Chapter 12
Xavier
Four Weeks Later . . .
It’s been a little over a month since I was coerced into stabbing Delilah, but the guilt from her suffering still bothers me as much as it did the night it happened. I thought the emotion would wane in time, and it simply hasn’t. If anything, it’s gotten worse.
Gifting her something was to be part of my atonement, but she’s refused everything that doesn’t involve her academics. This has forced me to bring her to the dungeons. A place that has the ability to both chain me to my nightmares and offer me refuge.
I smirk at Delilah. “I bet you wish you’d taken that golf cart now, huh?”
She glares up at me, sweat dampening the hair above her forehead. “Shut—and I can’t express this enough—the fuck up.”
“You’re sexy when you’re pissed.”
“You’re sexy when you’re not talking.” She squints, her gaze focused ahead. “Where are you taking me?”
“There’s a series of underground tunnels that are part of a larger network, leading from the fraternity to various buildings across campus.”
Delilah scrunches her face, and I resist the urge to kiss her. Everywhere. To say it’s been hard refraining from having sex with her is an understatement. It’s been absolute torture.
“What are the tunnels for?” she asks, oblivious to how close I am to fucking her mouth.
“They were designed for practicality, primarily serving as a means to facilitate movement across campus during less-than-ideal weather conditions. Specifically, the harsh winters this place is known for. We’ll gain access to them from the dungeons.”
She blinks but doesn’t stop walking. “Dungeons? I guess that isn’t unheard of in a castle. Have you ever been in one before?”
The various memories of me fighting for my life surface. “The initiation for the recruits was held down here.”
I pause. Delilah said she wanted to know about my past, which is the reason we’re heading to the tunnels in the first place, but I’m unsure how much to reveal to her, how much information would send her running.
“My father threw me into a cell more than once,” I say slowly. I keep my gaze locked on her face, waiting for her reaction. “He used it as part of my training to eventually join the Order.”
She nods. “The same training that resulted in the scars on your back?”
“Yes.”
“Your father is an asshole. Just saying.”
I smile at her show of loyalty. It might not be as deep as mine, but just seeing this tiny bit is enough to encourage me.
“He’s that and more. Let me know if I’m walking too fast for you.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re almost a foot taller than me. Of course you’re walking too fast, even on a good day. Just because I’m mobile doesn’t mean I’m ready for a long hike.”
“Or sex.”
I love manipulating a response from her. The way her cheeks flush and her breathing kicks up does it for me every time. I’m a masochist—in the end, I’m the one who suffers since she’s not ready for vigorous physical exertion.
The Order really fucked me by forcing me to stab her. The weeks it’ll take for her to recover might kill me. It’s like I’ve taken a vow of celibacy all over again, except this time, I lie next to the woman of my darkest fantasies every night without the ability to touch her.
Fucking brutal.
“Xavier, I—”
I wave a hand, cutting her off. “Don’t worry, little raptor. Your pussy is safe from my cock. For now.”
She exhales, the sound full of exasperation. “Thank you for your understanding,” she deadpans. “Really, it means a lot.”
“It’s not like I have a choice. The doctor hasn’t cleared you, and you’re obviously not ready.” I wink at her. “Not yet, anyway.”
“It’s not like we can’t do other things . . .”
Her insinuation catches me off guard. I stop and turn to face her, my gaze searching hers for confirmation. Delilah is strong-willed, but when it comes to sex, she has yet to take initiative. Her invitation leaves me unable to formulate a response. Well, a polite one.
Her blush from earlier deepens, painting her cheeks with a deep, rosy hue. Pushing through her embarrassment, she lifts her chin and holds my gaze. “What’s the matter, recruit? Pussy got your tongue?”
“I fucking wish.”
Now it’s her turn to be speechless. She openly gapes at me, and I laugh, tapping her on the nose. “Don’t play games you can’t win.”
She grins, her eyes shining with mischief. “Who says I’m losing?”
I grab her hand and shake my head. “Stop talking before I do something that’ll put you back in the infirmary.”
Keeping my pace slow and even to accommodate Delilah, I guide her through the dungeons and the door leading to the tunnels. The temperature drops and the air thickens as soon as we step inside the dark entrance. I retrieve my flashlight and turn it on, revealing the dusty path ahead.
“Please tell me you know where you’re going,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. She shuffles closer to me. “I really don’t want to get lost in there.”
“We won’t. Unfortunately, I spent a lot of time here.”
Delilah squeezes my hand. “Training?”
“Training,” I affirm. “Come on.”
As I lead her through the corridors of the tunnels, I keep a watch on my bride’s physical condition. Every puff of air that leaves her lips, the cadence of her steps, I pay attention to. As much as I want to share my secret with her, I won’t do it to her detriment.
The only sound—other than Delilah’s heavy breathing—is our footsteps that echo quietly off the concrete walls and the pipes running along the ceiling.
The campus above us is nonexistent this far below ground.
This secluded place, full of terror and demons, eventually turned into a sanctuary for me.
Delilah said she wanted to see both the dark and light parts of my life. That is best represented here.
As we walk, I point out markings on the walls. Some are official, denoting directions and distances to the various buildings on campus. Others are less so. The streaks of blood, now dark brown with age, paint a gruesome picture.
Some of it’s mine.
After a lot of twists and turns, we finally arrive at our destination. I stop in front of the designated wall and face Delilah. She rests her hands on her thighs, her shoulders hunched as she catches her breath.
“Please tell me we’re almost there.”
“We’re here.”
She glances around the empty tunnel. “I’m not trying to be rude, but if you dragged my ass all over kingdom come just to show me a wall, I’m going to be pissed.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
“The Bible, really? From an assassin?”
I grin at her. “Even the devil knows scripture.”
“Fair. Okay, seriously, why are we here?”
“This hides a secret room.”
She straightens and studies the wall, dragging her fingertips over the surface. Then she looks at me and frowns. “I don’t see anything. How do you know we’re in the right place?”
“You see the pipes that line the ceiling and some of the walls? I have them all memorized.”
I grab hold of the ringed section of one of the pipes and turn it clockwise. Even after all of these years, the motion is smooth, without the noise of grinding gears or shifting bolts. A soft click is the only sound before I push on the flat surface and the outline of a door comes into view.
“Wow,” Delilah whispers. “How did you figure that out?”
“By accident. I was trying to find my way out of here and got turned around. After taking out my frustrations on the wall by punching and kicking it a few times, I grabbed the pipe to steady myself. As soon as I put my weight on it, it moved. Wait here.”
I push the door open so I can slip inside and turn on the lights. Delilah steps into the doorway, her gaze wide with curiosity. The transition from the dimly lit tunnel to the room is stark, the hidden area now bathed in a soft glow provided by the lanterns strung along the walls.
“What is this place?” she asks.
I walk up to her and take her hand, tugging her into the center of the room. “You said you wanted to know me. Well, this place is a museum of my life.”
It’s an eclectic mix of possessions, each with its own story, each one a piece of the puzzle that represents a moment in my past. To the left is a small wooden desk, its surface worn from years of use, holding a collection of items. Among them is a well-thumbed copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.
I didn’t feel so alone when reading about someone who also wanted revenge.
There’s also a small box filled with souvenirs from my life lessons: an intricately carved wooden bowl from Guatemala, containing shell casings of the bullets used to kill the man who betrayed my father; a set of brass knuckles I was given to torture the informant who refused to tell us where a missing shipment had ended up; a coil of rope my father bound me with before he beat me half to death.
Then there are the weapons.
Nestled in the corner lies a collection of modern weaponry displayed on shelves constructed from cinder blocks and planks of wood.
The assortment includes a variety of pistols, handguns, and knives, each meticulously maintained and arranged with a precision that shows my respect for their capabilities.
The pistols range from sleek, compact models designed for concealment to more robust handguns known for their reliability and stopping power. Each firearm has its own history, a record of training sessions, and, in some cases, moments when their effectiveness determined my survival.
Beside the handguns, an array of knives is displayed.
They run the gamut, from tactical folding knives with serrated edges designed for utility and quick access to fixed-blade combat knives that promise lethality and durability in harsh conditions.
I was stabbed with every single one at some point during my father’s training.
As Delilah’s gaze rakes over my collection, I study her, trying to gauge her reaction. Her beautiful face carries hints of both fascination and apprehension. I understand completely. It’s a natural response to someone who hasn’t been raised to be an assassin. But can she see past that?
Does she see the man I am behind the mask the Order has forced on me?