Consequences Pt. 01

"Cold in here, isn't it?" Will asked, closing the heavy metal door behind him with a clink. Delilah watched him shrug the dark gray coat from his shoulders and toss it over his arm, revealing the crisp white shirt underneath and sleeves slightly rumpled. His fine dark hair had a faintly damp look to it, as the dull overhead light illuminated its warm undertones, and cast shadows along his narrow face.

He could've hit his stupid head on the fixture, in this tiny concrete box of a room. Instead he just ducked slightly as he approached her and then stood, not three feet away, leaning forward and offering her the bundle of heavy fabric.

"I suppose bastards don't freeze," she said stubbornly, keeping her hands down and chin up to look at him.

He didn't smile properly, just the inkling of one, as he shrugged and tossed his coat onto the table beside her. "I've got a good tolerance for it at this point."

"Thus proving my point."

"Oh yes, of course," Will said satirically. "But you're still shivering."

Delilah was. Nearly an hour in this cold room on a solid wood chair in nothing but a night gown would do that. Her arms and legs held a persistent tremble, goosebumps rising and falling with a pervasive prickle and burning on every follicle of her exposed skin.

"I-is this your advanced method of torture?" She asked. "Or merely an attempt to woo me?"

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. "I'd have more efficient methods for both," he assured her. "But unfortunately some other things on my to-do list took precedence."

"So 'shivering girl tied to chair' couldn't make priority in the middle of November when the heating is out?" She snapped, but she got the feeling he wasn't telling the truth. This felt, intentional, a way to make her vulnerable, scared.

Willing to accept any small gesture of warmth and salvation.

"That's correct. But you know you could've made this whole thing a lot easier by cooperating with me before."

"Your plan is going to backfire when I end up freezing to death," she said, crossing her arms and rubbing her hands over them in a feeble attempt to keep warm.

"I wouldn't let it go that far," he said wryly, still leaning forward slightly. "I'm not a monster." There was always something particularly condescending about the bow of his shoulders, the way he was always looking down on her.

"You're just a liar."

"I'm a lot of things," Will said, shifting to a more contemplative tone of voice. He took a step closer, his green eyes narrowed. "So are you. You're...spunky I want to say, but that's not quite right is it?"

Delilah just stared back at him, confused. Fear prickled at the back of her neck too though, as something unusual crossed his face, something pushing the line between the playful mocking and an actual attempt at intimidation. Will wasn't scary. She'd never thought of him that way, but now he was something different.

Something completely unnerving.

"All this attitude," he said curiously, "coming from such an innocent little creature, it's fascinating really." He cocked his head to the side, leaning over her and placing his hand on the arm of the chair to support himself. "But you're not bold or stubborn, you're frightened, trapped. Like a little rabbit backed into a corner and starting to scratch."

A peculiar warmth mingled with the cool tingle of her fear, flushing her cheeks and neck as she pressed her back against the chair. His face was inches from hers, cruel and cold but still his. Still the same person she'd willingly locked lips with more than once.

"So I should do what? Give in?" She said, her voice wavering as she tried to retain control.

This feeling should have gone away the moment Will betrayed her trust, but instead it had morphed into something else. He was right she was afraid. She also hated him. Yet he was still...

He genuinely smiled then. "Oh no, I think it's endearing." His voice was low and soft in a particular way that made her muscles feel tense. Laced with intention as he leaned right into her ear and added, "bunny."

"I-I'm not a rodent," Delilah stammered, frustration, fear, and confusion toiling inside of her as he gently gripped her chin and tipped her head back so she was looking up at him.

"You're soft, nervous, and absolutely adorable," he said, nearly laughing. "Not to mention small."

She wanted to hit him, knock his warm hand away from her cold skin. "Get your hand off of me you fucking giraffe."

"And there are the claws," he laughed, sliding his hand to her cheek and leaning in so close she thought he might kiss her. But he hesitated. "My little bunny," he cooed.

Was he just trying to get into her head? Come up with a demeaning pet name, get right up in her ear with that lovely voice of his. He knew how she felt.

She looked away, her hands sweating despite the chill. "I'm not yours," she insisted.

Then he smirked, his thumb brushing her cheek. "I think I should change that." His hand dropped, sliding briefly across her neck before landing on her thigh, just above her knee.

Delilah's face turned red again as she tried to push herself further back into the chair away from him, feebly pulling her legs together but her ankles had been tied to the chair legs. They were stuck, stuck spread apart in front of him in a fucking nightgown.

"W-what the hell do you think you're doing?" She asked, but there was no venom in her voice this time. Just fear, cold, trembling fear at the feeling of his long fingers splayed out over her thigh.

"It's about time I made you mine," he muttered, hand sliding further up her leg, back down again. She felt queasy at the thought, squirming under his touch as she looked at him with pathetic panic.

"You wouldn't," she said, but it was more to soothe her own anxieties. A poor attempt really. There was something in his eyes, or a lack of it really. She couldn't be certain anymore, what he would or wouldn't do. He'd lied so well for so long, it felt like she didn't know him at all. Perhaps she never had.

"Wouldn't I?" He asked, eyes narrowed curiously, head pulled back just hair as his hand lightly massaged her leg. She loathed the thought that he was right, and that she was completely at his mercy as he had his fun with her, mentally, physically, tormenting her. All for what?

"What do you want?" She asked, hoping, praying she could distract him, get his hand off of her.

"Well the same thing everyone else wants, dear," he said matter-of-factly, but there was a strange melody linger beneath his words, an even, measured tone. "A little respect, control--to feel...understood."

"I'll never understand you," Delilah said, tensing up as his hand rose dangerously high before stopping suddenly. It was so crude to think that he could reduce people down to such desires. Most people want love, happiness, maybe money. Not him.

She couldn't be sure what he wanted. If he was telling even a sliver of the truth.

He laughed, and she breathed a sigh of relief as he withdrew his hand and stood up. "I'm complicated," he admitted. "Girls like that, don't they?"

"Not with someone like you." She crossed her arms, and tugged her skirt down a little lower, wishing she could close her legs. Wishing she could clean away his touch, but something about it was pervasively permanent, as though he'd marked her. "I'm sure they run for the hills as soon as they get the chance."

She watched him unfasten the cuffs on his sleeves, the movement efficient and practiced as she imagined more the way his fingers would feel on her skin. His touch was pragmatic, cold, but firm and decisive in a way that made her feel odd.

"Bold of you to assume that given our history," he said with a faint smirk. "I hate to tell you that you're not the first woman who's been down here. Of course this is for a very different reason."

"And I'd prefer to focus on that reason," she said firmly. "Not this half-wit attempt you're making to try and lure me into bed so I'll be easier to lie to."

"Is it easier to lie to a woman you've already fucked?" He asked, cocking his head to the side and leaning against the table at his side. "I thought it was harder."

She narrowed her eyes. "I've heard it works better on men."

He laughed softly. "I think we're both too clever for that to work, aren't we?" Those long fingers worked in perfect symphony to fold and roll his sleeves up to his elbows as he talked. Then he reached into the pocket of his coat on the table and fished out a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter.

"Since when do you smoke?" Delilah asked. It seemed he was set to surprise her at every turn.

"Since this job got to be a lot more stressful," he muttered, sliding one out of the pack and lighting the end, using his hand to shield the flame until it caught. Then he set the lighter down and combed a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

"Maybe I should start," she said with a snort. He laughed, but he took one out of the pack, and offered it to her.

"Be my guest."

If it were any other day and any other time she would've said no. Denied without question. But something about this circumstance was so different, at once surreal and all too real. It didn't matter.

So she took it, unsure how to handle such a thing. It was lighter than she'd expected, the paper smooth and simple. And it looked much bigger in her hand than it had in his, but she tried not to think about it, as she opened her mouth and held it between her lips.

She watched him exhale smoke and then smile at her, as if this were something endearing. People always looked at her that way, as if she were nothing other than an innocent little girl, and any small act of disobedience was novel, charming. She resented that thought, and even more that Will still hadn't come to recognize her as an equal.

She extended her hand, as if to ask for the lighter, but he waved his hand, leaving a trail of smoke that dissipated quickly. He picked up the lighter and leaned forward slightly, picking up her chin and tipping her head back as he clicked the thing on and held it to the filter end of the cigarette in her mouth.

When it finally caught he set the lighter down, but his hand stayed on her face, finger lightly rubbing under her chin as he looked at her almost adoringly. Something in her stirred strangely at the sight of him, anger and admiration conflicting as she hesitated to breathe in the smoke that was stinging her eyes and nose.

At least it was warm, burning as Delilah breathed in deeply and used two fingers to pull the cigarette out of her mouth. The heat of it lingered in her hand, in her chest. She resisted the urge to cough, staring defiantly up at Will and blowing smoke in his face.

"Are you going to stop stalling?" She asked.

He stroked his thumb over her cheek. "I prefer to think of it as flirting," he said, his voice low and level.

"That's a two way street."

"And?"

"You've tied me to a chair, and deprived me of basic warmth," she said, hesitantly taking another drag on her cigarette. "I'm not exactly a willing participant." A weak cough squeezed her lungs as she exhaled, and that finally got him to step back and return to his position, leaning against the table and stooping vaguely over her.

"Wouldn't you like someone to keep you warm?" He asked.

"No," she lied, but her hands were starting to tremble from the cold, the skin on her legs near aching. "What I'd like is for you to be straight with me."

"Where's the fun in that?" He said, his words carrying a faint playfulness.

"Will," she said, with increasing annoyance.

"Lovely the way you say my name," he said dreamily.

She scowled. "I know you didn't just bring me down here to 'flirt' with me

His shoulders lifted into the barest shrug as he talked. "You're right, I brought you down here because you're going to be staying here until I can figure out what to do with you."

Delilah's heart dropped to her feet. "What?" She'd thought this was just another game, an attempt to get inside her head, control her, but staying here? In this dark miserable place with him? She didn't even want to consider that.

"You'll be staying here," he repeated plainly. The corner of his mouth turned upwards slightly as he leaned over her once more. "Did you think it was going to be easy? Just answer a few questions, lie to my face, and then scurry on home?" He got right up in her ear, the lit end of his cigarette nearly singing her hair. "I know what you did, Delilah."

She shook her head, coughing on smoke once again as her mouth suddenly felt dry. "No, no, I don't want to," she insisted. "I-I don't care if you come by my house but I'm not--I can't stay here." Her chest started to feel tight, her breathing short as she inhaled smoke and exhaled at a rapid hyperventilating pace.

Will pulled away from her ear, and held her jaw steadily in his hand. His green eyes were utterly unsympathetic as they met hers. "I'm not asking. You knew this would happen, don't act like you're a victim now."

"Please," she tried, her eyes starting to burn from shame and regret, wishing she could take everything back. Every risk she'd ever taken. Cursing the small part of her that dared to be bold, a part which had forgotten she was just a scared little girl. "I'm sorry."

"No you're not," he tsked, "I told you not to talk to her, didn't I, love?"

"You don't understand," she insisted.

"You defied very clear instructions, knowing full well that there would be consequences," he said, almost as if he were a teacher scolding a student. "Though I must say I'm flattered you wanted to spend time with me."

"It won't happen again," she said quickly, mustering up as much desperate sincerity as she could manage. "Please, please just let me go home, Will, I'm really sorry."

He let out a soft huff of laughter as he withdrew, leaning on the arm of the chair this time. "Should've let me shag you first if you wanted me to believe that lie," he said, offering her a wry smile before taking a drag. He ran his fingers through his hair again, and she hated this side of him. Confident, insufferable, effortlessly cruel.

Handsome too, but that was none of his business.

Delilah hated the way he talked so openly about sex, about her body and his inclinations. Was it pride? Some stupid thing about young men? Or did he actually just want to fuck her and wasn't bothering to be subtle about it? In her mind it felt more like a tease, a taunt. No one else had ever wanted her that way before, and she didn't feel comfortable being wanted.

He sought out her discomforts with ease, pinpointed them. That's what this was about, partially anyway. Making her feel dirty, objectified, vulnerable in front of him so she would be afraid. And the worst part was that it worked. As finely crafted as he was she didn't like the thought of him having her at all, not the way she knew he would do it.

"So leaving me to freeze here wasn't an elaborate interrogation method?" She asked, finding her eyes drift to the coat sitting on the table beside her. It looked more and more inviting as the minutes passed. "You're just an ass." But she was calmer now, resigned. Her breathing steadied and she inhaled smoke, finally starting to get the hang of it.

Her brain buzzed strangely.

He smirked. "Of course I am," he said, seeming almost proud of himself. "But nothing I do is without purpose." He took a long drag on his cigarette, sucking it down to the filter before stamping it out on the table. It was careless for him, strange. Then he got close again, and she could smell the smoke on him, on herself, but there was something else too--ink, paper, the glue he used to fix old books. "You need to know what it feels like to be cold."

"I do," she said simply. "It's miserable." She tried to compete with him, smoke more, but the burning filled her lungs too rapidly and she coughed. This time he didn't step back though, just laughed.

"But it's easy to get warm, isn't it?" He asked, bracing both hands on the arms of the chair. "Just have a smoke, and my coat. This doesn't have to be hard, bunny."

She cringed at the use of that name, and the innuendo in his words. It wasn't a polite offer with him, but a transaction. He was forcing her to do it, say yes, anything to be warm and comfortable in this miserable place with him.

Even as she shook her head, Will reached over and grabbed his coat, slung it around her shoulders. It was heavy, draping over her small frame in an awkward way. The fabric was cold too, until it started to warm to her skin, but it was all wrong.

***

The room Will had her staying in was only a few steps above a jail cell. A concrete and wood box with a heavy door. There was a bed, plain, with stiff sheets and one woolen blanket laid over the top. An old fruit crate served as a night table. No windows, but of course it was underground.

Delilah had been to the archive before--the part she wasn't supposed to see--but never for this long. Never long enough to really see the whole place. It was a glorified cave system, maybe a bit more rectangular, tricked out with electric lights and a very poor heating system.

Rooms filled with rows of wood and metal shelves, stuffed with old books and artifacts of no significant value to her. They were old though, extraordinarily old compared to anything on the surface, in that little brick building she'd once thought of as charming. She'd been enamored by its mystery.

But now, surrounded by things she knew to be quite literally magic, she felt very little. It was old magic, dead, unusable. Just a ghost made up of complex runes and indecipherable latin phrases. Will was its keeper, and the only one who seemed to care about such things.

A strange man, with stranger inclinations.

Still, she remembered the first time she'd seen him, in the normal archive with its off color carpets and dusty paper smell. The only thing distinguishing it from the buildings around it had been the dented plaque on the door--in fact she'd walked right by it at first. He'd stepped out from between too shelves as if appearing out of thin air, entirely too tall and too thin,

He'd been sweet, awkwardly charming with his soft English accent as he offered his help. Then kept helping, doing anything to aid in her research, gain her trust. In hindsight it was too much, but she'd wanted so badly to believe someone could care about her the way he'd pretended to.

And so well, he'd done it, that she started to think of him as two separate people. She wanted that version of him back, the old one who'd been scholarly and skittish, painfully polite. He'd seemed younger then too, his face softer and more innocent, and she'd thought he could be much older than her twenty years.

Surely not twenty-eight, but he looked that way now. Too hardened and exhausted for a simple archivist, with the dark circles beneath his eyes and the furrow in his dark eyebrows.

Most days Delilah watched him work, lingering nearby. There was little to do, other than read, and almost all of the books were in languages she didn't speak and required gloves to handle. Even works that had already been translated weren't particularly compelling unless you wanted to read long, complicated paragraphs about blood magic that could no longer be used anyway.

Will handled those old books with such care, though, gloved fingers thumbing through the pages. He always had a few things open in front of him, sprawled out over the desk in his workspace. An old book or two, translation materials, typewriter, several pens and a sturdy stack of parchment paper.

She wasn't sure what else he did, but he disappeared frequently, usually for a few hours, but she never tried to follow him. The place was a maze she wasn't confident she could navigate alone, and the further she got away from her little room and the office, the colder it seemed to be.