Page 65

DELILAH

T here’s something peaceful about one wrong move killing you, so you’re forced to remain still. It allows me to reflect on everything that’s happened, and I can finally breathe.

I’m not crazy. My parents are liars. They made me think I was because I was right about everything. I worked it out and that’s why they sent me to that godforsaken hospital.

I’m not crazy. Kane is and he made me think Asher was alive because he’s an idiot who didn’t take two seconds to think through the facts. If he did, he would have come to the same conclusion I did. If he did, he would have known that our parents are fucked up and that I saved him.

I’m not crazy yet…I don’t feel sane. Do crazy people feel crazy? I always felt like I wasn’t while everyone shouted the opposite. Maybe that means I am.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting on this ledge, but the sun has moved, the warmth muted with the waves crashing together below me, enticing me closer.

My emotions feel like that—angry, volatile, erratic—and I don’t know how to balance them.

All these years, I’ve buried everything.

Constantly running from my thoughts, the phantom of my parents’ influence re-entering my life, then from myself.

In the end, I don’t even know who I am anymore.

But I know that whoever I am is numb. So desensitized to everything around me that I don’t even flinch as the drapes are pulled back.

Kane unlocks the window, then climbs out like his back isn’t raw and red.

He pulls the drape over the window opening as he reaches out for me with his other arm, incapable of spending a second without controlling me.

The numbness is nice, so I don’t stop him as he places me between his thighs. Or when he wraps both arms around me. “We need to talk.”

I should react to that, yet I just hum.

“Delilah,” he whispers as he places his chin on my shoulder, “when we go back into that room I need you to hate me. I need you to fight me and I need you to know that whatever I do, I’m doing it to protect you.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.” He tightens his arms around me. “It’ll be a game.”

“Okay,” I repeat again.

We sit there, me numb and Kane tense, just staring at the water. I wonder if it would hurt to fall. Every other fall in my life didn’t hurt and I never felt it.

I fell in love with Kane, it felt amazing.

I fell in love with Asher, it was too orchestrated.

I fell into my mind, becoming numb.

But if I fell from this ledge, would it hurt?

Would I feel the impact of my body hitting the rocks?

Or would it be the same as the other times I’ve fallen and the pain would only come after?

But if I do fall from here, there won’t be an after.

I’ll be dead. The dead aren’t cursed with feeling so that may be the only fall that doesn’t harm me.

Kane strokes down my thigh as he leans back, taking something out of his pocket. The spark of a lighter makes me move and I tilt my head to watch the flames dance as he brings it to the tip of the cigarette between his lips. I still can’t get over the sight of him smoking, but he’s not my Kane.

He has tattoos and he smokes.

He has scars now.

I gently trace the designs inked on his forearm as I ask, “When did you get these?”

The ink is still dark and bright, so they’re new, but he didn’t have them when he was pretending to be Asher.

“You were there,” he says around a drag of smoke. “Before I took you back to your life.”

“Why did you start smoking?”

He looks at me, really looks at me, and his eyes are pained.

“Because I needed something to remind me to breathe when I didn’t want to.

” Leaning back with a wince, he presses his back flat to the cold glass then lifts me with his arm around my waist to sit on his thigh so I’m further away from the smoke.

“So many days,” he breathes out then takes a deeper inhale. “So many fucking days hating the wrong person.”

The peace lasts for as long as we’re on this ledge as he continues smoking throughout it.

Each cigarette that ends is quickly replaced.

I stop him before he can light the fourth.

Taking it from his lips, I put it back in the box.

Some of the numbness is lingering, so my voice is too soft as I say, “You’re going to make yourself sick. ”

“I already am,” he whispers. “Do you know why?”

The gentleness disappears as he loosely grabs my neck, forcing me to look at him.

“I liked chasing you, scaring you, and I tried for years to be able to come, but I couldn’t. Not until I took everything from you. When I had your screams in my ear and your cunt wrapped around my dick.”

The numbness is leaving faster and all I have left are huge fucking sores of pain that he’s pressing against as I snap, “Is that all I was to you?”

He doesn’t answer.

I should thank him for not lying to me when we both know the answer is yes. From my parents to Kane, all I am is a body. Either to look good and act like a fucking trophy for them or to be manipulated and bent to their will. Everyone is the same. A bunch of egotistical dickheads.

It’s because he doesn’t want to admit the answer is yes that he allows me to crawl over him and into the room.

The drapes piss me off straight away as I’m forced to fight them to escape.

Kane follows me, leaving the window open as he grabs my hair, pulling me back into his chest. His voice is the cruel one again, the one Ghost would use when he was belittling me.

“You are my fucking whore to do what I want to. The next time I put you outside, I’ll leave you there for a week.” He kicks the bag on the floor, adding, “Now get on your fucking knees and earn the right to eat.”

“I’d rather starve.” I scoff.

My scalp stings from his fingers brutally twisting around the strands as he pushes his knee into the back of mine. Ignoring the pain, I swing my elbow back as I step forward to stop myself from falling.

“Fuck you, you stupid fucking cunt!”

Anger is good. I like it, not as much as the numbness, but it stops me from falling into my mind and I fight him. I fight him for making this all so much harder, for tainting the only good memories I had.

But he’s faster, stronger, and wraps his hand around my jaw, dragging me to the bed.

My cheeks ache as he lifts me off my feet and slams me onto it.

He climbs over me, straddles my chest, and restricts my air as his eyes harden.

I punch into his ribs and push my hips to dislodge him, but he wraps both hands around my neck as he seethes, “You never fucking listen.”

My nails score down his chest, his arms, anything to get him off as I twist, pushing myself into the sheets, but he pulses his hands.

“I told you to be obedient when I allowed you back inside.”

Why is he lying?

Black spots dance in the edges of my vision and my eyelids droop before they fully close. I’m still conscious when he loosens his hands around my throat and leans down, whispering, “Stay asleep, pretty girl.”

He keeps one hand around my neck as he reduces the pressure against my chest. I don’t know why I listen to the lying prick, I just do. I allow my limbs to heavily drop as though I’m passed out.

“You fucking belong to me,” he grits, slapping the side of my cheek, but it’s too big to be his fingers, and there’s a wet spot on my cheek that he trails closer to my lips.

It’s his dick. The freak is moving his dick across my lips, and I open my eyes just enough to see him through my lashes.

Kane is above me, his eyes filled with lust as his face twists in agony while he forces his dick between my lips.

“Worthless fucking whore.”

His eyes close as he spits on my cheek. When he opens them again, the pain is back, and I realize that we’re being watched. This is why he said to remember he’s protecting me, and this is my Kane. My Kane who hated hurting people and my Kane who would never hurt me.

So I soften and open my mouth just enough for him to do whatever he needs. He shuffles forward, hiding how his thumb gently strokes the side of my neck behind my hair.

My choke is involuntary as he pushes further into my mouth and flattens his hand on the wall. Wherever the camera is won’t be able to pick me up with his body covering mine so I open my eyes a little more.

He roughly fucks my face. Each thrust makes his eyes redder, more pained, but he doesn’t spit on me—verbally or physically. Neither is there any enjoyment on his face. His movements are mechanical, like he’s trying to detach himself from the act.

I try to make it better for him and relax my throat, but he speeds up. The waistband of his sweats scrapes my chin, then my air is cut off as he pushes his hips against my face, burying his dick down my throat.

“I fucking hate you!”

He pulls out an inch to allow me to breathe.

“You fucking ruined everything!”

I can see him in small bursts around the loud cracks timed with the thrust of his hips. His eyes are bright red, tears lining his lashes, and when he pushes forward again they fall, hitting my cheek.

“You fucking bitch!”

He’s crying, screaming his hate, and punching the wall while I lay beneath him, silently begging him to look at me.

My air is cut off again as he stills, but he’s not close to release. It’s an act that he sells before he pulls out of my mouth, still leaning over me, and tucks his dick away. Spit is on my face, mine and his, but he still doesn’t look at me. He simply lifts the sheet to throw it over my face.

“Disgusting fucking…” His voice trails off as he gets off the bed, his steps dragging until he slams the door behind him.

I don’t know if someone came into the room so I lay there listening to him run the water. The thuds come again, glass smashes, and then silence.

Somehow the silence is more terrifying than noise. If he’s loud I know he’s okay, but he’s not. Yet I still can’t move when it suddenly stops.