Page 54 of Delivered to the Devil

He sets the food aside and gets up. I haven’t fought him on this for a while, and I’m sure he’s pissed that I’m starting on this again. Fear churns in my stomach when I watch his back disappear into the hallway.

Is he leaving?

Hopelessness floods my system, and I think I’m about to break into tears as shivers spread through my body. But then Janos reappears. The air swooshes into my lungs, and I’m so relieved I think I’m going to cry anyway.

Anythingwill make me cry at this point. That’s how broken I am. But it’s neither the hopelessness nor relief that finally has tears pooling in my eyes. It’s the sight of the ropes in his hands.

Irrational gratitude swells in my chest. I can’t believe I’m grateful for the prospect of more helplessness, but somehow, I am.

He sinks to his haunches behind me, and tears spill down my cheeks as he winds the gruff material around my wrists. A heavy weight lifts from my chest as my freedom slips out of my hands and into his—like losing control makes me freer than anything else can.

It’s a fucked-up reaction, but I remind myself I’ve always been like this, needing to have all control stripped away to truly feel like myself. It’s not the trauma I’ve undergone here that has made me like this. But there’s no relief to be found in the knowledge. If anything, it only makes me feel worse, knowing I’ve always been broken. I used to tell myself I’m not wrong for wanting these things, but I can’t do that anymore. It’s an inherent fault within me—a broken wire.

I’m unable to face Janos when he takes the chair in front of me again. Not wanting him to see how deep my brokenness runs, I keep my head lowered as tears drip into my lap like gentle rain.

But when he swipes his thumb across my cheek to catch the tears, I can’t hide anymore. Two devastating words slip from my lips to reveal how I feel. “Thank you.”

I cringe at the words, hating that he can see how broken I am. But I think he already knows. He’s known all along that the ropes calm the turmoil in my brain. He knows that being helpless turns me on as much as it frightens me—and maybe turns me on because it frightens me.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, curving his hand around my cheek.

Shocked, I look up.It can’t be true. He can’t mean it.

But what I find in his expression is genuine affection. Hedoesfind me beautiful.

I have no idea how. I’m broken from the inside out. At my lowest. Without hope. Tears are streaking down my cheeks, surely dragging black lines across my skin from the mascara I thought would brighten my face.

As I keep watching him, I know he means it, and thehowbecomes irrelevant.

We sit like this for several minutes, staring at each other, locked in a strange kind of intimacy. His thumb makes a few light strokes across my cheek, catching the quiet tears and soothing the brokenness in my soul. The caresses pull me deeper into his spell, and when he picks up the spoon again, I willingly open my mouth.

My tears run faster as defeat crashes into my system, but somewhere along the way as he keeps feeding me, the feeling fades. Left is only intimacy. Stark and potent. A closeness that can’t be paralleled in kisses or passionate sex. I’ve never felt as close to anyone as I do to Janos at this very moment. There’s something deeply vulnerable about being forced to give in—letting him control something as basic as food while I sit there, bound and broken, tears streaming down my cheeks as I stare into his willful eyes. No safewords or outs. It’s the truest kind of submission that could ever exist. It fills me to the brim. So much I can’t stop myself from thanking him again once the plate is empty.

Janos doesn’t reply, but I feel him studying me as I lower my gaze.

A minute passes in silence, our breaths the only sound between us. Then, gently, he nudges my chin up, guiding my eyes to his. “How did the job interview go?”

“Fine,” I mutter. “But the girl after me was more qualified, so I don’t think I’ll get it.” I swallow past a thick knot in my throat, trying to keep the new wave of defeat down, but it’s too strong.A mournful sound escapes me, and then I’m weeping, my chest shaking as grief tears through my body.

In a moment of clarity, I see myself from the outside. My vulnerability written in my puffy eyes and on my mascara-stained cheeks. My broken soul is on full display. I can’t take it—him seeing it all. I yank at the ropes, trying to hide my face, and the helplessness rips a sob from the depth of my stomach. I keep jerking and writhing, and with each fruitless attempt, the grief goes deeper.

Janos shoots up from the chair and sinks to his haunches behind me to remove the ropes. But I can’t stop twisting and jerking, tightening the knots, and he can’t get them up. The metallic sound of a switchblade popping open makes a sharp click behind me, and Janos locks my hands into place with a tight grip as he shoves the blade under the ropes and rips the knife up. With two more cuts, my hands are free, and Janos hoists me into his arms, cradling me against his chest as he carries me to the bedroom.

I cling to his neck, hiding my misery even as I expose it to him. As he lies down on the bed with me, I find I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to lay it all out there and let him carry the burden with me. And so I do. I weep like a child as he holds me, and the grief is a little less devastating as he presses soft kisses to my temple and swipes his thumb across my cheeks to catch the endless tears.

Time slips away unnoticed until my energy runs dry and I go still. The tears stop, and my sobs fade to shuddery breaths. Exhaustion sets in, dragging me into a strange void between the conscious and the unconscious.

“You’ll get the job,” Janos whispers, stroking his hand along my arm.

I push out from his chest to search his face for signs of false reassurances, but his expression is as serious as his tone.

“You don’t know that,” I say.

He grabs my jaw and leans so close all I can see are his eyes. “You’ll get the job.”

I swallow the knot in my throat and nod. Because I know Janos doesn’t lie. He either lays out the full truth, however hard, or keeps quiet. So even knowing he can’t guarantee this, I allow myself to find comfort in his words.

When he releases my chin and lays his head back on the pillow, there’s a rare kind of openness in his expression, like the intimacy has affected him as much as it has me. I don’t want to ruin the moment, but I also badly need answers, and this is a rare opportunity. So I take it.

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