Page 21

KANE

I keep checking the news outlets for any information on Delilah’s death.

The fire has been reported and, from the information provided to the insurance, it hadn’t swept through the building.

But there’s nothing about a charred body.

I already removed any trace of Jeremy Fitch and he’s locked in the space below my parents, happily rotting away in the family crypt that I’ve found myself in.

Delilah couldn’t have gotten herself free. I spent my time slowly filling her bed with weights while she drooled my cum in her drugged stupor.

Fuck it, the demon will be alive.

Something settles in my chest at the thought of her escaping. It’s the best death she could have had, and it would have freed her from herself, yet I can’t stop the hope blooming of her still being here. Still existing and being my outlet.

The door to the crypt clangs against the stone pillar, and I don’t turn as the leaves rustle across the marble floor. I don’t know who’s meeting me today—Lennox or Rowan. Not until he stops beside me and pulls his collar to the side to show that there’s no burn mark.

“Little shadow,” Lennox rasps, looking at me from the corner of his eye.

I’ve felt a greater kinship with the uncle my mother acknowledged than anyone else in my family. The side of his lips lift a fraction, yet they don’t rise into a smile as he takes a deep, steady breath. “You’ve met him.”

It’s not a question but I nod, lowering my voice as though the evil entity that is Rowan Kobalt can appear.

“Yeah, he came when I was supposed to be meeting you. He wants me to work with him.”

Lennox nods once and gently traces my mother’s name etched into the gold plaque. “Isadora Kobalt.” He looks at me fully without removing his fingers from the Xandros portion of my mother’s name. “That’s what it should say, not Dora Xandros.”

My family history isn’t something that I know enough of where my mother is concerned.

My father’s side of the family is simpler—an orphaned only child.

A dream that most people aren’t aware they possess.

As far as I knew, she wasn’t Greek. She also wasn’t forthcoming about her family inheritance including human trafficking, so who fucking knows what other secrets they have?

The only person who has given me portions of the truth is standing beside me, but he acts more like a lovesick, grieving partner than a brother.

Again, who knows, when I’d piss on Asher’s grave.

He leans forward to press his lips to my mother’s plaque. Then he offers his cheek as though she can do it back. Soft whispering fogs the front of the gold rectangle, and I realize that he’s talking to her. The weird fuck.

“You know she can’t hear you?” I say without any care.

It doesn’t deter him as he ignores me, continuing his conversation. He blindly reaches into his pocket and takes out a vial of opaque blue liquid. The clean spot above my mother’s name makes sense now. I always thought there was a leak in the roof and rainwater was dripping down, but it’s Lennox.

He uncaps whatever it is and uses the tip of his middle finger to spread the liquid on her name plate. It starts in small circles, almost hypnotic with his whispering in the background, and he widens it without increasing the diameter of the circle he’s clearly been tracing.

Once he’s completed his fucked up ritual and there’s no more liquid left in the vial, he kisses the plaque in the exact same spot again.

The vial clatters to the floor, the glass splintering on the marble, and he raises his foot.

The shards crumble into dust below his expensive loafer and he continues grinding them as he says, “Death isn’t a parting, little shadow. ”

“What is it then?”

He looks at me and his light blue, nearly white eyes burn through the fractured remnants of my soul. It’s like he can see the gaps, the missing pieces, and he softly says, “The only escape.”

Is that what Delilah has found now? Her only escape route from me?

She fucks with my fucking head. Even now, I bring the topic back to her. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing or focusing on, it’s always her. There in my mind, manipulating every single one of my senses to crave her, to fucking want her, again and again and a-fucking-gain.

Turning on my heel, I leave the crypt and the metal gate slams as I get air.

It’s not tainted with memories but with death.

All the souls that have been laid to rest have their sins lingering above them, fucking ruining everything.

Asher’s is the worst. The selfish prick promised both of our lives to Rowan, and I look at his shiny headstone as I take out a cigarette.

The Zippo sparks to life and heatwaves glimmer as I bring it to the tip of my only escape.

A hand gently rests on my shoulder, and I turn my head, expecting Lennox to have followed me out. But he’s still in the crypt, hidden among the shaded dead. Rowan squeezes his gloved fingers around my joint. His thumb digs into my shoulder, sending a dull ache through my arm.

“Nephew,” he says as though I owe him a debt. The toxic smoke slowly seeps into my mouth, floating between my teeth, as he adds, “It’s time for you to be inducted.”

Lennox slowly shakes his head, but he doesn’t leave the crypt. He walks further into the shadowed corner all the while staring at me and shaking his head. It barely moves an inch and I have both the object and the reflection in front of me, yet they couldn’t be more different.

Rowan’s eyes are cold, not due to the color. There’s something missing from him, a quality that would make him human. Instead, he’s like a replica. But he blinks and smiles, the void closes, and he exudes charisma.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweet boy.”

His voice is kind, as though he’s speaking to a child and not a grown fucking man.

All of Lennox’s warnings blare over each other.

The years of him drip feeding Rowan’s existence and warning me not to interact with him.

Then the recent warnings that if I deny what he asks, I’ll be dealt a worse fate than I already have.

So, I remove all emotion from my voice as I blow the smoke out and ask, “What do you want me to do?”

Rowan’s smile isn’t the same as the barely there one Lennox has. The curve sweeping his face isn’t joyous or positive—it’s sadistic. “It will be easy for you. All you have to do is ensure we collect what we need.”

People.

That’s what he needs. Because he’s a sick cunt who sells them.

I always thought sex clubs were loud. That the sounds of whips and grunting would vibrate through the walls and people would be falling over each other to get more.

The reality is more clinical as I stand in the dark corner of the hallway to wait for the couple I’m tasked with escorting to meet their boss.

Lennox didn’t have any details and I have no idea if Rowan was being truthful when he said that Mr. Mannix and Miss Oliver are his associates.

They deserve whatever the fuck they get for being in business with him.

They haven’t been in the room for long when the door slides open and the man storms out.

His mask is still in place but the tension in his jaw says that he didn’t get the release he wanted.

There’s supposed to be two of them. A man and a woman.

A couple. But he walks to the floating desk and says something to the masked figure sitting behind it.

Whoever it is doesn’t have a single feature in view, and they nod once at whatever he says.

The man, who I’m assuming is the Mr. Mannix I’m here to collect, pulls his mask off.

I know that fucking face. He was an intern with the motherfucking prosecutor during my trial.

He’d sneak me sodas and candy bars while I was in the holding cell during recess.

But his name wasn’t Mannix, it was something old. A first name. Charles.

Rowan.

That prick has been the puppet master for longer than I realized.

Lennox acted like he was unaware of the trial and that there was something more pressing that he had to deal with.

But they’re both the directors and producers of my torment.

Otherwise, someone connected to the corrupt prosecutor who sent me down for a crime I didn’t fucking commit wouldn’t be involved in their web of deceit.

Mr. Mannix leaves and I take a step forward to follow him. Only a woman walks out of the room, forcing me to step back into the shadows. She gently rocks her mask side to side with the ribbon looped on the tip of her finger while muttering to herself, “I’m not a fucking thief, old prick.”

She shakes her ire away as she gets further to the mouth of the hallway. Her steps falter slightly when she sees there’s no one there. There’s no other tell as she copies the man, stopping at the desk. She hands over her mask and the masked little deceiver gives herself away.

“I’ll have to check your bag before you leave, as we’ve had a complaint,” Delilah says, standing from her seat behind the desk.

What in the fuck is she doing here? She’s supposed to be in Connecticut, as ashes or recovering, not in New Jersey at some fucking sex club.

X isn’t owned by Rowan, but it’s too close to him since he knows it exists. He’ll know she’s here and these games that have given me a reprieve from his solicitation are the only fucking thing I have in my life.

“You left her for dead,” my mind whispers back, like that means fuck all. I can do whatever the fuck I want. It’s owed and deserved. Delilah can’t become a means to control me again.

“The other party said that his watch was missing, and you refused to allow him to check,” she says as the woman across from her hardens.

“Check it. You won’t find shit because I didn’t take anything from the geriatric idiot. He probably forgot it next to his dentures.”

She checks the other woman’s bag then hands it back. “It must have been a mistake.”

The mask is jarring now that I know it’s her.

It’s like she’s stolen my shield, and the jet black material hides all of her features.

The gloves do the same to her hands as she gives the woman instructions on how to find her way out.

I don’t move. I watch her, searching for any signs of injury or burns.

Delilah doesn’t wince as she walks around the desk, pressing something beneath her mask. Her voice is softer as she says, “Give me five minutes and I’ll check.”

She doesn’t notice me on her short journey into the room the couple vacated. The door doesn’t lock behind her. I soften my steps as I stick to the wall to continue watching her talk to herself.

“Fuck. Me. What happened to people having a quickie in the back of their car?”

Is she thinking about us? She has to be.

“Who did you fuck in the back of a car?” I ask, because I’m clearly a glutton for punishment.

She stiffens and slowly turns her head. I can’t see her eyes. Neither can she with mine, but she forces her body to relax and says, “Your dad.”

I step into the room and press the chip to the panel for the door to slide closed behind me. Delilah doesn’t run or tense. She lazily crosses her arms over her chest and stokes my rage.

“I figured I’d sampled the juniors, so I may as well have gotten a taste of the senior too.”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” I grit. My hands ball into fists.

“Funny.” She tilts her head to the side, adding false lightness into her voice. “That’s what your mom did before I fucked her too.”

I take a step forward, entertaining her bullshit. “Was your daddy not available, princess?”

She’s never fucked her dad. It’s just a way to remind her of how devoted she was to the prick.

Delilah is a lot of things, but she’s not that fucked up.

All daddy’s girls think their fathers are the best, the perfect person, and it makes her react because she has always been a daddy’s girl, the little princess.

From the moment I met her to now. Although she isn’t in their life anymore.

She spits out, “Fuck you, Kane. Or should I say Asher. Well fucking done. You’re not the reflection anymore because you are him. ”

Dipping my head so we’re eye to eye, I coo, “Does that mean you’ll burn me, koukla mou?”

She hardens her voice and steels her spine as she takes a step closer to me.

“You can’t burn an idea, and that is all you will ever be.

An idea of a person, of a life, but deep down?

You’re a pathetic little boy who doesn’t have the balls to say his own name.

None of this is my fault. It’s yours for being weak and fucking nothing .

” She looks me up and down, her chin moving to her chest then back up.

“And look at you now, doing all this for him . He was your tormentor and you’re getting vengeance for his death when out of everyone, you have the most reason to celebrate.

The funny thing is that if I could go back in time, I would only do one thing differently. I would kill you too.”

My hand whips out and I grab her throat. She scratches at my arms as I drag her forward and snarl, “It’s because of fucking you . You fucking did this to me with your lies and you sentenced me to that fucking hell!”

Her hands soften and she holds my forearms without attempting to pull me away. Sweat beads down my spine at the memories of the pain—searing fucking pain that can’t be forgotten.

“I begged you, Delilah,” I whisper. “I told you I would lie for you, but that wasn’t enough, was it?”

The phantom of their touches are on me. On my legs, my ass, my head. Fucking everywhere. I can’t get them off and my limbs tremble as my lungs tighten.

“Kane,” she whispers, stroking up my arm to grip my bicep. “I wanted to help you. I tried.”

My fingers flex around her neck and I let her go before I do something I can’t take back.

I can’t stop the touches and my skin crawls as I twist my shoulders to get them off.

They don’t leave as I swipe at my legs, my arms, my face.

They intensify until the cumulative total of my years in solitary are with me.

Until all one hundred and fifty-seven instances are felt at once and I can’t fucking escape the cell of my own body that no longer belongs to me.

My knees weaken and I fall as my head sways.

“Eighty-nine,” I sing.

I roll onto my back, pressing my hands over my groin.

“Eighty-nine.” My crown softly taps against the concrete wall. Something wet touches my face and I violently flinch as my song turns to a shout. “Eighty-nine!”