Chapter 30
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Less than two months later, Rowan found herself in her new, semi-permanent home.
She had to give it to Riley, she worked fast. Rowan wouldn’t have thought it possible to be stuck with attempted murder charges in such a short period of time.
Apparently, with so many witnesses and all the evidence against her, it was a fairly quick process. She didn’t stand a chance.
Rowan had been on her bed all morning, hadn’t bothered to get up, and no one had bothered to get her up. It had been a week since she’d been in this hell. No news: nothing from Riley, nothing from Delilah.
Her blood boiled when she thought of Riley, of the venom in her smile as she accused Rowan of all sorts of bullshit in that courtroom. She’d thought about her own defense, how weak it had been, how the lawyer assigned to her had barely even done their job.
Most of all, she thought of the last words she heard from Riley, uttered in a bustling hallway in passing after the judge sentenced her. She’s not done with you.
There could have been an easier way to get them together. Rowan almost wished she’d killed Riley, especially since it had been an entire fucking week and she hadn’t heard even a whisper of Delilah’s presence.
Her sister had been by to visit, though Rowan hadn’t dared ask about Delilah—not that she thought Em would know anything.
Her sister had been beside herself with worry through the whole ordeal, the trial, the sentencing.
Guilt had gnawed at Rowan to see her so broken up, to see Em watching Rowan at her lowest, the worst version of herself.
Just as the fleeting notion came to mind that Rowan should write to her—she hadn’t gotten computer privileges yet—the cell door groaned open and light footsteps entered.
Rowan didn’t bother moving, she didn’t even open her eyes.
She didn’t have any friends in this place, but neither did she have enemies.
Must be the new cellmate she’d been threatened with.
Her visitor didn’t speak, and Rowan listened with increasing irritation as the footsteps padded closer.
She finally peeled her eyes open when the shadow loomed directly over her, blocking out the shit cell light overhead.
Her glare was met with achingly familiar green eyes.
A smug look was already painted across that perfect face.
The knife in Delilah’s hand glinted, catching Rowan’s attention before shooting back up to meet Delilah’s stare. Rowan licked her lips, adrenaline flooding her veins as heat traversed her spine and settled right in her center. An aching desire filled her within seconds.
She didn’t bother asking how Delilah had gotten the knife smuggled in here; she knew by now not to question her.
Rowan tracked Delilah’s movements, staying so still she was almost holding her breath, as Delilah joined her on the bed, straddling her lap. Automatically, Rowan moved to steady her, to feel the heat of Delilah’s skin underneath her palms again. But she was stopped by a single, quiet, “Don’t.”
Rowan froze. Her hands had barely unclasped from behind her head, her abs tensed from lifting to release them.
She watched Delilah cautiously, relaxing back into the thin mattress, the knife on full display.
The smooth, polished wood handle and bright, clean blade looked good between Delilah’s fingers. Like it was made for her.
Without speaking, Delilah slowly brought the sharpened tip of the knife to the divot at the base of Rowan’s throat.
“Do you trust me?” she asked in a low whisper, her eyes flashing with delight.
“No,” Rowan answered simply, watching Delilah’s smile widen. She was aching for her touch, aching for that knife to know her body, to draw her blood, to let Delilah bathe in it.
Delilah pressed the tip in, digging it into Rowan’s throat until her skin split beneath the sharp ire of the blade. Hot blood welled up and Delilah drew the knife down Rowan’s sternum, pausing only when Rowan’s shirt prevented further travel. The cut wasn’t deep, but it still burned pleasantly.
Pressure increased as Delilah tried to cut her shirt open, seeking to bloody Rowan’s chest and stomach too. With a thin snap, she succeeded. The shitty fabric of the prison garb gave way as the threads eagerly undid themselves, tearing apart at the knife’s behest.
The burning continued, blood trickling from the wound as Rowan’s heart beat furiously in her chest, her eyes still locked on Delilah’s face as she carved further and further until Rowan’s shirt was cut clean in half.
Delilah removed the knife from Rowan’s skin, pushing the sides of her shirt open, bearing Rowan’s naked chest to her for the first time.
Cold air tightened her nipples and goosebumps pimpled her skin despite the heat surging through her body. Delilah sat back, admiring the view, the blood staining Rowan’s chest.
Anticipation weaved between them: Rowan waiting for Delilah’s next move as the knife remained delicately held aloft, Delilah lording the power she’d always wielded over her.
“Delilah,” Rowan pleaded, her voice thin, weak, as the need choked her throat. She hadn’t thought they would ever have this again.
She hadn’t needed to beg as much as she’d anticipated, because no sooner had the word left Rowan’s lips than Delilah slammed the knife into the mattress, dangerously close to Rowan’s head, and licked the blood at her throat.
Rowan groaned, struggling to keep her arms where they rested behind her head, closing her eyes and bucking her hips just once.
Delilah’s soft laugh reverberated through her sternum as teeth scraped against her clavicle.
The rough fabric of Delilah’s shirt stung against Rowan’s fresh cut as they pressed together.
Her mind was already growing hazy with lust, singularly focused on Delilah’s weight on top of her, of that soothing tongue gliding across the burning wound.
Rowan rocked her hips against Delilah again, pleading silently for more.
Rowan finally unclasped her hands from behind her head, moving before Delilah could protest to grip her hips, holding her down and grinding against her.
Delilah rose up, a taunting glint in her eyes before she leaned back and let Rowan move her. The fabric around her crotch soaked up Rowan’s blood and she longed to remove the damned barrier, to let Delilah’s arousal smear across her stomach.
Gripping the waistband of Delilah’s pants, Rowan tugged lightly, a silent request. She would beg out loud if she needed to, but Delilah granted her this small mercy, climbing off and quickly shucking the pants to the cold concrete cell floor.
Rowan forced herself to stop staring just long enough to scramble out of her own pants, guiding Delilah back down onto her as soon as she was done.
She craved the feeling of their swollen clits rubbing together, their arousal mixing and building as one.
Delilah wouldn’t let that happen though.
She wouldn’t let Rowan control the pace, the flow, the power between them.
Her eyes flashed dangerously, and she shoved Rowan’s hands from her hips, forcing them back above Rowan’s head.
Delilah leaned down enough that her infuriatingly clothed breasts were in Rowan’s face, preventing any complaints as Rowan bit her breasts through Delilah’s shirt.
She squeezed her thighs together as Delilah’s bare cunt returned to her stomach, stifling a whimper at the sensation of her slick arousal. The scent of blood and sex mingled in the air around them, fogging her brain with heady desire.
She wanted—she needed—to touch Delilah, to make her feel good, to hear her scream. “Please,” Rowan whimpered, achingly desperate. “Please, Delilah.” It didn’t even matter what Delilah gave her at this point, as long as she could take something, anything.
Delilah released her and she watched as Delilah’s movements stilled, her gaze catching on the bed just above Rowan’s shoulder. The next thing she knew, Delilah was looking at her with an unreadable expression, the knife back in her hand, her eyes heavy with lust.
She was holding the blade delicately as she licked the length of the handle before putting it halfway in her mouth.
Rowan had never seen anything like it, had never known how erotic it would be to watch Delilah hollow out her cheeks and suck on the handle.
Rowan was holding her breath, her thighs sticky and wet with need.
Her clit hurt but she didn’t dare try to relieve any of the pressure.
After a painfully long time, Delilah moved, biting the knife handle to keep it in her mouth, she turned around on the bed and shuffled up until she was sitting on Rowan’s face.
The knife was immediately forgotten as the musky tang of Delilah’s arousal mixed with the copper of Rowan’s blood and filled her senses.
She opened her mouth, easily welcoming Delilah and getting lost in the taste of her. The taste she’d been craving for so long. Spearing her tongue inside, she lavished Delilah with as much pleasure as she could, distracted only when she felt a hard, wet, blunt intrusion in between her legs.
The handle of the knife entered her easily, sliding right in, but she never felt the sting of the blade.
She let out an unsteady breath, her heart pounding and mind quickly sobered.
Then, Delilah pulled the knife out, before slowly sliding it back in, over and over.
Rowan felt herself clenching around the handle.
She needed more. More that she already knew Delilah wouldn’t give her.
Sliding her tongue through Delilah’s heat, she tried to focus on her clit, pressing down until she heard Delilah’s light gasp.
Her reward was Delilah slightly increasing her speed, and the breath from her gasp tickling Rowan’s clit.
Rowan squeezed her eyes shut, imagining how close Delilah’s mouth was to her, what her tongue would feel like relieving that pressure that Rowan was so desperate to take care of.
It didn’t take much longer until Delilah pulled the knife away, her thighs squeezing around Rowan’s head and her breathy gasps caressing Rowan’s clit with a ghost of a touch that could almost send her over the edge.
She didn’t stop, swiping her tongue faster, harder, until Delilah was shaking and pulling away.
“You’re mine,” Delilah muttered, eyes flashing possessively as she turned, straddling Rowan’s legs again.
She was holding the knife handle, which gleamed with Rowan’s arousal and something darker.
Delilah’s palm was bleeding. “I own you, Rowan,” Delilah continued, bringing the blade down until she was pressing into the skin above Rowan’s heart.
“Your pleasure, your pain,” she said, focused on her carving. “They belong to me. You belong to me.”
Rowan swallowed. Her voice was stolen from her as a well of emotion she didn’t expect threatened to rip from the very fabric of her being.
She closed her eyes, letting the burn sink into her skin as she made out the first three letters of Delilah’s name being permanently etched into her skin.
She relaxed into it, allowing her body and soul to be claimed by Delilah Watson.