The Unchaste

What Keeps You Awake At Night?

It was quaint how Lord Richard Winter to Delilah was an unmixable mix of burning hot and freezing cold. He burned her with his coldest looks and his warmth towards her made her blood run cold.

Despite having seen everything, Delilah still had an intuition crying for her to not put any faith in this man at all or if to do, put it all in him. He could either be her saving grace or cause her an utter downfall but that would have been still better than where she stood today. She was far past the point where she had her mind clear about him.

He could have been good or he could have been tremendously bad. Alive, in former case and at the receiving end of her blade in later.

Now, Delilah had no idea where he stood to her. Hell, she had no idea where she stood herself.

He terrified her sometimes. And sometimes, she was enthralled.

“I hope those are formalin derivative and not what I think they are.” His voice echoed the stone wall making Delilah flinch from its closeness. She didn’t hear him coming up of behind her as she had stood staring at the autopsy table.

 Delilah turned to face him with an easy, lazy air. He had been in that dungeon for about fifteen minutes now and on emerging, he was all sweaty and winded. She eyed his shirt, clinging to him now, his collar sodden and out of shape losing its sharp edges; the end of his hair dripped with unbelievable sweat in coldest of Novembers.

His frown made her shake herself internally and she blinked at him. “Pardon Sir?”

“Are you crying or is that just Formalin?” His blue eyes flitted across her face. “Because…Formalin stimulated lacrimation doesn’t usually reddens the eyes. Yours are as if afire.”

Delilah’s said eyes widened in alarm. She was crying? Indeed, she was! Darn it! Why?

“The Formalin, of course.” She lied smoothly. “And maybe…”

She lifted her wrist to his eyes and the deep, bleeding wound made a nice excuse. His face lost the inquiring look and he quickly reached his pocket for handkerchief only to realize that he had already handed his one to her.

“Allow me.” He shook the linen out of her fist and unfolded it neatly.

“What did he say when he attacked me?” Delilah asked, not removing her eyes from where his hand was touching her. “He said something.”

Voy a matarla.

“It was nothing pleasant, to be sure.” He answered grimly.

“You don’t say.”

“He said_”

“Aha! Let me guess.” She pursed her lips. “I hate this bitch! No? Or, get lost, you Harlot!”

“Hate and Harlot were not involved Miss Eves.” He sighed. “Neither was ‘bitch’. But I appreciate your inventiveness nonetheless.”