“Not yet.” I nuzzle into the crook of her neck. “I want to hold you a little longer.”
Her arms are limp at her sides as she refuses to touch me. Even her back is stiff. I slowly pick my head up, watching her for any sign I’ve hurt her, but she’s accustomed to pain, too proud to allow it to show.
“Did I hurt you, pretty girl?” I ask.
“No. Your dick is still inside me.”
“Okay, and? We used to sleep like this—you on top of me, my dick in you.”
“That was different.”
“Yeah, it was.” I force her to look at me. “Because you’re my fucking wife now.”
“You know what? Everyone thinks I’m crazy, but I was right.This isn’t real. I never agreed to be your wife. I was given to your family like an object.”
“This,” I gesture between us, “is real. You are my wife. I don’t give a fuck what happens, I’m going to die as your husband.”
“Good luck with that.” She sighs. “Can you get off me now, so I can go inside?”
“This is real, Delilah.” Placing two fingers on her jaw, I turn her head as I lean forward. “Hate me, hurt me—fuck, you can even kill me—you’ll be doing it as my wife.”
“You have no idea who you are. What hope is there of me knowing you? The old Kane doesn’t exist, Ghost is a fucking nutcase, whatever you are right now isn’t genuine because you’re frightened. I’m comfortable to you. I put up with your shit and how you hurt me, but it isn’t reality. We can tell ourselves as many lies as we want, but none of them will change anything. There won’t be any dates when there’s no relationship.”
I don’t give a fuck what she thinks about me or if she hates me. As long as I’m with her, we’ll both be safe, so she can lie to herself again but it’s not going to change shit.
She gently moves my arm away; it drops down to the stone ledge without any life as she climbs back inside. Until she tries to take the bag and I say, “Leave it. The food will last longer here. They won’t find it either.”
Her presence is something I can literally feel leaving as the drapes rustle. She’s not with me so the voices are all I’m left with.
Voices.
Memories.
And the knife to take them away.
17
DELILAH
There’s no effort required to appear broken as I limp into the bathroom. My bodily aches are good, they make me feel alive, but the one in my chest is life-threatening.
Why did he have to say he loves me?
It’s not fair for him to dump his emotions on me when it’s his fault. If I think about it, I’ll spiral, find illogical reasons to forgive him, then crumble. Wanting care isn’t enough of a reason to accept abuse. It’s what I’ve always done, whether it be from my parents or him.
I clean myself up without needing anyone to do it for me or be attached to me. This place is fucking with my head because there’s a small spark of gratitude for all the fucked up shit I’m surrounded by. Without it, I wouldn’t have seen my own errors, I’d still crave companionship, but now I’m not afraid of being alone. It’s pretty difficult to fear anything when the monsters I once managed to escape have a face.
Tears burn up the back of my nose, but I refuse to fucking cry. They’re not of sadness or despair—it’s anger. I end up ripping my hair out as I battle the buckle on my nape to get theleash off in my rage and I grip the edge of the sink as I control my breathing.
My father always said there were three steps to success: find the weakness, exploit it, then provide the solution. It’s why he would invest in companies pushing out material to make people self-conscious after he opened his plastic surgery wing. Of course, his consultation fees alone covered the cost of the investment. There’s something sinister in purposefully making someone feel like less to the point they’re riddled with so much anxiety they’re incapable of leaving the house. They don’t just avoid the mirror; they avoid any surface that could possibly show them their reflection.
But my three steps to success are simple.
Don’t fall back in love with Kane.
