Chapter 22 - Delilah #2
Hayze appears a moment later and comes crashing to a halt when he spots me standing there with the broom.
His face is red, eyes wild, and his hair stands on end like he’s had frustrated hands tugging at it.
One ragged, unsteady breath after another heaves from him as we lock eyes before I tear my gaze away, forcing it to the ground before me.
He’s so agitated, I have no idea what to do. My hands tighten on the broomstick.
“You heard that,” he gasps out, stepping toward me.
I carefully tilt my chin upward, then give him the slightest of nods while watching for any indication that I should run.
His lips clamp together, a sharp exhale huffing from his nostrils before he shakes his head. Eyes crashing shut, he darts past me, heading for the sons’ bedroom. The door closes behind him with a menacing click.
I stand here staring at it for several minutes.
There’s no telling what possesses me next, but I put my hand on the knob and twist, slowly pushing the door open while my head blares a warning.
What are you doing? You shouldn’t even be thinking about entering this room!
Cleaning can wait. But you know. You know that’s not why you’re poking your head in.
My lungs refuse to work. Because there’s the real reason I shouldn’t have intruded.
Hayze sits on one of the beds, head in his hands, broad back rising and falling with each labored breath.
His distress is all too evident in the stiffness of his posture, in the way he grips his head like he’s trying to keep it from tumbling from his shoulders, in the way his chest jerks, and how his throat works extra hard to swallow the raw emotion threatening.
In that moment, I feel for him, and it brings me right back to the part of him he’d shown me the day he’d been drawing in his father’s room.
We’d had our first real conversation that day, and he’d opened up about some of his misgivings about his life here.
My heart quakes in agony, as every molecule of his pain bursts free, putting it on full display.
For a second time, this man’s situation tugs at my heartstrings. “Hayze?” I question softly as I take a few steps into the room on quiet, bare feet.
His head snaps to attention, wrenched from the hold he’d had on himself. Tired, wounded eyes meet mine, the faintest gloss visible in them. He blinks hard, his jaw tightening as he shoots to his feet and turns his back on me. “Get out.”
I stare at him as his chest heaves. It’s clear he’s trying to get himself under control … but any semblance of it has long since fled the building. I don’t know why I even do it, but I try again. “Hayze.”
“What?” he growls as he pivots, giving me a harsh glare.
“I never know what to expect from you.”
“Well, you shouldn’t expect a fucking thing. I’m not—”
Unsure what I’m trying to accomplish, something pushes me forward, knowledge hovering in some corner of my brain.
He’s hurting. I don’t know why it bothers me, but it really fucking does, and I want to know what’s brought this on.
I must be completely fucking crazy. I drag in a breath and press a hand to my chest. “Do you want me to go get someone? I could find Arrow.”
“No.”
“Talk to me, Hayze. I won’t tell anyone. Whatever it is,” I murmur cautiously. Then, as voices drift to us from somewhere downstairs, his gaze snaps to the door, then he silently marches over and shuts it. Turning around, he stares at me, hands on his hips. Shakes his head.
A ragged ache rolls off him in waves. “I’m not …
” He stops. Sighs. Swallows. Then crosses to where my feet remain glued to the floor.
“I fucked up today. I’m always messing things up.
” His chest caves in on a tortured exhale.
“It’s not important. You’re the last person I should be dumping my issues on. Forget I said anything.”
My brows crash together as a memory of those few minutes with him out at the tree slams into me.
I didn’t lie. We tried to find you. Tried to help you.
The feel of his lips on mine, the urgent way he’d touched me, like he wanted more than anything for me to believe him, that he would do anything to help me.
And then like a torturous reel, my mind rewinds to every other moment we’ve shared since he brought me here.
Some of what’s happened between us has been horrifying, but every time his guard drops, I think I see what’s really inside.
That part of him is what I need to reach.
And it’s begging without words for someone to understand, to help him.
I sigh heavily, utterly confused by my own thoughts and feelings toward this man. With a hand to his chest, I counter, “No. I won’t forget. Explain. What do you mean? How did you fuck up?”
He drags in a shuddering breath, and I swear, he’s trying to keep himself from losing it.
I’ve seen hints, glimmers of who I think he is all along, but now …
he’s screaming to be seen—by me. And I’m desperate to unlock the man who seems to have so much weighing on his shoulders—not only everything his father and his position in this crazy town puts there—but also the responsibility he places upon himself.
He blinks again, pulling his gaze from mine and averting it to a spot somewhere over my shoulder. “Do you hate me, Delilah?”
I stare up at him, entirely knocked off balance by the sorrow living within those five words.
Strangely, I think the answer to his question is actually one that stuns me.
No. I don’t hate him. Not really. My head and my heart are convoluted places where confusion thrives and memories of what he’s done live.
It’ll probably take a long time for me to get over our beginnings here … but that doesn’t mean I hate him.
He’s still looking off into the distance when I reach upward, cupping his cheek and gently attempting to steer him back to me. “Hayze, I hate things you’ve done. That’s all.” My lips tremble as my words rock through him.
He nods. “I wish I could protect you better from—” His breath gusts out. “Everything.”
I shift my thumb to his bottom lip, sliding it over the full swell. Somewhere in the back of my head, I know he’s telling me the complete and utter truth. I nod. “Tell me what has you all torn up.”
Slowly, he reaches out, grasps my wrist, and rotates my arm.
I look down to find my tattoo staring back at both of us. His eyes are locked there, and he traces a fingertip over the number.
He brings my wrist to his lips. “Did you know … when I did this—” The sigh that leaves him is full of misery. Oh my god. What is he about to tell me? I stare into his pale-blues, and at my encouraging nod, he continues quietly. “I almost tattooed the wrong number.”
I blink, confusion dumping over me like a bucket of ice water. “What?”
Voice rasping, he murmurs, “I kept saying your number to myself. ‘Twenty-Three. Twenty-Three. Twenty-Three. Twenty-Three.’ It was in my head like a chant, impossible to ignore. And yet, when I brought the tattoo gun to your skin, I almost inked the three first. I-I could have fixed it if I hadn’t caught myself in time, but it’d have been off-center. Obvious that I’d made a mistake.”
I tilt my head to the side, peering at him curiously. “Really?”
He slowly nods. “Look.” Bringing my arm down, he shifts so I can see what he’s referring to. “Right here.”
My nose scrunches as I try to puzzle out what he’s talking about. “What? That?” I point to an odd curve on the upper portion of the two.
“Yeah.” He hesitates a few beats before finishing. “There’s something wrong with me. I get mixed up sometimes.” He heaves out a sigh. “It happened again today, but there was no hiding it. I somehow mismeasured.”
“The bridge.”
“Yeah,” he whispers, utter defeat filling his voice.
Catching the corner of my lower lip between my teeth, I study him for a moment.
Something inside me loosens, allowing me to look at him as a man who is clearly hurting instead of as my captor.
The way he aches practically vibrates. I wish there were a way to make him feel better about what—to me—is obvious must be some sort of disability.
My brows furrow in thought. Dyslexia, perhaps?
That fucker Nolan probably isn’t well-versed in anything of the sort, especially if his field of study had nothing to do with it.
I have serious doubts as to whether he ever had a license to practice medicine at all.
Did Hayze ever tell anyone he was having trouble? Or would he have hidden it out of fear?
“Well, is what you did fixable?”
Impatient pale eyes lock on me, a storm gathering within them. “That’s not the point. It made more work for us. It was—”
I nod. “I get it.” And I do. He was embarrassed in front of other members of their commune, and most especially the Collective. What he perceives as a weakness caused the future leader to look incapable in full view of everyone.
“Hayze!”
That shout from somewhere nearby sends him into motion, quickly peeking out the door before gesturing that I need to leave. Blowing out a breath, I slip through the opening and frantically grab the mop and continue my work as the footfalls reach the top of the stairs.
As Finneas appears, I pause. His eyes flick from me to the door of the room he can’t possibly know I’ve just exited. In a rush, I drop to my knees. “I follow. I honor. I nourish. I kneel.” And because it’s appropriate, I keep my head bowed and my eyes focused on his feet.
“Get up. Get back to work.”
I rise, nodding carefully as I move away from him, my grip so tight on the mop handle I’m half afraid it’ll snap under the pressure.
A moment later, he barges into his sons’ quarters. All I can do is hold my breath. And when Finneas’s voice rises … my heart cracks wide open, bleeding for the man on the other side of the door.