Page 10 of Violent Little Thing

Hothouse Flower

DELILAH

T he next two days pass in much of the same way. I wake up to the soundtrack of Titus’ tail thumping against my door quickly followed up by Agnes’ hushed tones telling him to relax before he wakes me up.

He does wake me up.

But I don’t mind either time because it’d almost been enough to make me forget where I was and what my life has become.

Today, I wait until the thumping stops and toss the summer quilt away from my body before walking to the closet to grab a dress from the assortment that arrived sometime yesterday.

When I got back to the room after dinner, the closet door was half-open, giving me a peek at the dresses that were magically in my size.

Plucking a lilac sundress from the rack, I lay it on the foot of the bed and head for the bathroom.

For two mornings straight, I’ve fought with the control panel on the wall, trying to find the right temperature and pressure for my showers.

I still don’t understand why taking a shower in this man’s house feels like solving an algebra problem, but at least I’ve figured out how to clean myself without water shooting at me with the force of a thousand knives.

When I’m dressed, I walk into the hall. My eyes take inventory of the same artwork and light fixtures that were there yesterday and the day before.

In forty-eight hours, I’ve etched every detail about my new cage into my memory.

The colossal 1920s Normandy Tudor-style house looks like a speck on the hill it occupies.

Ivy blankets the exterior, crawling up toward the chimney. And the stone embellishments around the door are the same ones around the fireplace in the den.

The turret over the arched entry.

The red brick. The black slated roof.

The two staircases right off the entry, one leading up, one leading down.

The sconces lighting the stairway and the lavish runner softening each step I take.

I know the whole house smells like white sage and sea salt thanks to the diffusers Agnes placed throughout.

I know the windows lining my wall and the Juliet balcony outside my bedroom overlook a pool that’s hauntingly beautiful at night.

It’s beautiful, but a cage all the same.

All the hours I’ve spent pacing the property have embedded every intricate detail into my memory.

I could recite it all to a sketch artist and have a 3D rendering of the property.

The only thing I don’t know is where I am.

Every time I try to set foot on the driveway to scope out the surrounding area, a shadow by the name of Victor appears out of thin air and reins me back in with a firm hand on my shoulder and a low, “Mr. Samson’s orders.”

And that’s the part that chafes me the most. I don’t have a phone that would pinpoint my location.

I don’t know the man who stole me from that auction.

I don’t know anything. And Adonis gets to sleep peacefully at night knowing he cut me off from the outside world and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Well, I’m tired of the information deprivation and after conveniently being a ghost for the past two days, my captor is sitting at the breakfast table when I walk in the kitchen today.

He keeps his eyes trained on the plate in front of him. It’s so different than the mountain of carbs Agnes has tried to feed me the past two mornings.

A pile of egg whites, sliced fruit, bacon and a slice of sourdough dress his plate. But it’s not his boring meal that catches my eye, it’s the gun sitting beside his coffee mug.

Rolling my eyes, I stop in the doorway of the kitchen and fold my arms to watch him. The arrogance this man possesses deserves its own zip code.

The fact that he can hear me and hasn’t spared me a glance has me filling the space with words.

“Where’s Ms. Agnes?”

“Walking the dog,” he says by rote, still laser focused on his meal.

“I still don’t have a phone. And I still don’t know my brother is actually alive.”

Adonis drops his fork against the porcelain plate, his shoulders in a straight line while he takes in my complaints.

“I usually like to eat my breakfast in silence, Ms. Rose. ”

And I usually like to wake up in my own bed, surrounded by my own things.

“If you wanted peace, you should have kidnapped somebody else, Adonis.”

He relaxes his posture against the chair back and I dig my nails into my closed fist, forcing myself to soften my approach.

I’m already doomed to be here forever waiting on Weston, so I clear my throat and hope my words come out as honeyed as I used to make them when talking sweetly to men was my only resort.

“ If my brother is still alive, I’ll be here forever waiting for him to pay you back. I’m not the insurance policy you think I am.” A beat of silence passes that makes me clear my throat. “I can work off the debt he owes you. We can form an agreement. Then I get to leave after his debt is paid.”

Adonis picks up his fork again, the hard line of his jaw drawing my attention to the rest of his face. It’s his only redeeming quality, and I have this thought at the same time his voice breaks the stilted silence in the kitchen.

“Sit down, Ms. Rose.”

A scoff frees itself as soon as he grumbles his command.

But I comply, scraping the chair directly to his left out noisily against the hardwood.

I could have done it differently. Tipped the chair back at an angle so it didn’t make so much noise.

But I like the thought of disrupting his peace.

Why should anything go his way when he has me in this house like I’m a prisoner?

Seated, I run through a list of things I can do while he ignores me and finishes his food.

Only when he’s popped the last piece of melon in his mouth and washed it down with water does he train his attention on me .

There’s an amused glimmer in his onyx eyes. The first sign of his humanity is him laughing at me.

“No offense, Ms. Rose.” Lie . “But I looked you up, what skills do you think you possess that would make that anywhere near a possibility?”

He pushes away from the table, muttering a million dollars to himself.

He’s at the kitchen sink by the time I blink away the sheen of anger hazing my vision.

If Indigo were here, she’d tell me he wasn’t worth getting agitated over. But that’s the problem, she’s not here and this asshole just belittled me like it’s my fault I missed so much of my own life.

My arm extends across the table before I can stop myself.

My fingers wrap around the gun before I can second guess it.

My palm gets used to the weight of it before I can draw my next breath.

And before I can remind myself that I’ve never held a gun before, let alone fired one, I aim it at his back and pull the trigger.