Page 17 of Delivered to the Devil

I see her shake her head from the corner of my eye before she says in a weak voice, “My mug broke.”

I cast a glance up from the bandage to see if she’s lying, but there’s no trace of deceit on her face, and the broken mug did look like an accident. All I find in her face is defeat.Good.Otherwise, I’d have to punish her, and I’m not keen on hurting her when she’s this weak.

Inspecting the cut, I find a long, angry gash. It’s deep enough that I consider stitching it up, but since it’s not bleeding, I decide not to. I don’t have the drugs to sedate the area, and stitching up an open wound is enough to have me worried she’d pass out from the pain alone. The disinfecting wipe is bad enough as is. She hisses and whimpers, clenching her jaw and pressing her eyes shut as I clean the wound.

“Look at me,” I demand when her breathing turns into shallow panting and panic seems to hover at the fringes.

Her eyes shoot open, staring up at me with pain and hurt. But as always with this girl, there’s no blame or hatred directed at me. Only a plea to protect.

“You’re doing good,” I say. “Just focus on breathing and keep watching me.”

Her breath staggers past her lips as she tries to inhale deeply.

“Good girl. One more.” She repeats a few times on my command, but when I turn my attention back to her hand, she immediately draws back toward the panic she was headed straight toward moments ago. “Uh, uh,” I reprimand, looking back at her to find her eyes closed again. “Eyes on me.Allthe time.”

She whimpers but obeys, and I manage to keep her afloat with reassuring words and continuous reminders to keep watching me as I finish cleaning the wound. Then I patch it up with new gauze and place her hand on her stomach on top of the comforter. “All done.”

She stares at the pristine, white bandage with a strange combination of awe and wonder. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Why?” I ask.

“No one’s ever taken care of me like this,” she says without lifting her gaze.

I cock my brow in question when she finally peers up.

“My mom would always reprimand me when I got hurt,” she says in a low voice and squeezes her eyes shut like the memory is painful. “‘That’s what happens when you don’t pay attention,’ she’d say and haul me back up whenever I fell and scraped my knees.”

“Boyfriends?” I inquire. A sweet girl like her must have attracted some benign boys—or assholes who’d take advantage. My voice holds the hint of an angry rasp when I add the next part, already knowing the answer. “They didn’t take care of you?”

She gives a small shake of her head. “They were the same—at least the ones I dared to date were.”

My jaw ticks, and I want to grab a piece of paper and demand that she jot down every name of every person who’s ever hurt her, so I can repay the favor tenfold. But then I remember that my name would be at the very top and bite back the urge.

I’m about to get up and tell her to go to sleep when she continues, still keeping her eyes shut like the words are too shameful to face openly. “The only place I ever found comfort was at BDSM clubs.” Her eyes open, and she directs them straight up at me, full of meaning. “Where men beat me, then held me and put me back together.”

I stare back at her, but don’t reply. I know exactly what she’s thinking. The men at the club provided her with comfort after having mistreated her body, and now I’m doing the exact same thing. Though I’m not sure her broken self-worth is capable of recognizing the important difference: at the club, she consented and submitted willingly; I don’t care about her consent.

“Go to sleep,” I finally say and get up. But instead of leaving like I’d originally planned, I sink into the crimson chair and aim my gaze at her. “Sleep.”

She doesn’t close her eyes immediately. Instead, she stares back at me with those wide and vulnerable eyes that make me want to stay all night and watch over her.

“What’s your name?” she finally asks.

“Janos.”

“Janos,” she repeats as if tasting the word, emphasizing the open ‘a’ as in after. Then she lets her eyes drift shut, and within minutes, I hear her breathing slow down as her head falls to the side on the pillow.

CHAPTER 9

“Sámr”

by Ihsahn

Rebecca

The next morning, Janos is gone and so is every trace of him. I’m tempted to think the last couple of weeks have been a bad dream as I pad through the apartment and find everything in its usual order. The only proof that something happened is the white gauze around my hand, which has curled slightly along the edges, no longer perfectly white.

Anger boils inside me as I watch the competent handiwork. I want to rip it off and destroy it just to spite Janos. Or even better, feel the shard of glass I used to cut myself as a teenager in my hands again. The edge was so sharp it would slide right into my skin. I barely had to press, and every pent-up emotion and feeling of powerlessness would dissipate. But then I found the BDSM clubs and let random men beat the hurt out of me instead.

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