Chapter 3
DELILAH
When he leaves, I can breathe again. I’m grateful for the food, but not, it seems, for the company. He terrifies me.
The minute he slams the door behind him, I fall on my plate like an animal devouring its hard-earned kill. Despite the chef, the food is outstanding and definitely what the doctor ordered. I appear to be famished, and my eyes smart with bitter tears when I reflect on the food I’ve eaten until now.
Angela Constable was a hard mistress to please. She took pleasure in making life painful. Food was another way she controlled me.
If she was displeased, not with me but with any part of her day, she took pleasure in punishing me for that. I ate the bare minimum to stay alive.
Bread, stale leftovers from her plate, food past its use-by date, and scraps from the trash.
Sometimes she made me eat from a bowl on the floor, my hands tied behind my back, lapping at my food like a dog. All the time she taunted me with cruel insults and the occasional kick from her shoe.
It was hell, and death on that altar was a path out of misery, and I welcomed it.
Now I’m grateful I was spared, at least I think I am.
The sound of an ax splintering wood outside is reassuring because it means that Blade is occupied. It gives me some time alone, and as I glance around the small cabin; I wonder why we are here.
When he rescued me along with his club, I overheard someone mentioning I would leave with them.
I would be safe back at the compound—whatever that is.
But then it changed. They took me to the hospital to get checked over and rather than leave with the rest of them, I was offered a space on the back of Blade’s motorbike.
I didn’t question it. I am too well-trained to question anyone pulling my strings and just accepted this was how it would be.
But I’m curious.
I don’t want to ask him though. I don’t want to talk, and I certainly don’t want to look at him because it turns out I am terrified of him.
He is rough, inhuman even, and the biggest person I have ever met.
He is a warrior; it’s obvious from his cold stare and calloused hands.
The scar on his face testament to a battle that I doubt the other person survived.
I must protect myself at all costs, and I have a premonition that this man will be trouble.
The best use of my time is to clean up the dishes, and it’s something I am well-rehearsed in doing. I was Angela’s slave after all, and cleaning duties played a large part in that—along with other things.
I shiver as the months of abuse remind me of what I did to keep a roof over my head. I am sickened by what that woman made me do and ashamed. So ashamed.
My lip trembles as I soap the dishes, and I tug it between my teeth in a desperate attempt to hold it together.
My mind wanders to the dark place I have never been safe from, and images play on repeat like a flickering old movie of what I did to survive.
Tears flow down my cheeks, but I don’t register them. The dish in my hands must have been there for ten minutes already, but I didn’t note the time. My skin prickles and my heart races as anxiety mixes with shame, and I’m fast concluding that it would have been better if I had died that night.
A low rumble in my ear jolts me back from oblivion, and a soft, husky voice whispers, “Put the dish down, darlin’.”
It drops into the sink, my hands red from the scalding water, and Blade says softly, “I’m going to help you to the couch. That’s all. You’re safe with me.”
I nod, not really understanding what he means, and yet I allow him to guide me over to the small couch set before a log burner.
I perch on the edge, my mind a mess, and he squats down in front of me, staring with concern into my eyes.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
What does he mean?
I peer up at him and note his concern, and swallow hard. What just happened?
He doesn’t touch me, but he’s close. So close, the warmth from his skin dusts against mine.
He appears concerned, and his gaze travels down to my hands that are twisting in my lap, and it’s only then I experience the bite of the scald.
My hands are red, and they hurt like hell, and he says gently, “Let me help fix your hands.”
“I’m sorry.”
My voice shakes, and as the pain kicks in, I bite hard on my lip, the faint trace of blood a metallic taste I’ve grown accustomed to.
“Sorry?”
He frowns, and I note his displeasure.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Delilah.”
“Delilah?”
For some reason, I don’t recognize the name, and I note the change in his expression.
“What is your name, darlin’?”
His words are said carefully, as if every syllable must be explained, and I feel like a fool as I whisper, “I don’t know.”
He says nothing and moves, the wooden floorboards creaking under his weight, and my mind races as he busies himself at the sink I just vacated.
My hands are burning up, and yet I don’t react to the pain. I’m too numb for that, and I have been for some time.
He returns with a bowl of cool water and a soft cloth and says carefully, “Place your hands in the bowl; it will take out some of the burn.”
“I’m sorry.”
I can’t appear to say anything else and he grunts, “I will tell you this once, darlin’. Don’t apologize for anything, not to me. I’m not interested in hearing it, but I am interested in hearing why you don’t know your own name.”
“Because it never was.”
“So, you’re telling me Delilah isn’t your real name. Can you remember what is?”
I glance down, ashamed of my lack of knowledge, because surely knowing your own name is page one in the manual of memories.
“I’m–”
His fierce glare reminds me that the word sorry is out of the dictionary, and I sigh. “No.”