Chapter 16 – Marlowe
Chapter Sixteen
MARLOWE
Oddly, the bathroom is spotless.
The white tiles gleam under the dim light. The sink is dry, the mirror smudgeless—even the toilet lid is down.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub and press my knees together.
Lo, just breathe. I close my eyes, but the second I do, everything crashes down on me.
Delilah’s fragile hands shaking in mine.
The raw fear in her eyes. The way she didn’t recognize her own sons.
How deep she slipped into another world, another time, completely gone from the present.
I keep seeing the ache in Damian’s face when she screamed at him.
Then there’s the way he looked at me. He thought I was something dangerous, even though I was trying to help. I bothered him. I got under his skin. He hated me for stepping in, for doing something he couldn’t.
But then, later, his gaze changed. It was full of heat.
I press my fingers to my temples, working slow circles into my skin.
I can’t do this right now. I don’t have time for this.
I need to focus. I need to figure out how the hell I’m going to get to my father’s place, how I’m going to fix his mess.
I need to get back home. It’s already Wednesday.
Three days until the grand opening of the bakery.
One more day to get Joel his money back.
And I still can’t believe the one guy I had incredible sex with turned out to be a total psychopath.
What’s worse? I’d totally have sex with him again.
Clearly, years of therapy haven’t worked for me. I probably need an exorcism.
The pressure in my head builds. My vision blurs, and suddenly, hot, silent tears spill over, sliding down my cheeks, dropping onto my damp shirt. I don’t make a sound. I just sit there, fists clenched, heart racing, tears falling, breaking under the stress of it all.
I let myself break for a few moments, then drag the back of my hand across my cheeks, wiping away the tears.
I can’t let myself fall apart. Not right now.
When this is all over and I’m home safe, I’ll be able to unpack it all and deal with it.
This will all be over soon. I force myself to repeat the words even though they ring hollow in my mind.
I reach for the hem of my soaked shirt and peel it off, the wet fabric sticking to me stubbornly before dropping to the floor in a heavy slap. The air-conditioned air prickles over my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still simmering beneath the surface.
I glance up, catching my reflection in the mirror. I’m a mess. Damp hair clings to my shoulders, stray strands curling along my throat. My skin is tight from the chill, but beneath it, there’s something warmer, something hotter, a small, insidious tug of want coiling low in my stomach.
I hate it.
I hate that even now, with everything going on, I still feel him. I despise how my tongue still remembers the way Damian tasted, and how I can still hear his filthy, perfect words from when he made me come.
And I hate more than anything that I really freaking liked being with him. I want him to fuck me like that again. What does that say about me? That even after everything, some broken part of me still craves his touch.
God, I don’t need an exorcist. I need to be burned at the stake.
I turn away from the mirror, forcing myself to push the thoughts away.
I grab a dry shirt from my backpack and pull it over my head.
I dress quickly, listening to the sounds beyond the bathroom door.
The brothers’ voices are too low to discern, but the rumble of Damian’s voice is unmistakable.
It’s tight, edged, like he’s still wound up.
“This will all be over soon,” I whisper it out loud five times. We’ll drive out to my father’s place, I’ll get what I came for, and then I’ll be gone. That’s the plan. That’s how this ends. I repeat it over and over.
I grab a Fruit Roll-Up from the front pouch of my bag and unwrap it quickly. The first bite floods my mouth with sharp artificial sweetness, tangy and bright. I eat fast, my jaw working as I pull at the sticky fruit strip, letting the sugar jolt something back to life inside me.
Tossing the empty wrapper back into my bag, I pull my damp hair up, twisting it into a messy bun at the crown of my head. Strands slip loose at my temples, curling slightly from the rain. I don’t care how messy it looks, I just need it off my face.
I take off my glasses and inspect them under the dim light. Droplets of rain still cling to the lenses, streaking across the glass. I wipe them carefully with the hem of my shirt, making slow, firm circles until there’s nothing but a clean, clear view staring back at me.
Taking a deep breath, I grip the edge of the counter, steadying myself. Then I open the bathroom door and follow the sound of Damian’s voice, stepping lightly down the hallway.
The moment I step into the kitchen, their voices cut off.
Damian and Bridger stand near the counter, shoulders tense, heads slightly tilted toward each other like they’ve been arguing. Bridger’s arms are crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed in frustration, but Damian whole posture radiates anger. Damian always seems to look angry.
I straighten my shoulders, grip the frame of my glasses, and push them further up my nose before speaking. “Now that your mother is home, can we go to my father’s trailer?”
Damian’s reaction is instant. His head drops slightly, his eyes flicking to the floor, and for a second—a brief, nearly imperceptible second—he looks almost disappointed.
Like I just confirmed something he didn’t want to be true.
It confuses me, because I came here for a reason.
And we’ve wasted enough time. I need to get home.
Bridger glances at Damian, reading something in him that I obviously don’t understand, then nods. “Yeah. I’ll take you.”
The shift is immediate. Damian’s whole body goes rigid.
He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at Bridger.
But I feel the anger coming off of him. Before he can say anything, before I can even try to figure out what the hell is going on inside his head, Cody and Delilah walk into the kitchen.
She’s humming under her breath. Cody walks right behind her, making sure she doesn’t stumble.
Damian’s face smooths into something more controlled. But I don’t miss the way his shoulders remain tense.
Delilah’s humming turns to singing as she moves through the kitchen, opening cabinets, pulling out ingredients like she’s done this a thousand times before.
But then she hesitates.
Her fingers hover over jars of herbs, her brows knitting together in confusion. She pauses mid-reach, glancing around like she’s forgotten what she’s looking for, like the familiar space isn’t clicking into place in her mind.
No one says anything at first.
We all just watch.
Bridger leans against the counter, silent and tight-lipped. Cody shifts uneasily, his gaze flicking from Damian to their mother, like he’s waiting for someone to step in.
Delilah opens a loaf of bread and sets two pieces on the counter. “I’ll make us something,” she says, her voice overly bright. “I used to make sandwiches for all the boys after school.”
She pulls out a bottle of mayonnaise from the refrigerator, then stops, frowning at it. Her hands tremble slightly as she unscrews the lid.
I bite my lip, watching.
She sniffs at the contents and puts it back in the fridge. It’s clear she doesn’t remember what to do.
“Mom—”
“I got it,” she snaps, grabbing a bottle of apple cider vinegar next. She opens it, her hands moving too fast, and pours.
The liquid sloshes over the bread, soaking into the slices, the sour, acrid scent filling the air instantly.
“Mom, stop.” Damian moves forward, reaching for the bottle, but the second his fingers come close, she flinches.
“I said I got it!” Her voice is high, panicked, like a cornered animal.
Damian pulls back immediately, his hands up in surrender.
“Hey, Delilah,” I say gently, moving toward the counter, careful not to spook her. “You know what? That looks great, but why don’t I help you? You’ve worked hard all day, and the boys think it’s time that you get taken care of. I know how to make a really great sandwich I think you’ll love.”
She looks at me, blinking rapidly, confusion flickering across her face.
I keep my expression soft.
After a long pause, her fingers loosen around the vinegar bottle. “Will there be chips?”
I nod, eyeing a bag of potato chips on one of the counters. “Of course. I make the best sandwiches.” I gently take the vinegar from her hands. “Want to see?”
She hesitates, then lets out a small sigh. “Oh, alright. But don’t leave a mess for me.”
“I promise to clean up everything. You can sit down and relax and watch me.”
Cody and Bridger move quickly, guiding her toward a chair, sitting her down with murmured reassurances. She watches me closely, her fingers twisting together in her lap.
I open the refrigerator, scanning its shelves. It’s pretty bare: a stick of butter, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs, and a thick package of deli meat. It looks like ham. “Do grilled ham and cheese sandwiches sound good?”
“And chips?”
“That’s right, thank you for reminding me, we can’t forget the chips,” I say, pulling out everything I need. “I’ll put them right next to your sandwich.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever had a grilled cheese sandwich,” she says, looking up to Damian. “Do you know?”
“No, I don’t,” Damian answers.
I move to the counter, grabbing the rest of the loaf of bread, slightly squished but still usable. A bowl of fruit rests near the sink filled with apples, a few ripe peaches, and a handful of grapes. “Do you like fresh fruit?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” she says.
“That’s okay. I’ll whip up a small fruit salad and you can try it to see if you do like it.”
“Well, if you were going to do it anyway,” she says.
I grab a cutting board and start chopping, working quickly.
The apples crunch under the blade, their crisp scent filling the air as I slice them into small, neat pieces.
The peaches are softer, their golden flesh giving easily beneath my knife.
Juice clings to my fingertips as I cube them, their sweetness mixing with the sharp citrus scent when I squeeze a bit of lemon I find in the refrigerator over the fruit.
The grapes come last, plucked from their stems and halved, their deep purple skins glistening under the dim kitchen light.
I find a jar of honey in the cabinet, twisting off the lid and drizzling just a little over the fruit.
It catches the light, amber and smooth, before sinking in, bringing everything together. I set it aside.
“How am I doing so far?” I ask Delilah.
“I’m not sure,” she says, leaning back. “I haven’t tasted it yet, have I?”
I pull out eight slices of bread and start buttering them, making sure every inch is covered, edge to edge. Then I layer slices of ham and American cheese between them, stacking them carefully.
The pan hisses when I lay the first sandwich down, the butter crackling, the heat sealing everything together. I press gently, letting the bread crisp up, watching as the edges darken to a perfect golden brown.
A few minutes later, the sandwiches are done. A simple, comforting lunch.
When I turn around, Damian is watching me. Not saying a word. Just watching me.
Ignoring the way it makes my stomach flip, I pick up a plate and set it in front of Delilah. “Okay, here we go,” I say, forcing a lightness into my voice. “How yummy does it look?”
Her eyes widen as she takes in the meal, and a beautiful smile spreads across her face. “Oh, this looks so good.” She picks up a sandwich, takes a big bite, and hums in satisfaction.
I let the warmth of the compliment settle in my bones for a moment, then one by one, I hand plates to each of the brothers. Bridger murmurs a quiet “Thanks.” Cody starts eating immediately.
When I place Damian’s sandwich in front of him, he doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t even blink. He just watches me.
Then he steps in, the heat of him brushing against my skin.
His fingers graze my elbow—barely a touch—but it’s enough to ignite something sharp and wild beneath my skin, a trail of fire racing up my arm.
He leans down, so close I can feel the heat of his breath.
His lips find the shell of my ear, hot and deliberate, and every part of me locks in place.
“I’ll get you out of here,” he murmurs, voice scraped raw.
“I’ll take you to Vick’s as soon as she finishes. ”
I try to nod, but the sound of him, the feel of him, is enough to unravel me. My throat tightens, and when I finally swallow, it’s with effort. Everything inside me is burning.
His expression is carved from stone, all sharp lines and restraint—but in his eyes, there’s something there. Conflict, maybe? Like he wants to thank me but hates that he does.
But I blink, and it’s gone.
He pulls back. That soft thread between us snaps, his face settling into something harder. Detached.
I turn away before it settles in my chest, before I let it mean too much.