Chapter 10 Delilah
CHAPTER TEN
DELILAH
Cade’s awake—maybe he never slept. He stands on the island, head bowed, still. Only a jittery lantern lights him, his shadow huge on the wall. He senses me instantly. “Stay put,” he growls. “Something tripped the motion sensors on the west line.”
I ignore him and go stand beside him. “It’s probably a deer. Or a branch.”
He’s wearing a rain jacket, yesterday’s jeans, and laced boots. There’s a printout on the table, a memo with the letterhead ripped off. I try to read it upside down, but he covers it.
“Don’t,” he warns. He means more than just the paper—he means don’t ask questions. But now I want to know everything. There’s a new tension in him, a tight control.
“What did it say?” I ask. He watches the windows. Silence crawls up my spine.
“Another breach. DC office. Internal security. Someone close to your father.” He says it quietly, as if he doesn’t want the walls to hear.
“Here?” The word sounds tiny in the silence. “Not likely.” He’s lying, not to me but himself. “So what’s the plan? Lockdown?” I edge closer, static buzzing under my skin.
He exhales, rough and dry, and I can tell he’s switching gears.
“Everything gets tighter. More agency guys will come after the storm.” He looks at the lantern, then at me.
His eyes are so tired, the lines at the corners seem endless.
“You don’t leave my sight. Not for meals, not for the bathroom.
Even then, the door stays open. Understand? ”
I want to rebel, do anything except what he wants. But his hands are shaking—this is real fear, not just something he was born with. He’s losing to it.
“Fine. But warn me before you barge in, or you’ll see something you can’t unsee.”
Something changes in his face. “I doubt that,” he says, voice rough. He pulls open the coat closet, grabs a loaded 9mm, checks the safety quickly, and puts it in his waistband. I stare.
“What, the kitchen knives not enough?”
He gives me a hard look. “This isn’t a joke.” He starts to say more, but stops. “Stay here. No exceptions.” Cade steps onto the covered porch. He pushes the door open with his shoulder, gun ready. Rain hits the roof so hard it drowns out every other sound.
I should be scared, but I feel anchored—to him, to this moment. He’s not gone thirty seconds when my phone rings. It’s my father. “Delilah, honey, are you safe?” His voice is frantic, so off-brand it spikes my adrenaline.
“I’m fine, Dad. Is this about the breach?”
“Listen to me.” It’s not a request. “Your man—Walker—he’s been flagged as compromised. He’d never hurt you, but the FBI and Secret Service want to pull him. They’ll send new security once the storm passes. I need you to comply with whatever they say until then.”
“Compromised how?” My lips go numb. Papers rustle on his end.
“He never should have been assigned to you. He’s too invested. That makes him a liability. If something happens—” He stops.
“Dad, I’m not an asset. I’m your daughter.
” He sighs, rough and tired. “Please, Lila. Just do this for me.” I hang up before he finishes.
The world narrows to rain, ozone, and a tightness in my throat.
I fold and unfold my arms, then go to the window just in time.
Cade is at the fence line, soaked, talking to someone I can’t see.
Backup? No, the angle is wrong. He stands between them and the house, blocking the way.
I watch, holding my breath, as things get tense.
Cade’s jaw clenches. The other person, wiry and hooded, gestures.
Cade doesn’t move, protecting me. My stomach twists.
I press against the window. He comes back, dripping, lantern light in his wet hair.
I notice the cut above his eyebrow before he does.
“Who was that?” My voice shakes, and I hate it.
“Courier. Dropped a package for your father.” He grabs a rag from under the sink, dabs at his face, and then tosses it in the trash.
“But that’s not why they came.” He locks the deadbolt, slides the chain, and puts the gun back in the kitchen drawer. His shoulders start to relax as his hands steady.
“They know where we are,” he says, quietly. “Means we’re done here.” He looks at me, really looks, and something melts at the edges. “You’re not safe until this blows over. So I’ll stay with you until the relief team shows. Understand?”
“No.” I step closer, nails digging into my palm. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He shakes his head. The mask slips; he’s about to break. “The job’s over, Delilah. I crossed a line. I can’t take that back.”
I want to laugh, scream, or punch the wall. “So what, you’re just going to abandon me to a bunch of rented suits?”
He doesn’t answer, so that means yes.
“Fuck that,” I say, and grab his wrist, still flecked with blood. I hold on. We’re closer than ever, both sober and uninjured. His pulse hammers under my thumb. He tries to pull away. I don’t let him.
“Why do you even care? You’re just a paycheck to my dad.”
He winces. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it,” I snap. “Why do you keep holding the door for me? Stay up all night? Why won’t you leave when you should?”
He bows his head, and for a moment I think he’s going to say something soft, something ruined. What comes out is even worse. “You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to protect for their own sake.” It’s so raw I almost flinch.
“You’re not a liability,” I say. “You’re the only one on my side.”
His jaw tightens, but he’s not angry. “That’s exactly the problem. They’ll use you to get to me. Or worse, make you collateral. I can’t let that happen.”
I tug him to the living room, not worrying about his boots muddying the rug as we go.
The storm outside rattles the windows. Once inside, we stand in the center.
The only light comes from the gas fireplace, glowing from its backup line.
Cade sits by the hearth and looks up at me.
Blood seeps from the cut above his eye. I kneel beside him and rip the sleeve off my shirt, pressing the cloth gently to his face.
He’s rigid. “You’re not supposed to do that.”
“Supposed to?” I laugh, bitter. “You think any of this is supposed to happen?”
He closes his eyes. “Don’t make this harder.”
I don’t know what comes over me. I lean in, pressing the cloth to his wound, and whisper: “I don’t care about the job. I care about you.”
He opens his eyes. There’s a tidal shift behind them. “You never make anything easy.”
“Neither do you.” I brush his hair from his forehead, careful of the cut.
His breath catches. He smells like wet leaves, cigarettes, and liniment.
Maybe for the first time, I want to stay.
It feels like we’ve sat like this forever.
Lightning flashes, then the room goes dark.
In the afterglow, his hand finds mine, and we lace our fingers together.
“You know how this ends,” he says. His words vibrate inside me.
“My father’s men’ll have to get through you first.”
He smiles for the first time in days, lips thin and a little cruel. “That’s the plan.”
I lean forward to check his wound, but he lifts my face with his bandaged hand and kisses me.
It’s not panicked or desperate like before.
It’s slow and intense, sending heat through me.
I grab his shirt and hold on. He doesn’t stop until I’m out of breath, until my lips feel raw.
He rests his forehead against mine and breathes out, shaky.
“If I were braver—”
“Don’t,” I say, fingers tracing his unshaven jaw. “Don’t tell me what you’d do. Just do it.”
He listens. The next kiss is intense—I can’t tell if it’s better or worse.
His hands hold my face, thumbs along my jaw.
When I breathe in, he kisses me deeper, tasting of heat and smoke.
I wrap my arms around his neck. His hands move down my back, slow and careful, as if he’s trying to remember every part of me.
He pulls away suddenly, like it takes effort.
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” he mutters.
I push him back, grab his jacket, and force him to look at me. “Maybe I do. Maybe I want to screw up your life for once.”
He laughs, really laughs, helpless. Then he grabs my wrist, just like I did to him, and presses his mouth to my palm. The touch is so gentle it almost feels wrong. “You already have,” he says, and I believe him.
I climb into his lap, legs crossed over his, and let my head fall to his shoulder. We sit there, listening to the wind sunder trees and rain pummel the roof, each heartbeat a countdown to whatever comes next.
“I want you to promise,” I say, voice muffled against his throat, “that no matter what, you won’t leave before I do.”
He turns, nuzzles his nose into my hair, and breathes deep.
He doesn’t answer. I take that as yes. We stay there until sunrise, limbs tangled, the storm fading into memory.
When the relief team shows up at noon, they have to bang on the door for five straight minutes before either of us moves.
He gets up first, sets me gently aside, and stands with his back to me, cracking the tension out of his neck.
“You ready?” he asks. There’s no sarcasm, no mask.
I nod, wipe my face, and walk forward. The new team works fast. They’re all ex-military, with short hair and earpieces.
Cade’s been reassigned. The lead guy is huge, even bigger than Cade, and tries to herd me upstairs.
Cade stays back, letting them take over.
He gives me a look like he’s trying to remember me, like this is the moment he’ll hold onto.
I fight every nervous habit so I can look back at him without flinching.
Upstairs, the new team does a cursory sweep of the safe room and checks every closet and window.
Their leader is named Phelps, and he doesn’t bother with small talk.
The instructions are idiot-proof: Stay put, don’t wander, don’t answer texts from unknown numbers.
He reprograms my phone’s contacts to route every call through an encrypted app, hands it back, and moves on.
I ask twice where I’m being transferred, but the answer is always the same: not their department. I want to believe them, but the way Cade took the stairs two at a time, and how Phelps’s crew waited for him to check every corner, keeps me on edge.
The storm clears by evening. “You’ll be moving tonight,” Phelps says, eyes slivered by suspicion, like he expects me to bite. “Nothing personal, but we don’t want you and Walker in the same vehicle. Should be obvious why.” His mouth tightens.
“So he’s dangerous now?” I say it like I’m joking, but he just shrugs and redirects the conversation. “Two hours. Pack what you’ll need, no more than a carry-on.”
It hits me—I’m not just being moved. They’re separating us.
The rest of the day feels like a funeral.
Everything is drained of color, every sound feels fake.
I pace the upstairs hall, looking for a chance to break the routine, but guards follow my every move.
I see Cade once in the back fields, his jacket bright orange in the sunset, his shape hunched toward the barn like he’s hurting.
I wait until after dark. The moment they switch shifts, I sneak down the back stairs and out to the mudroom. Cade’s there, alone, shoving his clothes and gear into a duffel bag.
“You really are leaving,” I say. I mean it to sound tough, but the phrase comes out gnarled. For a second, he looks right through me.
“Not my call.” His jaw ticks. He’s got the look of a man about to break his own rules and pay for it later.
I hurl the question at him: “Are you even going to say goodbye?” I want him to lie or promise or fight, but he just looks at the floor and pulls his duffel’s zipper shut.
“You know I can’t,” he says, voice shaded with the same regret I hear in my own head. “The less we say, the safer you’ll be.” He steps past, like he’s going to shoulder through the wall if he has to.
"Bullshit. I'm not evidence you can seal away. I'm not some secret you get to bury and then pat yourself on the back for protecting." The word rips from my throat.
That stops him, at least. He sets the duffel down carefully, as if it’s fragile. When he finally looks up, something changes in his eyes. I expect him to explode, but instead, he just seems to collapse inward, everything folding in on itself.
“Delilah.” He says my name like a confession. “I’d burn this whole fucking county to the ground if it meant you’d walk away clean.”
The silence that follows is the kind that leaves scars.
I laugh. It isn’t pretty. “What if I don’t want to walk away? What if I want to stay here and watch it burn?”
He grabs my jaw, thumb cupping under my chin. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Freedom. A normal life.” The words are frantic and flat, like he’s trying to sell me something at the exact moment he’s throwing it in the trash.
“I know enough to know normal’s an optical illusion.” My teeth chatter from the cold, the fury, or both. “You could have had it, you know, if you weren’t such a coward.”
He releases me, but his hands don’t drop far. They hover at my neck, trembling. “It’s not fear of them. It’s fear of what I’d do to keep you.” He takes a deep breath and lowers his head until his lips are only inches from mine. “When this is over, I won’t stop.”