It was terrifying, to see the way Will looked at her hadn't changed, even when he'd become almost a completely different person. How could he try to justify his behavior by saying he cared about her? Clearly, if that was true, he'd let her go. If he cared he'd want her to be safe and happy.
"You're being selfish," Delilah said, her eyes wide and watery. Her body felt weak and worthless as she curled in on herself in the middle of the bed. "You have to understand that."
She looked over at him, eyes full of hatred. He was standing by the door, with a needle in his hand. His dark hair was messy, and the collar of his shirt was undone. It looked like he hadn't slept in days, and it left Delilah to wonder how long she'd been unconscious, and what had happened in that time.
What had gone wrong that she hadn't even been there to see? That she might never know.
"Don't look at me like that, Del," he pleaded. His guilt was genuine, and she could see the concern for her written all over his face. Except it wasn't for her. He wasn't concerned for her. He was concerned for himself, and he was too pathetic to admit it.
"Like what?" She asked dryly.
"Like I'm some sort of monster," he said. "I have to do this because I love you, and I've loved you this whole time."
Delilah shook her head, shrinking away from him as he approached her with the needle. Love, love was a really funny thing to call this, and it was even funnier for him to pretend like all of this preamble was necessary.
Fine, if what he said about the ritual was true, then maybe it was to protect her, but what he'd done before he knocked her out was anything but necessary. He'd taken advantage of her feelings for him, knowing she wouldn't be able to bring herself to resist when he backed her up against the bookshelf.
When he got that close to her it was just unbearable. She'd been vulnerable and afraid and he exploited that for his own stupid selfish reasons because at the end of the day he was just a man, and that was what they did. Vivianne was right all along.
He loved her by trying to control her, by taking what he wanted and claiming it as passion.
The memory played in her mind on repeat. The memory of his hands holding firmly onto her waist, as he looked down at her and told her how lovely she was. It made her whole body feel warm and weird and she wanted to melt against him.
But instead he took it further, forcing her backwards against the shelf and craning his neck to kiss her and then sliding the capsule into her mouth like it didn't matter at all. He didn't understand how it felt to waste a kiss you'd waited so long for.
He'd just covered her mouth with his hand and used his body to keep her against the shelf. Her nose was buried in his chest, her vision obscured. She was left with no choice but to panic as he begged her to swallow it, and eventually she had to.
Then he'd lifted her up, with a disturbing lack of effort. It made her feel small and frail and worthless as he held her against the shelves, high enough that he could look her in the eye as he muttered apologies between kisses. But kisses gradually moved lower, and turned to biting. It was gentle, but that didn't make it any better as his teeth grazed the tender skin of her throat and he pushed his knee up beneath her skirt.
She remembered the pressure between her thighs, and the burning, aching feeling, the way he'd kept forcing it until she whined. When the drug had finally started to take its effect, her body had felt heavy, and she collapsed into him, just barely being supported. The rough wool fabric of his trousers had been forced against the most sensitive part of her body, only protected by her flimsy underwear.
She wasn't any less violated because he felt guilty.
"You are," she said. "Don't pretend you didn't do it on purpose." She felt so deeply wounded to think she'd trusted him just a few weeks ago. "I think I'd rather the ritual succeed. I'm being forced to share my body with a monster either way," she spat.
"It's not the same thing," he insisted, his tone full of sorrow. He was right beside her now, with a very large syringe full of red liquid that she didn't even want to try and guess at the purpose of. "I'm not a monster. I don't have any other choice."
Maybe he was right. Maybe letting Will do as he pleased with her was the lesser of two evils from a more rational standpoint, but for some reason the thought of it hurt so much worse. How someone she'd trusted, felt safe with, possibly loved could do this to her, was absolutely baffling.
"Just stop," she said, trying not to look at the needle, but her eyes continually darted back and forth between it and his face. "Stop lying to me."
He swallowed, looking down at the needle as well, and she could tell he wanted to say something more, to challenge her, but he didn't.
"Okay, I'm sorry," he said simply, but he wasn't. There was no way he could feel remorse because he reached over and placed his hand on her thigh, pushing up her skirt.
His hand was cold, and the sight of his long fingers spread out over her thigh made her cringe. Without even trying he had a way of making her feel so small.
As if Will were reading her mind he suddenly said, "It's not as big as it looks." There was a certain, mischievous look in his eye, and the double entendre made her face feel hot even as he pressed the tip of the needle against her skin, in the tenderest spot.
"Stop, that hurts," she begged, trying to fight the flush appearing on her skin. But she couldn't help it because it was him and he had such a nice voice, and he was saying all these things, and his damn hand was on her thigh.
"I haven't even put it in yet," he said, a slight note of mockery in his voice.
But she was trembling in anticipation.
"It's not funny," she snapped, trying to maintain some amount of dignity.
Will sighed, "I know, I'm sorry. But I really do need you to hold still and try to relax, I don't want to hurt you." He held her leg firmly, trying to steady it and keep it still, then he stabbed the needle into her skin and through the muscle of her thigh.
She yelped at the sudden pain, and the subsequent burning feeling as he pushed down the plunger and the liquid entered her body. It burned going in, and her whole thigh suddenly felt like it was pulsing as he removed the syringe and suddenly produced a bandage and gauze seemingly out of nowhere. He pressed the gauze to the wound and held firm pressure to stop the bleeding.
Clearly he'd injected her in a major artery because there was a lot of blood and the pain was intense. She wasn't even sure when it happened but eventually she was laying on her back with her legs open, and Will leaned over her, still pressing the gauze against her thigh. He looked at her with a concerned expression as if he wasn't the entire source of the problem.
"I'm sorry, I didn't expect you to bleed this much," he murmured thoughtfully. She couldn't help but notice he was nearly able to wrap his hand around her thigh as his thumb gently stroked her skin.
"What even was that?" She asked, realizing she hadn't bothered to be worried before. She just assumed it had something to do with this ritual, and well, he was already about to do the worst thing she could think of.
"You'll see soon enough," he said dismissively, almost seeming guilty. He seemed to be satisfied with the state of her wound now, because he secured the bandage over it.
She really, really didn't like that answer.
Her thigh muscle was still twitching faintly, but she was beginning to notice something different. A burning feeling was creeping up on her, like a warm, full-body blush.
Will stood up and set the needle and the blood soaked gauze on a nearby table. Delilah watched him, and noticed just how much blood she'd actually lost, and how enormous that needle was. Why in God's name did he need to use such a big needle?
Just to screw with her?
"I hate you right now," she said quietly, pulling her legs together and curling up on her side. She rubbed against the fresh injury, but she didn't care. It made her feel safer.
"I know," Will admitted, "It's my fault." He turned around and looked down at her, with a pitiful expression, but somehow still full of admiration. "You still look beautiful, though, even when you hate me."
He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, and then he crouched down beside her. One of his palms was resting on the edge of the bed, and his other hand cupped her cheek gently, tilting her head.
"So beautiful," he muttered. Then he kissed her, and it was exactly the way she'd wanted to be kissed. It was soft and warm and passionate, and he led without controlling or forcing her. She couldn't help but melt into it, and feel her heart flutter in her chest.
"Will," she said, softly, sadly. Why did this version of him have to be a lie?
"I know," he said, again it was as if he could hear her thoughts, "I'm sorry."
Delilah felt so warm it was like she was actually going to melt into a puddle on the bed. The feeling persisted to an almost unbearable degree even when Will stood up and stepped away again.
She realized it might not have been him. Suddenly the fuzzy feeling in her head faded, but her body still felt warm. "What did you do to me?" She asked, somehow feeling betrayed even more than she already was.
Again Will looked at her with a sad, pitiful expression. Then he walked around to the other side of the bed. She didn't turn to face him and so when he crouched down beside her she couldn't see his face, but suddenly felt as if it were different.
"Something to make you more compliant," he explained, placing his hand on her shoulder. He pressed it down, forcing her to be on her back once more. Then she looked over at him.
The feeling of warmth all over was unbearable, and it only worsened as he pulled her thighs apart, leaving them splayed open against the crisp white sheets. She couldn't bring herself to close them, and he smirked slightly when she stayed like that, as if he were pleased it was already working.
"If you're going to do it, just get it over with," Delilah said weakly.
