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There’s nothing else in my head except for the fact that she’s wearing that shitty bracelet.
The same type of bracelet my sister wore the night she disappeared.
The mark of murder.
Every hint of reason and patience flies out the window.
My higher brain isn’t functioning when all I can see is Delilah wearing that death curse like it’s just a flippant fashion accessory.
Like it isn’t a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled, damning her to the same fate Celeste suffered.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snarl, planting myself on the sidewalk in front of her.
I throw myself into her path so fast she nearly smacks into me.
Whatever, call me a dick.
I’m done with this tiptoeing around shit.
She stumbles back a step, flashing me a hot-eyed look of irritation before it shutters and turns distant. “Last I checked, Officer Graves, I was walking down the street. Did I violate some obscure small-town ordinance, or are you back to harassing citizens again?”
“Don’t you ‘Officer Graves’ me. You know what I’m talking about, Lilah.” I can’t take the cool sarcasm in her voice when she was so open for me before, so warm, that connection between us burning hot. I also can’t stop myself from snatching her arm just above the wrist, holding it up between us till that bracelet chimes in soft accusation. “Why the fuck are you wearing his mark?”
“His mark?”
Delilah yanks her arm away.
Goddammit.
I may be mad as hell, but I’m not trying to hurt her.
She retreats out of my reach, glowering up at me with those wild blue eyes full of fire.
“You controlling, possessive, arrogant dick,” she bites off. “That’s how you think about everything, isn’t it? Who’s property, who isn’t. So now I can’t wear a flipping bracelet without being someone’s pet?” Her eyes narrow. “It’s just a piece of jewelry, Lucas. I don’t belong to anyone. Not to him. Definitely not to you. So, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t owe you a single word.”
I pull up short, staring at her in shock.
My whole heart crashes through my shoes.
Is that how she sees me?
No better than every other controlling fuckwit who ever tried to own her? Just like the crazy asshole ex who stalked her here and got himself killed?
My lips work helplessly.
We’re standing in the middle of the street and people are staring, but I don’t care.
I just meet her furious glare, searching for words.
“It’s not about that and you know it,” I growl. She’s almost winded me with shock, taking my temper with it. I guess I finally found out how many stabs it takes before a cactus makes you bleed. “You know what that bracelet means, Delilah. Don’t bullshit me. I told you what happened to my sister. If you let them keep sucking you in, you’ll be next.” I swallow. My throat hurts like it’s full of pulverized glass. “Don’t do this to me, woman. Don’t fucking make me have you as my next case. I couldn’t stand it.”
Her mouth pulls open, but she doesn’t say anything.
I scratch the back of my neck, praying for a second of inspiration that’ll make her listen.
“Look, this is coming out all mangled. I’m trying to tell you I can stand losing you because we fought. Because you hate me now. Because you think I lied. Fine. What I can’t stand is knowing I lost you ’cause I couldn’t stop them from hurting you.”
She stops short, looking at me with her eyes so dark, her expression unreadable.
I don’t see anger anymore.
There’s something I don’t understand written on her face.
Something lost, full of so much hurt, and I don’t think it’s all because of me.
“I know what I’m doing,” she struggles out. “And I don’t need you to come rushing to my rescue. I’m not the one who needs saving, Lucas. If you can’t figure out what happened to Emma Santos—I will.”
What does that mean?
Before I can ask, she leaves me standing there.
I’m too fucking stunned for words, aching to reach out and stop her, chase her down, but knowing I have no right. She’ll only hate me more if I try.
Her hair lashes behind her like an angry cat’s tail, black and rhythmic, as she walks away with her head held high.
I watch her fade out of sight in a protective swarm of fireflies with a sickness churning in my gut and one question lashing through me over and over.
What the hell is Delilah Clarendon planning? And why do I get the awful feeling those fireflies won't be enough to save her?
21
Roses Are Red (Delilah)
Somebody remind me again why I ever wanted to work things out with that ginormous asshole in uniform?
I’m having trouble remembering.
I glare at myself in the mirror perched on the vanity of my room at The Rookery. I only make myself stop because it’s a little hard to put on wing-tip eyeliner when you’re giving yourself premature wrinkles.
