This Love Hurts (This Love Hurts 1)

My phone pings again; it’s my sister guilting me into taking time off since I hardly ever come home anymore.

I wish that I could. I wish I could just pause all of this shit like I did that video in the back office when I first started crying. Freeze it in time and let it turn stale while I go back home as if nothing’s wrong. As if there isn’t a security detail on my ass and a serial killer telling me he’ll protect me. Calling me his. His Delilah.

A shiver snakes its way down my back, leaving a chill in its wake that even the hot coffee can’t undo. Maybe I could leave and all of this would simply pause. Maybe Cody could come with me up to my sister’s. He should be back now any minute. He could stay by my side and protect me from all the warring thoughts in my head. Maybe he’d even call me his. Now I know I’m dreaming.

With a roll of my tired eyes, I shake it all off. The self-pity and delusions combined.

I type back a message and then delete it: I wish I could.

I will talk to my boss and find a way. That’s the response I settle on. Cadence thanks me, says she loves me. All the while I know I’m a liar. I could confess it all and tell her there’s no way I’d risk bringing the mess I’m in to her doorstep, adding to her madness, or I can stay the workaholic sister who’s trying but failing, and never comes home. I choose the latter.

The thud of my phone hitting the counter comes just before a creak of a wooden floorboard. It’s a sound that freezes everything inside of me. With my body still, my eyes locked on the doorway it came from, I can barely breathe.

Someone’s in the house. I can just barely make out their shadow.

The shadow shifts along the stark white wall in the hallway and before I can move, I hear his voice. The voice that haunted me last night says, “I already took your gun.”

My back heel had pivoted, the desperate need for a defense already decided, but with a harsh swallow, I stand firm where I am, attempting to calm myself.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” I manage to speak, my voice tighter than I’d like, but it comes out loud enough.

My gaze flickers to the butcher block. I could at the very least, arm myself with a steak knife. He called me his, he left me flowers, but this man is deranged.

“Never.” His answer is spoken with conviction and I’m once again pulled to the shadow that’s stopped in the hallway just beyond the kitchen. The bright daylight has dimmed, but there’s plenty shining through the window, enough to see the outline of a tall man with broad shoulders.

I remember the security guard, his sheer size and the balls he had to have to walk beside me.

Swallowing thickly, I question him, “Then why take my gun?” I even shrug, as if I wouldn’t use it. As if I believe him for one second when he says he won’t hurt me.

His chuckle is unexpected because it comes out so easily. A second passes and my heart hammers wildly, not at all enjoying his amusement. “You know why, Delilah. Let’s not play games; our time is limited.”

“What do you want?”

Tick, tock, thump, thump; my heartbeat races as I wait for the man to do something or say something. Time goes by far too slowly.

Roses. Red. Blood. Roses. Red. Blood.

Again I’m bombarded by images and confronted with the gruesome reality, unable to pretend I’m not terrified. “Please don’t hurt me,” I say, and my plea is joined by a half-backward step of my bare feet on the floor.

I’ve never wanted to run so much in my life.

“Nothing I want to do to you involves pain.” Marcus’s answer calms the fight-or-flight instinct just barely.

“What do you want?” I repeat the question, attempting to numb myself as I trace the outline of his shadow with my eyes and inwardly curse Cody. How could he have gotten in here? How utterly useless is this protective detail?

“The note, it came from the desk of a man called Herman.” Marcus seems to huff a laugh at the name.

“Herman threatened me?” I ask quietly and calmly, although every inch of my skin pricks with fear. With my head tilted, and my voice sounding subservient more than anything, I brace myself with a hand on the counter and it takes every fiber of my being to listen. I settle on telling him the truth.

“Herman. I don’t know a Herman.”

I sound ridiculous to my own ears. I like to think of myself as a good actress under pressure, but my abilities seem to be failing me.