Page 24 of Left in the Dark

“I love you,” we say in unison, cheesy smiles stretching across our lips.

I’ve fallen so hard for him, and I never want to stop loving this man.

CHAPTER 17

Delaney

Two weeks fly by, full of classes and assignments, and spending every free minute I can with Zayne. I know it’s risky as hell, but we’re living on borrowed time.

My dad lectured me about Tim, who whined that I nearly broke his nose and embarrassed him at prom. He tried to ground me, but my mom convinced him not to. When I stalked off with a smirk, he was livid. I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn’t. In some ways, I wanted him to. Zayne’s been teaching me how to punch, along with self-defense moves.

Years of being abused and unable to defend myself were building up, making me ready to explode.

Although I tell Zayne almost everything, I haven’t been able to utter any words about the abuse my mom and I suffered at my father’s hands.

Things have been relatively quiet lately, yet I feel a sense of foreboding in the air, warning me something bad is about to happen. The clock ticks inside my head, warning me I haven’t seen the last of his wrath.

But I push it away, refusing to allow thoughts of what if to intrude upon the present.

Friday afternoon,I came home after school, shocked to see my father standing in the entryway. One look at his face and the elation I felt about the bonfire at the lake tonight disappeared.

His hair and tie are disheveled, and there’s a wild look in his eyes. His button-down shirt is wrinkled, as are his pants. He’s not wearing his customary jacket, sending a foreboding chill down my spine. Richard Warner never looks unkempt unless he’s dishing out violence.

A sick feeling washes over me. My feet are rooted to the floor as I stare up at him, my mouth dry. His probing eyes search mine, seeking out my secrets. I do my best to keep my face impassive, trying not to reveal any weaknesses.

“Come into my office, Delaney. We need to talk.”

Those four words send terror coursing through my body.

He spins on his heel, marching to his office. My body quivers as I force my feet to move, following behind him. My mind whirls with a million questions. My mom told me she had a meeting this afternoon with dad’s campaign staff, so that leaves me alone in the mausoleum of a house with the devil.

Richard Warner—the smooth yet slick man always campaigning for something. He has been championing his campaign promises of seeking justice for victims of crimes and ending crime in this small town since he was elected.

It’s all a bullshit farce. He’s a weak, insecure man who gets his rocks off by beating his wife and daughter into submission.

I step inside his office. He stands behind his desk, an imposing monster despite his disheveled appearance.

“Close the door and have a seat.” He nods toward the chair, his cold, ruthless eyes not leaving mine.

I do as he commands, glad I haven’t eaten anything since lunch, or the contents of my stomach would already be on the floor. Vomiting would enrage him even more.

After shutting the door, I stiffly walk to the chair and sit down, my spine straight. My entire body aches from how tense my muscles are. I’m barely breathing, and my heart is hammering wildly.

He sits, and a slow, demonic grin pulls up his lips. “It seems you’ve been very disobedient, Delaney.”

I quietly sit there, saying nothing.

“I’m aware you're sneaking around with Zayne Morine.” A muscle ticks in his jaw as he grinds his teeth. The angry vein in his forehead swells, and his face turns red. Inwardly, I’m climbing out of my skin from the fear coursing through me. Outwardly, I stare at him, remaining silent.

“Delaney Olivia Warner.” My dad’s fists crash on his desk with such force that I jump, a squeak coming from my lips. “How fucking dare you disobey me. I’ve made my feelings quite clear about avoiding that trash… that stain on humanity and his worthless family. Yet you defy me.”

My heart pounds so hard and fast that I think I’m going to pass out. But I say nothing, knowing anything that comes out of my mouth will only further enrage him. And that’s a terrible idea, considering how volatile he is.

His carefully constructed façade is crumbling rapidly. On a scale of 1 to 10, he’s around a 17.

He pulls open his desk drawer and tosses a folder at me. It hits my chest and drops into my lap.

Dread fills me as I stare at it like a snake about to strike.

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