Chapter 22 - Twenty Two
"Delia."
The voice, calm and deep, echoed from the doorway. Both women, the abuser and the abused, turned towards the sound.
Eric was leaning by the doorframe, the very picture of relaxed authority, his hands tucked casually into his coat pockets.
Anne stood just beside him, her eyes red and swollen from the aftermath of crying. She looked from Eric’s commanding profile to Delia’s pale face, and in that moment, she saw the same intense, focused gaze the Duke had given Delia in the garden last night. A final, painful wave of acceptance washed over her; she had truly lost. She lowered her gaze to the floor, a silent admission of defeat.
It turned out that when Anne had fled her room, distraught, she had nearly collided with the Duke in the main hall. He had simply looked at her and said, "Show me to Delia’s room." The command was so absolute, she had obeyed without thinking.
"Come here," Eric said to Delia, his voice low and firm, but not unkind.
Delia couldn’t move. It felt as though her feet were stuck to the floor, rooted by an invisible force. A terrifyingly familiar sensation washed over her, a flashback to her past life when she had been framed for a murder she didn’t commit. That same paralyzing fear, the feeling of being trapped with no way out, gripped her now. She could only stand there, trembling.
Eric sighed, a soft sound of impatience not with her, but with the situation. He pushed himself off the doorframe and walked towards her with long, purposeful strides.
He walked right past the stunned Augusta as if she weren’t even there. When he reached Delia, he gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. His fingers paused as he saw the angry red marks of the slaps on her cheek. His expression hardened for a fraction of a second before softening into one of profound tenderness. He caressed the spot, his touch as light as a feather, careful not to bring her more pain.