Page 16 of Violent Little Thing

Untitled

ADONIS

I f there is one thing I know without a shadow of a doubt, it’s that Delilah Rose will be listed as the cause of my demise on my death certificate.

From the time I open my eyes in the morning to the moment I close them at night, she flits across my mind on a loop.

It’s suffocating.

Sickening.

Unacceptable .

It’s been two weeks since I had her up against me in my office, and shame still curdles through me when I think about how I inhaled the scent of her hair on my fingers after I told her to get out.

How I pulled up the camera feed for her room and watched her go through the motions of getting ready for bed.

How I had to readjust my slacks when she entered the frame in the silk pajamas I bought for her .

There was nothing revealing about what she had on but seeing her in the clothes I’d handpicked for her still had a way of fucking up my head.

I picked out everything in her closet.

Every. Single. Thing.

And seeing what she chooses to wear every day feeds a desire I didn’t know I had.

That night, Titus had eventually wandered upstairs to find her, and my eyes stayed glued to the screen while she sat on the floor and hugged him to her chest.

When she finally fell asleep, I went into her room and moved her to the bed. Time moved impossibly slower when her head hit the pillow and I stood there, rooted to the spot as I watched her sleep.

Later, when I walked out, I had to force my feet to carry me to the other side of the house.

How is it possible that this woman aggravates me when she’s awake and torments me in her sleep?

My only reprieve has been a week-long business trip to Italy that I got back from yesterday. I spent all seven days consumed with thoughts of her.

For the first time since I hired him, Victor stayed behind. I didn’t want anyone else in charge of her protection.

She likes Victor. Respects him.

Which is more than I’ll ever be able to say about what she feels for me.

I turn to him now as he hovers near the doorway of my home office.

“What did she do today?”

A troubled look passes over my guard’s face.

“She didn’t come downstairs until an hour before you got home.

She said she wasn’t feeling well and stayed in bed most of the day.

” Another furrow forms between his brows.

“After that, she fell going up the stairs. She says she’s okay. ” He doesn’t sound like he believes it.

Part of me is tempted to assume the theatrics were because she’s agitated by my reappearance after a week of being free from me.

Another part of me is on alert because I need to know she’s really okay.

And a woman with constant headaches running into a wall and tripping up the stairs doesn’t sound okay to me…

While I was away, I made an appointment with Silas about her headaches. I planned to tell her over dinner, but neither one of us had been willing to break the thick silence at the table tonight. Not even a taunting insult before she got up and left her plate nearly untouched.

“Alonzo left footage for you on the cloud and a message from the rehab facility in Delray is waiting for you on your landline voicemail. Weston seems to be doing well with his recovery.”

Victor’s efficiency will forever be the standard I judge others against. He’s more than my guard; he’s my right hand.

I’m about to tell him he can go home when Titus’ whine cuts me off.

He runs back and forth in front of my open office door, the high pitch of his whine pushing me out of my seat into the hall to see the cause of his distress. It’s rare to see him with this much energy now that he’s older, but he has his bouts of beef with inanimate objects.

Last time it was a pinecone Ms. Agnes left in the living room during the holidays.

Tonight, he leads me to the back door, nudging my pants with his nose when I don’t raise the cover on the doggy door he never uses fast enough .

“What’s up with you?” I mutter before he wedges himself through the opening, disappearing into the backyard.

I open the door to make sure he doesn’t get too close to the edge of my property, but his persistent whine pulls me from inside the house to outside, overlooking the pool.

And that’s when I see it.

The fully clothed woman floating precariously in the deep end.

“Delilah!” Her name rips out of me when her head dips under the surface.

Somewhere between one panicked breath and the next, I’m on my knees beside the pool, arm outstretched to grab her wrist.

“Delilah, grab my hand! Please!”

Once.

Twice.

Three times I tug her wrist before it’s enough to gain leverage and pull her out of the water.

I fall on my ass when she’s in my arms, my eyes running over every inch of her while I cradle her against my chest.

Eyes closed.

Face serene.

Shallow breaths.

No reaction.

Why isn’t she reacting?

She looks asleep. At peace. Barely here.

No. No. No.

“Victor!”

The tremor in my voice.

Titus’ wail.

The limp woman in my arms.

None of this shit feels real .

It can’t be real.

I don’t know when Victor reaches my side, but he has towels when he does.

Without a word, he helps me sit Delilah up, so her airway is clear. Then he claps his hand against the center of her back until one gasping breath chases another and her eyes flutter open before slamming them shut again.

Relief doesn’t consume me yet, because I don’t know what the fuck is going on.

Delilah is still gasping in my arms.

“We should get her inside, sir.”

“Get her out of those clothes.”

“Make sure she doesn’t get sick.”

Victor’s instructions pass through a funnel before reaching my ears.

He picks her up with ease while I unfold myself from the ground.

There’s no clarity, but I get up anyway.

Delilah is still too limp, but I get up anyway.

She’s breathing.

She’s awake.

She needs to dry off and get out of these clothes.

We make it to my room and Delilah’s gasps turn into a low whimpering.

It’s the only sound I hear as she wraps her arms around my neck and burrows her face against my skin.

It takes everything in me to pull away from her, but I have to get her out of these clothes.

Mechanically, I strip her out of the drenched skirt and tank top, drying her from head to toe.

Boxers.

Crew socks.

A hoodie. Sweatpants .

The layers go on with ease and precision.

And we’re matching after I shed my damp clothes and change too.

Then I settle on my bed and pull her back into my arms.

Victor helps me keep her awake for an hour, thermometer in hand as he searches for signs of dry drowning.

When he finally lets a crying Delilah bury her face in my neck, Victor is confident when he tells me she’s fallen asleep and hasn’t passed out.

“Why did this happen?” My voice is muffled, distant.

“I think she had a panic attack, sir.”

A panic attack? In the fucking pool?

I don’t move.

If I don’t move, this moment can’t end.

She can’t go back to how she was before I pulled her out of that water.

Soreness settles in my muscles. Not because she’s heavy, but because my grip on her is unrelenting.

If I don’t let go, this moment can’t end.

Dropping my chin on top of the towel covering her hair, I exhale. It’s shaky. Broken. Tormented.

But every rise and fall of Delilah’s chest tethers me back to my sanity.

She’s okay.

If I don’t fuck this up, the moment can’t end.

Victor waits, a few feet from the foot of my bed. He’s never been in my room before. Nobody has. Only Titus.

But it was faster to get her here than walking all the way to her room. She’s wearing my sweats. Wrapped in three of my thickest bath towels.

And she’s sleeping.

On me. Like she needs me.

I won’t fuck this up. I can’t .

Somebody needs me and I won’t fuck this up.

So, I sit there on the edge of my bed with Delilah in my lap and I don’t fuck it up.

Not when Victor leaves.

Not when Titus falls asleep at my feet instead of in his bed.

My back muscles cry out. My eyes blur from lack of sleep. None of that makes me let her go.

When five a.m. comes, I carry her to her room and leave her in the center of her bed.

Minutes pass of me watching the rise and fall of her chest before I whisper brokenly, “Don’t ever fucking scare me like that again.”