Delilah
Present Day
I have to get out of here. I got dirty looks from people all throughout supper, no doubt due to that wretched woman from earlier today spinning some horrible tale about me.
Luckily, I’m alone in the dinner tent now, finishing up washing all the dishes.
Despite my best efforts to remain unimpressed, the Rebels really do have an efficient system here.
Liv—the only person who didn’t shoot daggers at me with her eyes all night—was happy to share how they survive out here.
They collect rainwater—which is no problem since it seems to rain constantly here—for drinking and bathing.
They have a few gas-powered generators, solar or battery-powered tools, a garden and some chickens, an outhouse, and tons of non-perishable food items. Apparently, they’ve collected everything over the years—from where, I’m unsure.
Liv said they have friends, but I’m not stupid; she probably wasn’t sharing all the details since I’m technically the enemy.
But they have to be ready to pack up and leave at a moment’s notice, hence the tents and pre-packed supplies everywhere.
Liv said the Brotherhood has never found them, but there have been a few close calls, all of which is news to me since Gabriel has always maintained the narrative that the Resistance is just an old wives’ tale.
Regardless of Liv and Charlie, who have been nothing but kind to me, and Liv’s insistence that the residents here are good people, I can’t stay. My home is with Gabriel, and being his wife is not only my duty, but the most important thing I’ll ever do.
I finish the dishes—because if it’s one thing I’m good at, it’s doing what I’m told—and grab one of the backpacks already filled with supplies, hoisting it onto my shoulders.
I check to make sure the coast is clear before sneaking along the edge of the tent and backing away from the camp, pulling the crank flashlight out of the bag so I don’t trip over anything in the dark.
I walk toward what I hope is the beach, but don’t have much of a plan besides that.
Maybe there will be a small speedboat I can take back to the mainland, not that I know where that is either.
Admittedly, this isn’t exactly a well-thought-out plan, but getting back to Gabriel is more important than the details right now.
Even with my flashlight, it’s still incredibly dark in the forest, and my foot catches on a stray root.
My ankle twists and I go down hard, landing on my hands and knees.
I grunt, but am careful not to make any other noise since I’m still close enough to the camp that someone might hear if I cried out.
I try to get back up, but pain flares in my ankle.
Dammit. It must be sprained.
I crank the flashlight and set it down next to me, digging through the backpack for some kind of medical tape I could use to wrap my ankle while the damp ground soaks through my pants.
I don’t find any medical supplies besides some adhesive bandages, so I zip the backpack up and get to my feet, ignoring the pain that shoots up my leg as I start limping along.
After about fifty paces, my ankle is throbbing and I feel a little dizzy. I lean against a large pine tree, catching my breath and trying not to faint.
“Out for a little evening stroll, are we?”
I jump, letting out a surprised yelp and shining my flashlight toward the voice. Maverick leans one shoulder against a nearby tree, his legs crossed causally at the ankle.
“You scared me.”
He ambles toward me, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “What was your plan, Mrs. Sinclair? To survive in the woods on a can of beans and a jar of peanut butter until your dear husband came to rescue you?”
I scowl at him. “I was doing just fine, thank you.”
He looks pointedly down at my foot that’s hovering above the ground. “Mmhmm.”
The light from my flashlight slowly fades as I continue to look up at him.
He really is quite a large man; he sort of reminds me of a lumberjack, actually.
His stubble is growing quickly, hiding his strong jaw, and the flannel he has on over his shirt looks blessedly warm.
I shiver as he takes another step toward me until he’s about a foot away.
“You can’t keep me here.”
“Tell me why you want to go back so badly,” he says. I start to respond, but he cuts me off. “A reason that doesn’t involve you being a wife. What else is waiting for you back in New Athens besides attending to your husband’s every whim?”
“I…” Silence fills the air between us, save for an owl that hoots somewhere nearby. When I can’t think of any other reason, I clamp my mouth shut so hard my teeth click together.
“Being Gabriel’s wife is the only thing that matters.”
My eyes must have adjusted to the dark because I see him shake his head. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers.
“Look, Mister.” I poke his chest with my index finger, and I’m almost positive it hurts me more than it does him. “You don’t have to understand our way of life, but you should respect it.”
“Respect it?” he sneers. “Which part should I respect, exactly? The part where the Brotherhood stole young girls away from their families? Or the part where women are treated like sex slaves, used only for their bodies? Or maybe the part where abuse is normalized so much that you’re convinced you deserve to be punished for the simplest mistakes? ”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I argue, but my voice shakes. “Everything Gabriel does is for my own good.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I’ll show you.” He reaches toward the backpack on my shoulders, and I let him slide it off slowly. He adjusts the straps and puts it on his own back before looking down at me with an expression I can’t decipher. “May I?”
“May you what?” I ask, leaning away slightly.
“May I carry you, Mrs. Sinclair?” He sounds impatient.
I scoff. “I don’t need to be carried.”
“Suit yourself.” He takes off walking back through the forest, leaving me to scramble after him.
One step on my bad ankle, and I go down again. This time, I’m unable to hold in the cry of pain that makes its way up my throat.
“That’s what I thought.” Maverick walks back over to me, squatting down and scooping me into his arms like I weigh nothing.
I curse myself for needing his assistance at all, stubbornly clinging to his neck as his steps jostle me. I stay silent, inadvertently breathing in his scent and finding that it’s oddly familiar. He smells like the bed I woke up in, I realize.
“Whose bed did I sleep in?”
He grunts in response, which I take as confirmation.
Once again, I’m aware of how much our bodies are touching. The only man I’ve ever touched—bedsides my father when I was a child—is Gabriel. “My husband wouldn’t be pleased to know I slept in another man’s bed.”
“Trust me, your husband’s bedroom activities are far more unsavory than your own.”
“Lords are welcome to entertain anyone they please,” I recite, but my throat feels tight.
“But wives aren’t?”
“Of course not.” The very idea is ludicrous.
Maverick stops walking. “Don’t you see the hypocrisy in that?”
“A man’s pleasure always comes first.”
“I’m a man. Does my pleasure come first?” he asks, somehow sounding both curious and annoyed.
My brow furrows as I ponder his question. Everything I’ve been taught tells me the answer should be yes. But he’s not a lord or a brother, so I’m unsure. “I don’t know.”
“If I told you to lie down and spread your legs so I could find my pleasure, would you?” He sounds disgusted even posing the question.
My muscles immediately tighten, anxiety filling my gut. My shoulders inch up toward my ears and my heart starts beating faster. The visceral response isn’t exactly unusual; my body always responds this way with Gabriel, too. It’s just part of being physically intimate.
When I take too long to respond, Maverick speaks again. “I can feel how tense you are.”
My anger flares. “So?”
He finally starts walking again. “That’s not normal. The idea of having sex shouldn’t send your body into a panic.”
“It doesn’t,” I argue, forcing my shoulders to relax.
“So you like it, then?”
“Like what?”
“Having sex.”
My cheeks flush. “That’s really none of your business.”
“It’s a simple question, Mrs. Sinclair.”
“And I already told you, a man’s pleasure comes first.”
“Fucking hell,” he says, the disbelief obvious in his tone. Before I can respond, we arrive at his tent. He pushes inside where the wolf is curled up in a ball on the bed. “Zeus.” One word, and he hops off the mattress and curls up on the floor instead.
I watch the animal as Maverick sets me down on the bed, finding I don’t have the energy to protest. He moves to take off my shoe, but I pull my foot away so fast I nearly knee myself in the nose. “I don’t like my feet being touched.”
He quirks a brow. “The swelling will be worse if we don’t remove your shoe.”
“I’ll do it then.” Acutely aware of his eyes tracking my movements, I remove my shoes but leave my sock on.
Maverick places a pillow underneath my ankle, elevating my injured foot. He squats down and digs through a duffle bag at the foot of the bed, pulling out a roll of elastic bandage. “It will heal faster if I wrap it.”
I bite my lip, considering the pros and cons.
Pro: the faster my ankle heals, the faster I can get out of here.
Con: the idea of anyone touching my feet makes my skin crawl.
Ever since I stepped in that puddle of blood on the night of the Reckoning, having my feet bare is enough to send me into a spiral.
“Fine,” I tell him. “Just don’t take my sock off.”
He studies me, no doubt wondering what’s wrong with me, before he nods once. After a few minutes of careful maneuvering on his part and measured breathing on mine, my ankle is wrapped securely but not too tightly, applying just the right amount of compression.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” I ask, needing a distraction.
“I took a sports medicine class in high school.”