Delilah
Present Day
My mind is a mess. I snuggle into the bed and let out an unintentional sigh as Maverick’s smell envelops me.
Today was insane, but not all bad. My mother and brother are alive. I found a new friend in Bec. I’m clean. But to say I feel conflicted about returning to New Athens is a massive understatement.
The things Maverick told me… what Gabriel did as a young man, along with the videos he made of our intimate encounters, it’s so much to process. A few days ago if someone would’ve told me those things, I would’ve immediately written them off. Explained them away. Justified them.
Now, after spending time with these people, I’m more confused than ever. I don’t believe anyone is lying about their experiences with the Brotherhood; why else would they be out here hiding if they hadn’t been through those truly horrific things?
But the thing that scares me the most is the possibility that I’ve been lying to myself.
Everything I was taught—everything I believed wholeheartedly—is unraveling before my very eyes.
Being forced to reconcile what I thought I knew with everything I’ve learned and seen here is a difficult process.
And at the center of it all is Maverick—a man who is the complete opposite of everything I was raised to believe a man should be.
Gabriel is harsh. Maverick is gentle.
Gabriel is callous. Maverick is compassionate.
Gabriel is proud. Maverick is humble.
Gabriel scares me. Maverick makes me feel safe.
The last realization has tears flooding my eyes. I’m afraid of my own husband, while this man I barely know instills a sense of peace in me that I haven’t felt in god knows how long. How can that be possible? What am I supposed to do with that?
He asked permission to touch me. He held me as I cried. He looks at me like I’m someone to be cherished. Like I’m beautiful. Gabriel really only looks at me like I’m an object. A prize. A thing.
My thoughts wander back to my conversation with Bec about my sexual experiences. She said I deserve to find pleasure too. Maybe she’s right.
The idea of Gabriel touching me makes me tense up, so I force him out of my mind.
I let my hands wander under the blanket as another face, a face with light brown stubble and hazel eyes, pops into my head.
I blush, even with no one here to witness my shame.
I should not be picturing Maverick’s face as my hands gently cup my breasts.
My fingers tweak my nipples, and my back arches off the bed as I imagine his hands on my body instead of my own.
One hand stays on my breast while the other trails down the soft curve of my abdomen.
I spread my legs and push my hand into my pants, feeling myself through my underwear.
It feels insanely good, even with the thin layer of cotton between my fingers and my throbbing center.
My breath catches as I move my underwear to the side, shocked to find a warm, slick wetness coming from my core.
I run my finger through it and then circle my clit, feeling bubbly.
I had no idea my body could even do this. Nothing has ever felt this good before.
Knowing I won’t get caught and punished—knowing I’m safe—allows me to explore myself more than I ever have, and I quickly discover what feels best. I make little circles with my finger over my clit, and holy shit it feels incredible, even more so as I picture Maverick in the bed with me, touching me and whispering encouragement in my ear.
I’m going to hell, I think as my body shivers, my entrance clenching around nothing as I wind myself tighter and tighter.
“Oh god, Maverick,” I moan as my climax hits me like a ton of bricks.
My body convulses as the most intense pleasure I’ve ever felt spreads through my entire body.
I feel slightly dizzy even though I’m lying down, and my heart pounds like I just ran a mile.
My chest rises and falls rapidly, and I laugh, feeling a little loopy.
I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
???
When I wake in the morning, my body still feels languid, and a flush creeps up my neck as I remember I touched myself while thinking about Maverick.
I moaned his name out loud.
Oh, god. My mortification only grows as I get out of the bed to find a deep red stain on the sheets.
The last time I started my period and stained the bed Gabriel was furious.
Mostly because I wasn’t pregnant—again—but also because he thought it was gross.
Clean this up, you disgusting bitch, he’d said.
I immediately strip the sheets off the thin mattress and roll them into a ball, hoping I can get them clean and dry before Maverick notices.
My clean pair of pants probably aren’t even dry yet, but I can’t stay in these ones.
I peek out of the tent and grab the other pants and underwear from where they’re laid out, changing quickly.
When I come back out with the soiled laundry, the sun is just rising, casting the lush forest in a lovely orange glow.
And there, a few yards away, is the man I fantasized about last night.
Bare chested, slick with sweat, he swings an axe over his head and brings it down on a log, splitting it in two with ease.
A sharp crack rings out, and I’m mesmerized.
He’s beautiful. Muscular and rugged, his chest hair trails down his stomach in a neat line, leading my eyes to where it disappears into his low-slung jeans.
He’s also covered in tattoos; his arms and chest have what I can only describe as classic tattoos, like a sailor would have.
Some birds, an anchor, a chain, a flower.
Most of his skin is covered in colorful designs.
Shit. His eyes connect with mine, and I have no choice but to acknowledge that I was definitely watching him like a stalker.
I step over to him carefully, avoiding stray roots and branches until I’m standing right in front of him.
I stare at the glistening hollow of his throat as his musky, citrusy smell invades my nose, making me feel slightly drunk.
“Good morning.”
“Morning,” he says, breathing hard.
“How did you sleep?” I ask, finally bringing my gaze up to his face.
“Fine,” he replies. “You?”
My face turns crimson. What if he heard me last night? The smirk he’s giving me makes me think he knows exactly why I’m blushing. “Good,” I squeak out.
He nods toward the wadded up fabric in my arms. “Everything okay?”
I had completely forgotten about the soiled sheets, but immediately drop my chin in shame. “I’m so sorry. I-I started my period. I’ll clean them right away.”
He leans the axe against a tree stump and takes a step toward me, bringing his hand to my chin and lifting it gently so I’m forced to look into his eyes. Noticeably, I didn’t flinch or pull away when he reached for me this time. “You don’t have to apologize for something you can’t control.”
“It’s gross,” I argue with a wince.
He gives me a stern look before grabbing his t-shirt and pulling it over his head. “It’s natural.”
“If you just let me know where I can find some laundry soap I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m less concerned about the sheets and more concerned about you.” His gentle declaration makes my stomach flutter. “Let’s get you taken care of, then we’ll deal with the laundry.”
I stare up at him, utterly dumbfounded. “All right.”
To my dismay, he takes the bundle out of my arms and walks with me across the camp until we get to V’s.
The doctor’s already awake, sitting at her desk and writing in her journal. She looks up upon our entry, offering a warm smile. “Good morning, you two.”
I give her a weak smile as my stomach cramps. “Morning.”
“Hey, Doc. Mrs. Sinclair is in need of some menstrual products.”
I catch myself once again wishing he would call me Delilah, even though I’ve asked him not to several times. What is wrong with me?
“No problem.” V hops off her chair and rifles through her medical bag. “Maverick, would you mind heating up some water please?”
He gives me a lingering look before nodding. “Be right back.”
I look away to keep myself from asking him to stay.
V pulls out a bottle of pills and a small box. “Any cramping?”
“A little. Nothing I can’t handle.”
The doctor gives me a sad smile. “I don’t doubt that. But we have plenty to go around. No need for you to suffer for the sake of pride.”
My eyes flood with tears. How would I explain to this woman that I feel guilty for using medication when I’ve been told repeatedly that any pain associated with periods is a “natural consequence for being the weaker sex”? I’m probably just hormonal. “Thank you.”
I toss back the small pills she hands me while she slides the box across the table toward me.
“This is a reusable menstrual disc. You can wear this for up to twelve hours, wash it with soap and water every day, then boil it at the end of your cycle for sanitation. We also have washable pads if insertion or discomfort is an issue.”
I study the flat, squishy disc. “This should work fine, thank you.”
“Great. Any questions for me?”
The videos of Gabriel having sex with other women make their way to the forefront of my mind. “When you drew my blood, did you test me for any STIs?”
She nods. “Yes. Everything came back negative.”
I exhale in relief, closing my eyes for a minute.
“Do you need any birth control or contraceptives?” Her tone is casual enough, but the insinuation is not lost on me.
My eyes pop open. “That’s illegal.” The Brotherhood doesn’t allow any form of contraception—at least for wives—since the goal of marital relations is always to get pregnant.
“Sex is not just for procreation, Mrs. Sinclair.”
My cheeks heat as the memory of the pleasure I brought myself last night—while thinking about a man who is undoubtedly not my husband—resurfaces. “Are you suggesting I’ve been unfaithful in my marriage?”
“Of course not, though I wouldn’t judge you if you were. I just want you to know I have those things should you need them.”
Before I can respond, Maverick returns with a pot full of steaming water, and V holds open the hot water bottle so he can pour it in. She wraps it in a towel and hands it to me, and the relief I feel when I hold it to my lower abdomen is heavenly.
Any animosity I felt toward her for suggesting I’ve cheated—or plan on cheating—disappears. “Thank you, doctor.”
“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need anything else.”
I ignore her offer, since I would have to be a terrible person to cheat on my husband. Even though I touched myself last night and didn’t think about Gabriel, that’s not the same as being unfaithful, right?
“You should rest today,” Maverick says, holding the door to the tent open for me.
“Where did you put the laundry?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it.” He looks forward as we walk back to his tent.
“Maverick,” I warn.
He looks down at me and bats his eyelashes. “Yes, darlin’?”
When he called me that the first time, I hated it. Now, I can’t even bring myself to scowl. “It’s my fault they got dirty, so I should clean them.”
“It’s no one’s fault. And there are people who are happy to do it. Everyone helps out around here; not because they have to, but because they want to.” His words are clipped, like he’s slightly irritated with me.
“I doubt someone wants to clean my blood-stained sheets,” I mutter.
We arrive back at his tent, effectively stopping our impending argument before it starts. I sit down on the bed—which has been made up with new sheets—and he crosses his arms and looks down at me. “Lie down.” His voice is gentle but authoritative. It fills me with something akin to exhilaration.
“Bossy,” I grumble.
Still slightly sweaty from chopping wood earlier, Maverick squats down and lays the blanket over me, careful not to actually make contact with my skin. “Comfortable?”
The genuine concern on his face makes my breath catch. I clear my throat and nod. “Yes. Thank you.”
He stands up and wipes his forehead with his bicep. “About last night…”
Oh shit, did he hear me? Does he know what I did? “What about it?”
“I wanted to apologize.”
My brows furrow. “For what?”
“If I made you feel uncomfortable at all.”
I feel the flush creep up my neck. Little does he know just how comfortable he made me. “You didn’t.” He nods to himself. A few moments pass. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”
His eyes find mine. “You’ve insulted me and hit me and questioned my every intention. A hug is the least of my concerns when it comes to you, Mrs. Sinclair.”
Had I done those things? “Sorry,” I wince.
His mouth tugs up at one end, and wow, does it transform his face. Instead of brooding and indifferent, he looks sort of like a giant, huggable teddy bear. “Get some rest.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to call me Delilah, but he’s gone before I can give in to that treasonous urge.
To say I’m conflicted about this man is an understatement.
When did the leader of the Rebels—someone who should by all accounts be considered my enemy—become someone I care about?
I hug my cramping abdomen, sensing that this complicated thing between us is only going to get more confusing the longer I’m here.