Page 14 of Delivered to the Devil

I reach for my bag, but stop mid-air as someone grabs my arm. Glancing down, I see pudgy fingers wrapped around my jacket. Fear shoots through me, cranking up my heart to a deadly speed. Lifting my eyes, I find a chubby middle-aged man in a blue uniform at my side.

“You have to come with us,” another voice says, and I turn my head in time to see another guard grab my other arm.

“What’s the problem?” I try to remain calm, but my voice is already thin and shaky.

Neither man answers as they drag me away. I stare over my shoulder at my bag. It came through without a hitch. Panic rises in my chest, and I tug at my arms, but the guards don’t budge.

“You can’t just take me away. I have a right to know what this is about.” I yank a little harder. Still no give. So I put in moreeffort. I’m about to scream, but stop myself when I look up and see people in the crowded terminal staring.

My head falls. I want to die of shame. I’m a law-abiding citizen. I’ve never even gotten a ticket, and now I’m being dragged away like some criminal in an airport full of people. The worst thing, though, is I haven’t done anything wrong.

The guards lead me down a long, secluded hall and shove me into a closed-off room. A stale smell of sweat and urine hits my nose as I stagger across the floor. The door slams behind me, and I stare into the empty room. A table, three metal chairs, and a clock on the wall. That’s all there is. It looks like one of those dingy interrogation rooms in movies, short of the one-way mirror.

I just stand there, staring at the barren room. Slowly, the shock gives way to outrage, and I turn to try the door. Locked.What the hell?They can’t just lock me in here without an explanation.

I try the handle harder. Nothing gives. So I pound my good palm against the door. “Hello. Is someone there?”

Silence.

I fist my hand to bang harder. “Hello?”

Still nothing.

My frustration builds with each second of silence, and soon I’m banging the door with both fists and shouting.

“Let me out! You can’t just keep me in here! I’ve got rights, dammit!” I pound away until the pain in my wounded hand becomes so loud I can’t ignore it. Uncurling my fist, I see a large red spot slowly spreading over the white gauze.

Defeat burns my insides, and my eyes sting with tears. I drop onto a chair and stare at the clock on the wall. In fifteen minutes, my plane leaves. Unless I’m really lucky and someone comes to let me out in a few minutes, I won’t make it.

This is all just some big misunderstanding,I try to tell myself.

Ten minutes pass, and my hope dwindles, but I refuse to accept defeat. If someone comes at this very moment, they might be able to call the gate and hold the flight for me. I rush to the door and pound with my good hand.

“Please, I need to get out of here.”

Still nothing happens. There’s no help—no kind soul to come and get me out.

Ten more minutes pass.Tick, tock, tick, tock.Time moves unbearably slow, second by second, and the clock keeps mocking me with the knowledge that my flight has left.

Another two minutes. Five more. Fifteen more.

Eventually, I stop counting and just sit there, slouched over the table.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The sound keeps intruding upon my consciousness, incessant and loud, and when I look up, the walls keep closing in until it’s hard to breathe. I press my hand to my chest and get up, heaving through the constriction around my lungs as I pace the room like a trapped animal, trying the door every time I pass it. Exhaustion soon has me back at the table, head hanging over my folded arms. Then I’m up, pacing again, then slumping at the table. Time drags on like this in endless circles.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

When the door finally opens, it’s long past dinnertime. I’ve been here for three hours. All alone. Not a single person has had the decency to tell me why I’m here or even come check on me. I feel downright sick with anxiety, my stomach churning, my head pounding.

I turn to see who’s there, and my heart slams to a halt.

Gray eyes stare straight at me. The room shrinks as the man who is my nightmare and my shelter steps inside, commandingthe very air with his size and authority. A short, chubby guard walks in on his heels, and he looks like a teacup pig compared to the majestic warrior of a man approaching me.

For the first time, I truly take in his full appearance. Majestic is definitely a good word. His deep brown hair has an undercut, leaving his cold yet somehow beautiful face on full display. There’s a certain hardness to him that witnesses the horrible things he does. It’s in the severe angular lines of his face, the scar that dissects his left brow, and the tattoos snaking out from beneath his suit and bleeding onto his left hand and his neck. Somehow, he carries the terrifying danger with elegance. There’s no hint of anger or violence to prove his power. It lies in the very way he moves—like he’s the apex predator of the open savannah, not bothering to look around for possible dangers. Because he’s the biggest threat of them all.

He stops at my side, and even as I want to shrink beneath him, I feel a bit calmer in his steady presence.

---