Chapter 4
BLADE
For a moment I’m at a loss for words. The minute I entered the cabin, I could tell something was wrong. The water was running scalding from the faucet, and yet Delilah was washing the plate on repeat, not even registering the heat burning her skin.
It was as if she was somewhere else entirely, and I’m not insensitive enough to realize a gentle approach was needed in that situation.
It’s as if she is immune to pain, and when she bit her lip and I noticed the blood, she didn’t even flinch.
The priority now is cooling her skin before her hands blister, and the fact she keeps on apologizing is sending me feral.
She doesn’t even know her own name.
I wonder if that’s a side effect of the drugs she was fed. But the doctors checked her over and declared her fit to leave.
Once again, I curse Ryder for putting us in this position.
I’m not what she needs right now. His old lady would do a far better job, and if not her, Lou or Bonnie.
Not me. The bad-assed, surly motherfucker, who is more intent on drinking himself to oblivion and ending the night inside a willing whore.
Not babysitting a woman with issues, no matter how easy she is on the eye.
My mind races as she sits upright, her hands resting in the cold water, not saying anything at all. It’s as if she’s afraid to speak, and I’m guessing I’m the reason for that.
I’m not exactly approachable, and I cultivated that for a very good reason. I prefer my own company.
With a sigh, I crouch low on my heels and check the temperature of the water.
The heat from her hands has increased it, and I shake my head.
“Come. There’s a stream running behind the cabin. You should use it to cool your skin. It will do a better job and hopefully catch it before they blister.”
Once again, she says nothing, and I hesitate before retrieving the bowl, handing her the cloth.
As I set it to the side, I say gently, “Come. I’ll help you.”
As we leave the cabin, it’s as if I’m treading on eggshells and they are crunching beneath my feet. This woman is broken, and one false move on my part could do more harm than good, and so it’s best if I say nothing at all.
She’s not ready for interrogation; that’s plainly obvious, and so I set my mind to the task at hand first.
The stream behind the cabin gurgles as it trips over rocks and pebbles, the water clear and pure enough to drink. It’s the source of water for the cabin, and the boiler we had installed heats it good enough for showers and hot running water.
It will be some time before she can apply any heat to her hands, and she follows me silently, almost nervously, as we reach the bank of the stream.
“Lie face down and hang your hands in the river. Let the water heal your skin and tell me if it gets unbearable.”
It’s possible she will follow third-degree burns with frostbite if she leaves them in too long, and rather than allow a repeat performance of when she zoned out in the cabin, I am watching over her.
She does as I say, meekly and without question, and I sit beside her attempting to figure out what to say. I’m not trained in nursing a woman with obvious trauma, and for a moment it’s awkward between us.
“Thank you.”
Her soft voice disturbs the tension, and I sigh inside.
“I don’t want thanks or apologies. I’m not sure why we are here, if I’m honest, and if anything, I am not the person you need right now, but here we are. Let’s just make the best of it until Ryder decides why the fuck he sent us here.”
It’s the longest conversation we’ve had, and she steals a glimpse from the side, lying face down with her hands drifting in the stream.
“So, you don’t know why I’m here either.”
“Not a clue.”
Her soft chuckle surprises me.
“I would say I’m sorry about that, but I’ve been told not to apologize. But if I was allowed, I would be offering you one now.”
A shadow of a smile is her answer, and she sighs.
“It sucks not knowing who you are.”
“It must.”
Once again, an awkward silence prevails, and I stare at the surrounding view, the only sound coming from the bubbling stream.
“What do you know?”
My question breaks the silence, and she whispers, “That I was a slave. The woman was Angela Constable, and she is now dead—apparently.”
“You got that right.”
Fury bubbles under the surface as I hiss, “Slave?”
“I’m not sure how I got there to be honest. My memory of before I lived with her is gone. She called me Delilah and said my last name was Grimes. I had no reason to doubt her, but since the hospital, I can’t explain why I’m aware that’s not my real name.”
“So, your memory may be returning.”
“Perhaps. I hope so anyway, because not knowing who I am is scaring the crap out of me.”
I want to comfort her. To make her feel better, but I don’t have the basic understanding of how to achieve that.
She says in her soft voice, “I’m glad she’s dead.”
“Me too.”
She slides her gaze toward me, and her green eyes sparkle as the water reflects in them. A soft smile transforms her face, and my heart shifts a little.
I note the pale blonde hair emerging from her scalp, a direct contrast to the jet-black hair I thought she had grown naturally, and I remark.
“Well, at least we know you’re a blonde, darlin’.”
“I noticed that too.”
She glances down at her hands.
“Can I sit up now? I can’t feel my hands anymore.”
“Sure.”
She smiles with relief and scoots to an upright position, sitting cross-legged beside me. Her unwavering gaze is curious rather than fearful, and she whispers, “I don’t know who you are except for your name—Blade.”
Hearing it spoken with her soft accent is not unwelcome, and I nod. “The Reapers named me, courtesy of the gash in my cheek. Plus the fact I am pretty good with one myself.”
“A blade.”
She doesn’t appear afraid of that skill of mine, and I nod.
“I used one from an early age. Whittling wood, skinning rabbits, that sort of thing. When I got older, I kind of kept it close, and when I went into the military, it came in useful in a different way.”
“The military?” Her eyes widen. “Why the military?”
“Why not?”
I shrug, expelling a deep breath.
“Let’s just say it was the easiest option. Without my military training, I would be dead by now.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. Excessive drinking and drugs can kind of ruin a guy’s life, and the military cleaned me up to a degree.”
“But not entirely.”
“I still drink, but strictly no drugs.”
“I see.”
“How are your hands?”
“Better, thanks.”
She smiles guiltily. “I’m not sure what came over me. I didn’t even register the pain.”
“Your mind zoned out. What were you thinking of?”
I note her cheeks turn red and she bites her lip nervously.
“You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not, but sometimes it helps to share.”
“Memories of Angela. Perhaps I should write a book of them one day.”
Her attempt to lighten the mood doesn’t discourage me, and I snap.
“What memories?”
“Slavery.”
I can tell she’s uncomfortable and don’t want to make things worse.
“Nothing you say would shock me, darlin.”
She nods but offers nothing more than that.
“So, Delilah, should I call you that, or would you prefer to take on another identity?”
Her soft smile is surprising because it drags one from my usual surly lips.
“Darlin’ is just fine.”
I nod toward the cabin.
“I can fix you some coffee, or something stronger if you like.”
“That sounds good.”
I jump up and reach out, noting the hesitation in her eyes before she smiles and reaches for my hand.
“Thanks.”
I’m careful to grip her wrist, not her burned hand, and as I pull her to her feet, she stumbles a little on the uneven ground.
Instinctively, I steady her, and for a brief moment, we are chest to chest. As she gazes up into my eyes, I can’t look away.
Luckily, she does it for me and says in a higher voice, “I’m well—damn uneven ground out here.”
Once again, I chuckle as she evades apologizing, and I offer nothing in response as we head back the short distance to the cabin.