Page 23 of Deliah

“Deliah,” he drawled, like he hadn’t ghosted me for weeks. “Looking good.”

I rolled my eyes. “What do you want?”

“You.”

“You always want me when no one else is around.”

He stepped closer, flicked the cigarette to the floor, and crushed it under his shoe. “You think I haven’t missed this mouth?”

I crossed my arms. “Get to the point.”

“I dream about it, you know,” he said, voice low. “The way you taste. The way you look when you come.”

My breath hitched. Stupid. My body reacting before my brain could stop it.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You love it.”

He pressed me hard against the wall before I could reply. Too hard. His hands grabbed my wrists, pinned them above my head like it was still his right. I struggled.

“Fuck off,” I spat, trying to twist free.

He gripped tighter. Fingers digging in deep—deliberate.

Enough to bruise. My skin burned under his touch, my body screaming for me to push him away.

I should’ve. I should’ve kicked him off and walked back inside.

But I didn’t. Because for one fucked up second, I wanted to feel nothing.

And Jay was good at that. At turning everything numb with heat and hate and history.

His mouth crashed into mine, rough and familiar, and my body betrayed me.

We fucked in the alley like we used to. Fast. Messy.

No emotion. He pulled my thong aside and had me up against the bricks, my legs around his waist, my hands clawing at his back while I pretended not to care.

“God, I missed your pussy,” he growled into my ear.

“Shut up,” I whispered back.

When it was over, I adjusted my dress, picked my pride up off the floor, and walked away before he could say anything else.

I felt sick the whole way home. Not because of Jay.

Because of Damion. Because even though he wasn’t mine, even though we weren’t sleeping together or kissing or confessing anything—we were something.

And I’d tainted it. I didn’t know what we were.

Maybe I was just therapy for him, too. Some distraction.

But still—I couldn’t shake the guilt. And that told me more than I wanted to admit.

The next day, I saw Damion. He didn’t act like anything was off at first. Just gave me that soft smile—the one that never reached his eyes but somehow still made me feel safer than I deserved. He passed me a coffee like always and asked, “You eaten?”

I shook my head. “Not hungry.”

He nodded like he understood. Started the engine and said nothing else.

But I could feel something simmering—he was holding back, the air between us loaded.

I kept my gaze fixed out the window, my fingers curled tight around the cup.

I’d scrubbed my skin raw in the shower that morning, but I still felt dirty.

We drove in silence, winding up towards the cliffs.

It was cloudy day, grey sea, grey sky, and this buzzing panic sitting heavy in my chest. I couldn’t sit still or breathe right.

And then—he looked at me. Not a glance. A full-body turn at a red light, his eyes scanning me slowly, methodically, and then stopping—right on my wrists.

He reached for them before I could stop him.

His fingers grazed the bruises. Barely touched them.

His jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack.

“He fucking hurt you, Deliah?”

My heart slammed. “No,” I lied, voice too sharp, too fast. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t blink.

“Please,” I added, softer. “Can we not talk about it?”

His nostrils flared. His hands gripped the steering wheel again. Knuckles white. And then, so low I almost missed it, I heard him mutter, “I’ll fucking kill him.”

The words hit like a bullet to the chest. My stomach turned, and I couldn’t tell if it was fear or guilt or both.

“I said I’m fine,” I snapped, but my voice cracked halfway through.

He didn’t answer or look at me again. The rest of the drive was thick with silence—stifling, tense.

My anxiety crawled up my throat like something alive.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw myself out of the car and run until I couldn’t feel anything.

Because I’d let it happen, and I didn’t stop Jay.

Now Damion knew, and he wasn’t the kind of man to just let that go.

He parked at the cliff edge, engine still humming.

We sat there, both staring out at the sea, pretending the silence was peaceful when it was anything but.

I couldn’t even cry. Couldn’t do anything except sit there and feel like the worst kind of liar.

And somehow—he still didn’t leave. He stayed.

Fuming. Quiet. Protective in a way that made my heart ache.

And I hated myself because I didn’t deserve him.

Later that night, curled up in my sheets with the lights off and my phone on silent, I cried.

Not for Jay. Not even for Damion. For me.

For the version of me that kept mistaking pain for passion.

That let herself be hurt because she thought she deserved it.

That couldn’t tell the difference between affection and control. I was fucking pathetic.