Chapter 3: The Shower and the Confession
The water ran pink for a long time before it finally turned clear.
Delia stood under the scalding spray until her skin flushed red and the mirror across the bathroom fogged into oblivion. The marble floor beneath her feet was heated—a detail that would have delighted her under different circumstances—but she barely noticed. Her attention was fixed on the drain, watching diluted blood swirl and disappear.Her blood. Chad's betrayal. The night's violence. All of it, washing away.
She pressed her palms flat against the cold tile wall and let the water beat against her back, stinging the raw wounds on her skin. The pain was grounding. Real. Something she could control.
The soap was expensive—some bergamot and cedar concoction that probably cost more than her monthly rent—and she lathered every inch of herself with it. Her ribs. Her stomach. The tender space between her thighs where Lazarus had been. The bruises on her knees from where she'd been dragged across gravel. She scrubbed until her skin was raw and clean and smelled nothing like the night before.
When she finally stepped out, steam billowed around her like a living thing. The towels were impossibly soft, the kind of softness that felt obscene against her battered body. She dried herself slowly, methodically, cataloging every ache and sting and new bruise.
Her reflection in the fogged mirror was barely visible—just a ghost of a girl with dark hair and hollow eyes.
She wiped a stripe of clarity across the glass with her palm and stared at herself.
"You're still here," she whispered. "Still breathing."
The words didn't feel like comfort. They felt like a promise.
She found his shirt draped across a velvet ottoman near the door—the black silk one he'd put her in earlier, now discarded in favor of whatever he'd worn when he left. It was still warm from the bathroom's humidity, and it smelled like him. Whiskey and roses and something ancient she couldn't name.
She pulled it on. It fell to mid-thigh, the sleeves too long, the collar loose enough to show the hollow of her throat. No bra. No underwear. Just black silk against bare skin and the faint outline of her nipples pressing through the fabric.
She didn't bother with anything else.
The bedroom was quiet when she emerged, still lit by the dying fire. The sheets on the massive bed were tangled and stained—evidence of what had happened there—and she couldn't bring herself to lie back down in them. Instead, she perched on the edge of the mattress, legs crossed, facing the door.
And waited.
The minutes crawled.
She watched the fire burn lower. Watched the shadows shift across the ceiling. Watched the first gray hint of dawn creep through the tall windows, bleaching the darkness into something softer.
Her mind churned through everything she knew. Chad. The debt. The wife. Lazarus Kane and his blood-red eyes and his cold hands and the way he'd looked at her like she was a puzzle he wanted to take apart.
She wasn't going to be that puzzle. She was going to be the knife that cut him first.
When the door finally opened, she didn't flinch.
Lazarus stepped inside, still wearing the same black trousers and shirt from before, though the sleeves were rolled higher now and there was a faint smear of something dark on his knuckles. Blood, maybe. She didn't ask.
He stopped when he saw her.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. His eyes traveled over her slowly—the damp hair curling against her shoulders, the silk shirt clinging to her still-damp skin, the bare legs crossed at the knee. The bruises on her face had darkened to a mottled purple, but her gaze was level. Unbroken.
"You're still awake," he said.
"I've been waiting."
"I told you to sleep."
"I don't take orders anymore." She tilted her head. "Not from Chad. Not from you. Not from anyone."
Something flickered across his face—not anger, but interest. He crossed the room with that unhurried grace, stopping a few feet from her. Close enough to touch. Far enough to watch.
"How long?" she asked.
"How long what?"
"How long have you known about Chad and your wife?"
He considered her for a moment, weighing whether to answer. Then he did.
"Four months."
She didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Just nodded slowly, as if she'd expected nothing less.
"Four months," she repeated. "And you let him keep coming around. Let him keep spending your money. Let him keep sleeping with her."
"I let him dig his own grave." Lazarus shrugged, the gesture almost elegant. "It's more satisfying that way."
"And me? Where do I fit into your grave-digging?"
"You're the shovel."
She smiled at that—a thin, sharp thing. "Original."
"I'm not trying to be original. I'm trying to be honest." He walked to the fireplace, picking up a poker and stirring the embers back to life. Sparks flew up the chimney like fireflies. "You asked a question. I answered it. Don't get petulant because you don't like the response."
The firelight caught his profile, painting his pale skin in shades of gold and amber. He looked like something out of a painting—something old and dangerous and beautiful in the way that storms were beautiful.
Delia rose from the bed.
Her bare feet made no sound on the thick carpet as she crossed to him. She stopped just behind his shoulder, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.
"I grew up on a farm in the Ozarks," she said quietly.
He didn't turn. "Did you."
"My father worked for men he called 'businessmen.' Men who came and went at odd hours. Men who didn't like questions." She paused, letting the memory settle. "I learned to shoot before I learned to drive. By the time I was twelve, I was a better shot than any man who ever came through those gates."
Lazarus turned then, slowly, the poker still in his hand. His eyes met hers, unreadable.
"Uncle Sal taught me," she continued. "He wasn't really my uncle. Just a man who worked for my father and had steady hands and a lot of patience. He'd set up cans on the fence posts and make me hit them at a hundred yards. If I missed, I didn't eat dinner."
"And if you hit them?"
"I got to keep the bullets." Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I still have one. It's in my jewelry box. First shot I ever fired."
Lazarus set the poker down and crossed his arms, leaning against the mantle. His attention was entirely on her now, those blood-red eyes sharp and curious.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you should know what you're dealing with." She stepped closer, until only a foot separated them. "My father and Uncle Sal ran security on that property. Nobody came onto that land without an invitation. The ones who tried didn't leave."
She watched his expression. It didn't change.
"I've killed people," she said. "For less than what Chad just did to me."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and unapologetic. Delia didn't look away. Didn't soften. She let him see the truth in her eyes—the cold, hard truth of a girl who'd been raised by wolves and learned to bare her teeth.
Lazarus was quiet for a long moment. Then he asked, "What happened to your mother?"
The question hit her like a fist to the sternum. She hadn't mentioned her mother. Hadn't even thought the word in years.
"How did you—"
"Your voice changed when you talked about your father. Tightened. Something happened. Something you're still carrying." He tilted his head, studying her. "Tell me."
It wasn't a request. It was a command.
Delia's jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed at her to shut down, to deflect, to build the wall back up. But something about the way he was looking at her—not with pity, not with curiosity, but with recognition—made the words spill out before she could stop them.
"She did the same thing," Delia said. "To my father. The same betrayal. The same kind of man."
She paused, swallowing hard.
"Her name was Elena."
The name landed like a bomb in the quiet room. Lazarus's expression didn't change—not visibly—but something shifted in the air around him. A tightening. A warning.
She hurried on before he could speak.
"My father found out. Not from her. From the man she was with. He sent pictures. Proof. Made sure my father saw everything." Delia's hands had started shaking, so she clasped them behind her back. "I was fifteen. I remember my father's face when he opened that envelope. I remember him going very still. Very calm. He told us to go to our rooms and not come out."
"And did you?"
"I listened at the floorboards." A mirthless smile flickered across her lips. "I heard everything. The shouting. The crying. The silence that came after."
Lazarus waited.
"My mother disappeared that night," Delia said. "One minute she was there, and the next she wasn't. My father never spoke of her again. No one did. Not even Uncle Sal. It was like she'd never existed."
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze head-on.
"I learned two things that night. One: betrayal is unforgivable. Two: the only person you can trust is yourself." She took another step closer. "So when I say I know what you are, Lazarus Kane, and I'm not afraid—it's because I've seen worse. I've lived worse."
The fire crackled behind him, casting shifting shadows across his face. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched her with those unreadable eyes.
"If I wanted to hurt you," he said finally, "you'd already be dead."
"I know."
"If I wanted to use you, I wouldn't need to ask permission."
"I know that too."
"Then what do you want?"
The question was simple. Direct. And it caught her off guard.
What did she want?
Revenge? Safety? Freedom? Power? All of those things and none of them.
She wanted to stop feeling like a victim. She wanted to stop being a pawn in other people's games. She wanted to be the one holding the knife for once.
And she wanted him.
Not just his body—though she wanted that too, wanted the heat and the pain and the oblivion of his touch. She wanted his attention. His respect. The way he was looking at her right now, like she was something rare and dangerous and worth the trouble.
"I want in," she said.
"Whatever you're planning for Chad. Whatever you're planning for your wife. I want to be part of it." Her voice didn't waver. "You said I'm the shovel. Fine. Point me at the grave and I'll dig."
Lazarus stared at her for a long moment. Then he laughed—a low, genuine sound that seemed to surprise even him.
"You're something else, Delia Voss."
"I've been told."
"You're also injured, exhausted, and running on adrenaline. You should rest."
"I don't want to rest." She reached out and pressed her palm flat against his chest. His heart beat steady and slow beneath her hand—too slow, almost. "I want to feel something other than pain."
He looked down at her hand. Then back up at her face.
"Fucking me won't fix what's broken."
"Maybe not." She let her hand slide up, over his collarbone, to the base of his throat. "But it'll make me feel better for a while. And right now, that's enough."
He caught her wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "You're making a mistake."
"I've made a lot of mistakes. What's one more?"
She pushed up onto her toes and kissed him.
It was nothing like the rough, desperate kiss from before. This one was slower, calculated—a deliberate provocation. She pressed her lips to his and held them there, waiting. Daring him to respond. For three heartbeats, he didn't move. She could feel the tension in his body, coiled and lethal, like a snake deciding whether to strike.
Then his hands were in her hair, fisting the damp strands, and his mouth twisted against hers with a ferocity that stole her breath. His tongue pushed past her lips—no finesse, just need—and he tasted like whiskey and something darker, something ancient that made her dizzy.
He walked her backward until her spine hit the bedpost, the carved mahogany digging into her bandaged back. She gasped into his mouth, pain and pleasure tangling together, and he swallowed the sound like he was starving for it.
"You want to feel something?" His voice was a low growl against her throat, his teeth grazing her pulse point. "I can give you that."
"Do it, then."
He ripped the shirt open.
Buttons scattered across the floor, tiny silver things skittering into shadow. The silk parted like water, leaving her bare from throat to hip. He stepped back—just enough to look at her. His eyes raked over her body with brutal honesty: the bruised ribs, the bandages taped across her lower back, the soft curve of her breasts, the shadow of dark hair between her thighs.
"You're beautiful," he said, and it didn't sound like a compliment. It sounded like an accusation.
"I'm broken."
"Same thing, in my experience."
He pushed her onto the bed.
She landed on her back, the impact sending a fresh spear of pain through her ribs. Before she could recover, he was on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His knee pushed between her legs, spreading them wide, and she let him. His mouth found her neck. Her collarbone. The tender skin above her heart.
He bit her—not enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. She arched into him, nails raking down his back through the silk of his shirt.
"Take it off," she demanded. "I want to see you."
He pulled back just long enough to strip off his shirt, then his trousers. His body was pale and lean, all hard muscle and smooth skin. A faint scar curved along his left side, silver against white. He was already hard, his cock thick and flushed, and she couldn't help the sharp inhale that escaped her lips.
"Like what you see?"
"I've seen better."
He laughed and flipped her onto her stomach.
The sudden pressure on her bandages made her cry out—a high, thin sound that was half pain, half anticipation. He didn't stop. Instead, he gripped her hips and pulled her onto her knees, her face pressed into the ruined sheets.
"Stay," he commanded.
She heard him moving behind her—the rustle of fabric, the click of a drawer. Then his fingers were between her legs, spreading her open, tracing the slick folds of her cunt with deliberate slowness.
"You're already wet," he observed.
"Fuck you."
"You're about to."
He pushed inside her without preamble.
The stretch was brutal—delicious and overwhelming and exactly what she needed. She bit down on the sheets, muffling a scream as he bottomed out. He paused for only a second before he started moving, and it wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender. It was raw, punishing, each thrust driving her deeper into the mattress.
"That's it," he murmured. "Take it."
She couldn't respond. Couldn't think. Every nerve in her body was focused on the sensation of him inside her—the fullness, the friction, the heat. Her bruised ribs screamed with every thrust. Her knees ached. The bandages pulled at her torn skin.
She didn't care.
This was what she wanted. This brutal, mindless oblivion. This moment where the only thing that existed was his body and hers and the wet slap of skin against skin.
He reached around and found her clit, his fingers circling roughly while he fucked her. The dual sensations pushed her toward the edge faster than she expected. Her thighs started to tremble. Her breath came in ragged, desperate gasps.
"Come for me," he ordered. "Now."
She did.
A shuddering, wrenching climax that tore through her body like lightning. Her cunt tightened around his cock, pulsing with each wave, and she heard him groan behind her—a low, animal sound. He fucked her through it, relentless, until his own release hit. She felt him spill inside her, hot and thick, and she collapsed onto the bed, boneless and shaking.
Lazarus withdrew slowly. She heard him moving around behind her—cleaning himself up, probably, though she couldn't find the energy to look. Her body was a single, throbbing wound of pain and pleasure. She lay on her stomach, face buried in the sheets, and tried to remember how to breathe.
The mattress dipped as he sat beside her.
"You're bleeding again," he said.
"Don't care."
"You should."
She felt his fingers on her back, cool against her fevered skin. He was peeling back the bandages, inspecting the damage. She hissed through her teeth.
"I'll call for the doctor."
"Don't bother. I'll heal."
"Not fast enough."
She heard him cross the room, heard the murmur of a phone call. Voices in the hallway. Then the door opened and closed, and footsteps approached the bed.
Someone else's hands touched her skin—smaller, gentler. A woman's voice, soft and professional. Delia kept her eyes closed and let herself drift.
When she woke again, the sun was up and the room was empty.
Her back was freshly bandaged. The sheets had been changed. A glass of water and two white pills sat on the nightstand—painkillers, probably, or antibiotics. She took them both.
And lying on the pillow beside her, folded neatly, was a new shirt.
White silk this time, with a note pinned to the collar in elegant, angular handwriting.
Wear this tonight. We're having guests.
—L.K.
Delia smiled.
She picked up the shirt, pressed it to her face, and breathed in the scent of whiskey and roses and everything that was about to burn.
It was time to meet the rest of the family.
The white silk felt different against her skin than the black had—lighter, more dangerous somehow. Delia stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of Lazarus's bedroom, studying her reflection with clinical detachment.
The shirt fell to mid-thigh, the fabric so fine it seemed to float rather than drape. She'd found black leggings folded beneath it on the ottoman—the same borrowed ones from yesterday, washed and pressed. Practical. Unremarkable.
She pulled them on.
Her hair had dried in soft waves around her shoulders, and the bruises on her face had faded to a sickly yellow-green at the edges. Not pretty. Not polished. But alive. Standing.
She looked like a woman who'd crawled out of hell and decided to stay for breakfast.
The click of the lock made her turn.
Lazarus entered with the same unhurried grace he brought to everything, though something in his posture had shifted. Tension along his shoulders. A tightness around his mouth that hadn't been there before.
"The doctor said you should rest for at least forty-eight hours," he said.
"The doctor isn't the one making decisions."
"No. I am." He crossed to the window, looking out at the grounds below. The morning sun painted everything gold and green—a world that had no idea what kind of monsters walked its surface. "You'll stay close tonight. Don't wander. Don't speak unless spoken to. And whatever you do, don't look anyone in the eye for too long."
"Anyone specific?"
"Everyone."
She crossed her arms, letting the silk pull tight across her chest. "You're nervous."
"I'm cautious. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"One keeps you alive. The other gets you killed."
She laughed—a short, sharp sound that surprised them both. "You're worried about me."
"I'm worried about what happens to my investment if you get yourself killed before I've collected."
"Bullshit." She stepped closer, close enough to see the muscle twitching in his jaw. "You like me."
"I tolerate you."
"You fucked me twice in twelve hours."
"Once. The second time was you fucking me."
"Semantics."
He turned from the window, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Something raw and hungry flickered in those blood-red eyes before he shuttered it away.
"We need to go," he said.
She was nervous. She could admit that much to herself. The kind of nervous that made her palms sweat and her heart beat too fast, like the first day at a new school where everyone already knew each other and she was the outsider with the wrong clothes and the wrong name.
But underneath the nerves was something else. Excitement. A low, humming thrill that she hadn't felt in years. Not since she'd been a teenager on the farm, sneaking out past curfew to meet boys who smelled like gasoline and trouble.
This was different. This was bigger.
"You're going to introduce me to your family," she said. "Your real family."
"Some of them."
"The ones who matter."
"The ones who decide whether you live or die."
She nodded slowly, absorbing that. Then she did something that surprised them both.
She dropped to her knees.
The marble floor was cold against her bare feet, but she barely noticed. She was already reaching for his belt, her fingers working the leather with practiced efficiency.
"What are you doing?" His voice was tight, controlled—but not quite enough to hide the interest underneath. The very male, very obvious interest.
"I think I at least owe you that." She pulled the belt free and unbuttoned his trousers, tugging them down just enough to free his cock. He was already half-hard, thick and heavy in her hand, and she felt a pulse of satisfaction at how quickly he responded. "For the clothes. The doctor. Not letting Chad kill me."
"You don't owe me anything."
"I know." She looked up at him through her lashes, her green eyes bright and sharp. "But I'm actually good at this. And I want to."
He didn't argue.
She took him in her mouth.
The taste of him was familiar now—salt and skin and something darker underneath, something that reminded her of whiskey and old blood. She ran her tongue along the length of him, tracing the thick vein that ran from base to tip, feeling him harden against her lips. His breath hitched above her, a small, satisfying sound.
She worked him slowly at first. Deliberate. Teasing. She swirled her tongue around the head, lapping at the slit, then took him deeper—inch by inch—until he hit the back of her throat. Her eyes watered. She didn't stop.
"Fuck," he breathed.
His hand found her hair, not pushing, just resting there. A question. She answered by hollowing her cheeks and sucking hard, pulling a guttural groan from somewhere deep in his chest.
She bobbed her head, setting a rhythm that was fast enough to build pressure but slow enough to make it last. Her hand worked the base of him in tandem with her mouth, twisting on the upstroke, squeezing on the down. Spit dripped down her chin. She didn't care.
This wasn't about romance. It wasn't about tenderness. It was about power—the kind that came from bringing a man like Lazarus Kane to his knees. She could feel it building in the tension of his thighs, the way his fingers tightened in her hair, the ragged rhythm of his breathing.
"Delia." Her name was a warning. A last chance to pull away.
She took him deeper instead.
His hips jerked forward, a loss of control that sent a thrill through her entire body. She relaxed her throat and let him use her—fast, rough strokes that made her jaw ache and her eyes stream. The sounds he made were obscene. Animal. Perfect. She felt him swell on her tongue and knew he was close.
"Fuck, I'm going to—"
She sucked harder. Swallowed him whole.
He came with a shudder that racked his entire body, his hand fisting in her hair, low groans spilling from his lips like prayers. She swallowed every drop—bitter and thick and salty—and licked him clean until he hissed with oversensitivity.
Then she sat back on her heels, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and smiled up at him.
"I think I at least owe you that," she said. "I'm actually good at that."
Lazarus stared at her for a long moment, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with something she couldn't name. Then he laughed—a real laugh, low and warm and surprised.
"You're fucking insane," he said.
"I know."
He pulled his trousers back up, his movements quick and efficient. When he looked at her again, the mask was back in place, but something had shifted underneath. Something softer. Something that made her pulse skip.
"We need to go," he said again. "They're waiting."
She rose to her feet, ignoring the ache in her knees, and smoothed down the white silk shirt. A streak of his come had landed on the hem—she wiped it away with her thumb and licked it clean, watching his eyes darken as she did.
"Lead the way," she said.
---
The corridor outside his bedroom was long and dim, lined with tapestries that looked older than America. Delia's bare feet—she still had no shoes—made no sound on the thick carpet. The silence was absolute. Even the air felt like it was holding its breath.
Lazarus walked beside her, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. A silent claim. To anyone watching, they were a couple. Partners. Equals. He didn't have to do that.
She noticed.
They descended a sweeping staircase, past portraits of pale, severe-looking men and women whose eyes followed Delia with cold curiosity. Some looked like Lazarus. Others looked like something older, something that had never been human at all. She kept her gaze forward.
At the bottom of the stairs, a set of double doors opened into a dining room that belonged in a castle.
The table was at least thirty feet long, made of dark wood polished to a mirror shine. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, their light fractured into a thousand glittering pieces. And seated along both sides of the table, twelve figures waited in perfect stillness.
Delia recognized the type immediately. Not quite human. Too graceful. Too still. Some wore modern clothes—suits, dresses—but others had gone the other way entirely, wrapped in velvet and lace and antique brocade. They all had the same eyes: hungry, calculating, ancient.
The most dangerous kind of family.
Lazarus guided her to the head of the table, where two chairs waited. One for him. One for her. She felt every pair of eyes on her as she sat—assessing, dissecting, deciding.
"Family," Lazarus said, his voice carrying effortlessly down the length of the table, "this is Delia Voss. She's going to be staying with us for a while."
A woman near the middle of the table—beautiful, with copper hair and a mouth like a knife-slash—leaned forward. "How exciting. Where did you find her?"
"A gift. From a friend."
"And what does she do?"
Lazarus turned to Delia, one eyebrow raised. The question hung in the air. Everyone waited.
Delia raised her chin, met the copper-haired woman's gaze, and smiled.
"I shoot," she said. "And I don't miss."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut glass.