He nods. “Your father?”
Any good memories I have of my father are always overshadowed by that night, by the feeling of what I suspect was his blood I walked through as I was taken away. I shake my head. “I think he’s dead.”
Maverick takes a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, Del—” he cuts himself off. “I’m sorry. Losing a parent is never easy, even if you’re prepared for it.”
Our eyes connect. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
He nods. “My mom passed when I was eighteen. She had cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
He stands, apparently done with our conversation. “Get some rest. We’ll try to find out where your mother and brother are tomorrow.” He turns and ducks to leave the tent.
“Maverick.” This is the first time I’ve said his name out loud, and I think it surprises us both. He turns back around and looks down at me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Sinclair.” He whistles, and the dog gets up and follows him as he leaves the tent without a second glance.
I flop down on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, hating myself for wishing he would’ve called me Delilah again.
Delilah
Present Day
“Children under the age of ten of unfit parents shall be relocated to an appropriate household. Children over the age of ten shall attend the Brotherhood’s Institute for Boys or Girls.”—THE FAMILY UNIT, N.A.L. 7 § 6
I barely sleep. Partly because I know this is Maverick’s space and it feels indisputably wrong for me to be lying in another man’s bed—especially a man who seems to loathe my existence. And partly because I haven’t allowed myself to think this much about my mother or brother inyears, and now, they’re all I can think about.
Are they alive? Where are they? Did my mother remarry and have any other kids? My brother would be a teenager now… Would I even recognize him if I saw him on the street?
It’s all a bit overwhelming, and by the time I venture out in search of Maverick, my stomach is tight with anxiety. The sun is barely up, but if I wait any longer, my nails—which are already bitten down to ugly nubs—will start to bleed. Even though it’s hard to ponder, I’d rather be thinking about my lost family members than the awful truth that was revealed to me last night.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t get those images out of my head. The truth I’ve been taught is warring with the truth in my body, and it’s enough to make me dizzy.
For so long, Gabriel and the lords of the Brotherhood have been the standard for men, but it’s almost like seeing those videos allowed me to see things through someone else’s eyes. Even though I was watching myself, it felt like I was watching someone else, and all I could think was how much I pitied that girl. A girl who was more child than woman. A girl who was never given a choice.
I love Gabriel, I know I do. I’d be a monster if I spent eight years married to a man anddidn’tlove him, right? Not that I’ve ever heard him say thathelovesme, but his job isn’t to love me, it’s to provide for me. To protect me. That’s what marriage is: the man provides and protects, and the woman submits, serves, and obeys.
My ankle is still sore but definitely feels better after resting it all night, so I hobble out of the tent, though I have no idea where I’m going.
I make it all of ten steps before a voice calls out. “Morning, wifey.”
I turn toward the voice to find the woman from the other night—Bec, I think her name is—sitting on a tree stump and sharpening a stick with a knife. I do my best to smile at her. “Good morning.”
The smile she flashes my way is wolfish. Her hair is shaved on one side, with short, tousled waves on the top. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine, thank you.” It’s not her fault I was up all night thinking in circles.
She raises her pierced eyebrow at me, the silver ring glinting in the morning light. “Really, city girl? You don’t miss your towel warmer and your indoor plumbing?”
How does she know I own a towel warmer?“My accommodations were satisfactory.”
She chuckles. “God, don’t you wives ever say what you really think?”
I don’t really know what to say to that, so she just laughs and waves me over, jerking her head toward the stump next to hers. “Come sit. Mav will be here in a bit.”
I limp over and sit clumsily on the damp tree stump, grateful for the warmth radiating from the fire. Awkward silence ensues, so I try my best to make conversation. “How long have you known Maverick?”
Bec throws her stick into the fire and grabs a new one. “Eight years now.”
