more to protect it from her father’s brutal hand. Blinking her tears away, she begs, “Please. Look, you already hurt me.”
His full weight bears down on her leg as he kneels in front of her, undoing his belt. “You’re right, I don’thaveto,” he says, contradicting his actions.
Delilah cries through her pain, her body wracked with tremors. Just as her father pinches the tab of his zipper between his finger and thumb, the steel doors are pushed open. She uses the split second of his distraction to her advantage, kickinginto his chest with her agony powering her. Emotional, physical, mental—every bit of torment Harkin has caused bolsters Delilah’s ability to fight for herself for once.
She continues kicking him. His face, his chest, his thigh, any part she can reach. When he hits the floor with a thud in an effort to escape her assault, she abruptly stands. Only to instantly crumble at the pressure placed on her injured ankle. Placing one hand on the wall for support, she hobbles over him, managing to make it three steps towards the door when his leather loafer drives into her calf. He does it again, knocking her off-balance with so much force, the golden crest inlay will leave a perfect bruise of the filigree surrounding a ram.
“You stupid fucking bitch,” he grits, glaring as he stands.
There’s no option left for her to run, so she does the only thing she can and screams, “KANE!”
Harkin grabs her hair by the roots, his other hand balled into a fist, swinging up to land on her jaw. She continues screaming for a savior, the only one she ever had. “Kane! Please!” All while she punches out at her father, her fists weak, arms losing power after being deprived of food, water—care—for so long.
The hurt is enough to flood her veins with adrenaline. She hisses as her knuckles connect with Harkin’s nose. His grip on her hair tightens as she grits her teeth before dropping her weight down. There’s a moment his fingers loosen, and the pain Delilah feels is an honor, a sign she’s won. But he threads his foot between her ankles, tripping her as she reaches the threshold of the door where there’s a guard wearing all black in a mirrored mask. She’s forced to watch herself as the guard tilts their head, whimpering as the distorted reflection of her father crawls over her bruising body, pinning her down beneath his weight.
“No! Stop, please!” she cries, swinging her arms back, kicking the air.
The screams from the other captives restart, like they’re feeling her pain as Harkin undoes his zipper, gritting, “Do not fucking order me.”
She screams louder at the intrusion as he forces her knees under her.
“You will not embarrass me again,” he says, softer this time, smiling into the mirrored mask so she can see.
Just close your eyes, Delilah. Why would you want to watch?
But she can’t.
She can’t fight him or move.
Even without the drugs, she’s immobile as both her body and mind are violated.
She can’t stop him grunting above her, promising the guard the next turn. She can’t stop herself from witnessing it. She focuses on the screams now as her body shuts down, freezing in place. Those screams are her own, she tells herself. They may not be coming from her, but they are hers. They get louder, more pained, broken up with slams against the steel door. They pull everything towards them. Not Harkin though. He’s too busy collecting the one thing he craves—power. He could fuck whoever he wants, force his assistants to get down on their knees in an operating theater, or snatch his own plaything to take to The Dollhouse. Not Delilah, Scarlet, or Ruby. He was given the ultimate power over them as their father.
The guard is only controlled by their creator, so they abandon their post to act as a mirror to check on the other captive—the most important captive they will ever oversee.
Following the screams and slams, they walk through the stone basement set up as a maze to the cell on the other side. The begging is clearer as they stop in front of the steel door, loading the control panel beside the door to have a view inside since Helene ordered them not to enter. The screen comes tolife in thin lines, then four boxes providing an angle to view the tattooed man with blood on his hands from attempting to claw out the stone walls.
He slams both fists against the door, screaming, “Eighty-nine!”
Another slam. “Eighty-nine!”
A different shout. “Not ninety!”
6
KANE
“Eighty-nine!” I scream, my fists bloody from trying to escape this fucking room. Not again. I can’t go through it again.
I can hear them.
Right outside the doors.
They’re waiting to be let inside.
“Not ninety!”
It hasn’t been ninety days.
