Page 129 of Damsel in Disguise

Ariella stands behind Delilah in the center of the living room. One arm curled around her, holding her wrists in place, the other presses a knife against her throat.

The blade glints under the overhead light, kissing skin just enough to promise damage.

Delilah is shaking. Her entire frame is trembling, breaths uneven, barely held together.

I’ll give credit for her top-notch acting. I’m just surprised seeing her playing the role of a meek housewife when I know how I designed her—a highly trained assassin.

Ariella is too calm and composed for her age. Wrapped in black from head to toe, her presence cuts through the room with unmasked authority.

“Hey there,” she chirps lightly, as if we’re meeting over coffee instead of blood. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

It’s the first time I’m hearing her voice like this—lowered just enough to carry a sultry edge that doesn’t belong to innocence.

It hits harder than it should.

A sudden, intrusive urge to put her on her knees and fuck her throat crosses my mind—force that voice deeper, choke it out of her the way I did that night until all that remains is breath and submission.

The thought flashes fast. The following second, it’s gone just as quickly. Delilah’s whimper cuts through it, grounding the moment back into reality.

“What are you doing?” my tone steadier than the situation deserves as I take a step closer towards the scene.

Her grip tightens slightly around Delilah’s neck, the blade shifting just enough to press a fraction deeper, not cutting—just reminding me who has the upper hand.

“It’ll be a mistake if you come any closer,” she coos softly, but it halts me mid-motion.

My gaze flicks to the knife, then back to her masked face. “You walked into my house, threatening to kill my wife, and still dare to think I’m the one making a mistake?”

“I had to make sure you’d look at me,” she murmurs, almost absently, like she’s thinking aloud instead of speaking to me.

“You never really do… not when it matters. I’ve been inside your life longer than she has… and you still don’t really see me.”

Delilah lets out a broken sound, her fingers twitching uselessly against Ariella’s hold.

I nearly scoff. She could turn the tables at any moment if she wanted. Then again, I still don’t know what training Ariella had back in Sydney.

“Shh,” Ariella hushes her gently, tilting her head just slightly as if the sound itself irritates her.

“Do you see me now?” her attention snaps back to me. “Or do I still have to bleed for it?”

There’s something underneath the façade—unsteady, fractured, real.

My jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “This isn’t the best way to get my attention.”

A soft, broken gasp slips past her lips, dissolving into something shakier.

“You were easier to notice when you stayed in the shadows.”

Delilah’s body begins to tremble violently—or rather, it’s Ariella. The tremor runs through her entire frame, not just her shoulders.

Her instability bleeds into the way she holds Delilah, dragging her into it.

The knife remains in place, unwavering despite the visible fracture in her composure.

She’s crying openly now.

Tears slip unchecked, her breathing uneven, breaking on quiet, jagged inhales—yet her grip doesn’t loosen as I anticipated. If anything, it steadies as though she’s anchoring herself through Delilah’s body.

Meanwhile, Delilah sobs in silent, trembling breaths, her eyes squeezing shut every time the blade presses too close against her throat.