DELILAH
Xander Rossi. I didn’t need to be formally introduced. Quinton looks just like him, although he hasn’t yet achieved the level of haughty asshole his father has. But there’s time. He’s still young.
Of all times for him to show up, this is the worst.
Lucas isn’t at his best, not even close, and then there’s the mess in the apartment! He must be dying from embarrassment.
Not that my being here makes things any easier. I know it’s now awkward for Lucas. I shouldn’t have popped out of the bedroom. Why couldn’t I just wait? They’re still talking by the time I’m finished rushing through washing up and getting dressed. I was feeling sleepy and foggy when I first got out of bed—if I hadn’t, I might’ve thought twice about opening the door.
Amazing, really, how receiving a shock like coming face-to-face with somebody you know wishes you were dead can wake you up all of a sudden.
I hear the front door open and close and let out a sigh of relief. At least he’s gone. How much apologizing will it take to make up for the way I stuck my foot in the middle of things?
I reach for the doorknob, then remember Lucas’s instructions. I’m supposed to wait for him to tell me to come out. It seems kind of silly to wait, but I already made a mistake this morning. I don’t want to make another one if I can help it.
The shattering of glass makes me jump back a step, and I cringe. Something heavy hits the floor, and I back farther from the door, wrapping my arms around myself. It continues, with Lucas grunting and shouting words I can’t make sense of. He might not even be trying to speak. Like his rage has to come out somehow, and he can’t form words around it.
I know the smart thing would be to stay here. It’s probably the safest place to be. I don’t want to get in the way of whatever he’s going through, but my heart aches. Glass breaks again, and I jump. He wouldn’t even have to try to hurt me. I would only need to be in the room as he shatters one thing after another until it feels like there’s nothing in the world but that jarring, ear-splitting noise.
It eventually stops, which somehow scares me more. Has he worked out whatever started this? What if he hurt himself?
Now I want to go to him if only to make sure he’s physically okay. He’ll probably hate me for checking on him, but I can’t stand here and eat my heart out with worry forever.
I turn the knob slowly, then just as slowly open the door.
I almost wish I hadn’t because the sight of the wreckage makes my chest tighten and my stomach drop.
The living room looks like a tornado went through it. I guess it did, one named Lucas Diavolo. The coffee table is overturned and cracked down the center. I guess that wasn’t enough for him because he broke a lamp. But there’s more glass on the floor than makes sense. I tiptoe through the space and find the kitchen cabinets open and half empty. So that’s what he kept shattering. Plates, dishes, anything he could get his hands on. I’m afraid to step any farther into the kitchen—I’m wearing shoes but don’t want to track glass all over the place.
Yet when I set eyes on Lucas, leaning over the counter with his head in his hands, something propels me forward. I can’t see him like this and not try to help. It’s enough to break my heart, watching him suffer. Doesn’t he know he doesn’t need to suffer alone?
When I take a step, glass crunches under my foot. He stiffens, lifting his head from his hands but staring at the backsplash instead of looking my way. “You need to go.”
“But you—”
“I said, you need to go,” he insists, carefully enunciating every word. “Now.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone. Let me help you.”
At first, all he does is breathe heavier. Louder. Like there’s a beast inside him, and it’s trying to get out. Or he’s trying to hold it in. “There’s nothing you can do to help, dammit. Who do you think you are? What makes you think you could do anything to help me?”
He doesn’t mean this. I can’t believe he means it. “I can help you clean up, at least. Let me do that.”
“Did I ask you to? I didn’t ask you for a damn thing. Only to leave. You want to help me? Get out of here.”
It’s enough to stir up actual pain in my chest. “I don’t want to leave you like this. I’m worried.”
He pounds his fist against the granite counter, and I jump. “Go!” He finally turns to me, and what I see leaves me holding back a sob. He’s broken and in so much pain. He doesn’t have to say it. It’s written all over his face: anguish, heartbreak, and frustration.
Behind it all is the rage, blazing like a fire that wants to become an inferno. The beast I hear in his voice. I’m almost drawn to it, like a moth to a flame, but some deeper wisdom tells me to back off. One more little push might send him over the edge. Might bring the beast out.
“You need to leave,” he grunts, his shoulders rising and falling in time with his quickened breath. “Before I hurt you. I’m not myself right now. This is me trying to be decent. Trying to save you. Okay?”
“Okay,” I reply in a teary whisper. “I’m sorry, but you don’t have to save me. Not from yourself.”
He only snorts before turning away. “Right. That helps things.”
I ignore the sarcasm since I know it’s masking something deeper and step carefully through the mess before ducking out into the hallway. This is the last thing I want to do, but he’s too unbalanced to be reasoned with now. I’d only make things worse by sticking around.