The warehouse stank of dust, old oil, and damp cardboard. Delilah had paced its length so many times the floor creaked in familiar protest beneath her boots. Two nights in this rat-hole, with only crates and shadows for company, had eaten at her patience. She was used to moving—fast, decisive, lethal—not waiting like a cornered dog.
But Luc had insisted. Hide. Heal. Wait.
And though she hated every syllable of that command, her bones still ached, and the scar along her neck still flared when she turned too fast. She had been broken before—snapped like a twig by Black Tarantula—and only his twisted mercy had restored her. She was then later attacked by his lieutenant, Bloodscream. The healing factor made her body resilient, yes, but her pride didn't regenerate as quickly. Pride had to be rebuilt brick by brick.
She pulled her hair back and leaned against a crate, trying to ignore the damp chill crawling up her arms. It wasn't long before she heard tires crunching outside. Headlights cut through the grime-streaked windows.
Her jaw tightened. 'Had Rose's men found her?'
Robert Hughes stepped in. The man looked like he'd swallowed his tie. His briefcase clattered against his leg as he shut the door quickly behind him, muttering something about "rough part of town."
"Who are you?" Delilah asked, stepping from the shadows.
Robert flinched. "Hello, M-Mr. Moreau asked me to deliver this to you personally." He opened the case and slid a thick envelope across a crate. Inside were keys and a folder of documents: Fiore Artino.
Delilah's eyes flicked to the name, then to him. She didn't need to ask where he knew Luc from—she already figured it based on his mannerisms. She just wanted to see how far this little man would squirm.
"Utilities, bills, maintenance?" she asked casually, tossing the keys in her palm.
Robert dabbed at his forehead. "Ah, y-yes. Our firm will, um, handle all of it. Mr. Moreau has established an account with us. Anything you require will be… accommodated. I was also tasked with taking you to the house."
She arched a brow. "Since when does a real estate firm manage utilities and drop-offs?"
Robert swallowed. "We don't. Normally. But Mr. Moreau is… a very valuable customer. Exceptions are made."
The way he said it—like reciting a prayer he didn't believe—made her lips curl in a humorless smile. Luc had this man leashed, and Robert knew it.
"Fine," she said at last. "Let's go."
The car smelled of cheap cologne and stale cigarettes. Robert drove stiffly, both hands at ten and two, as if any deviation might earn him a bullet to the skull. Delilah sat back, watching the city blur by.
"You always run errands for strangers in the middle of the night?" she asked dryly.
Robert tried a laugh. It came out strangled. "Only for Mr. Moreau."
The name made Delilah's jaw clench. The phantom identity, so carefully maintained, had her dancing to his tune. Even Rose had never made her feel this… contained.
When they pulled into the quiet neighborhood, she caught herself leaning forward. The house wasn't lavish—two stories, brick, shutters a little faded—but it wasn't the warehouse. A porch light glowed warmly against the night.
Robert parked, cut the engine, and nearly tripped over himself grabbing the keys. "This way, Ms. Artino."
The lock turned smoothly. The door opened into a furnished living room: couch, coffee table, rug, even fresh curtains. It wasn't expensive, but it was livable.
Delilah's eyes swept the place instinctively—corners, exits, sightlines. She cataloged every detail while Robert babbled about the utilities, the furnace, the stocked fridge.
"If there's anything you don't like, you can throw it away," he added nervously.
Delilah turned slowly to him. "Throw it away?"
"Yes, yes. Whatever you need. Mr. Moreau said your comfort is the main priority."
Her lip curled. Comfort. A gilded cage.
She let the silence hang, watching him sweat. Then, finally, nodded. "Get out."
Robert bobbed his head and fled, shutting the door behind him like a man escaping a burning building.
Delilah leaned against the wall, letting the silence stretch. Her gaze wandered over the house again. She hated it—because she wanted it. Because after days of hiding like a rat, this house whispered comfort. Safety. She didn't trust it, but she couldn't deny the hunger in her bones for it.
The shower was hot. She stood under it until steam filled the bathroom, washing away the stink of oil and dust. The water traced down her scar, easing the tension. For a few moments, she let herself close her eyes.
When she emerged, towel around her, hair dripping, she felt almost human again. A soft bed waited in the next room, and the thought of sinking into it nearly broke her iron will.
The phone buzzed.
She answered. "Luc."
"Fiore," the voice-changed rasp replied. Smooth. Confident. Like he had been waiting for her to call him that. "I trust Robert delivered the package."
"He did," she said tightly.
His voice rasped through the changer. "Comfortable?"
She exhaled. "For now."
"Good. The house will serve you well, I hope. For now, consider this your curtain. Actors do not reveal themselves before the play begins. So for now you'll stay put. Order food, watch television, and rest. Don't leave the house for a few days until I assess Rose and Black Tarantula's movements"
She frowned. "You expect me to sit here, eat takeout, and knit scarves while the Rose puts a higher price on my head?"
Luc chuckled low. "Yes. Because while you stay safe and out of sight, the world moves on. Black Tarantula has already forced Rose into retreat. Within a week, one will bleed the other. Jump in too early, and you'll be another body on the pile. Wait, and you'll be the one standing when the smoke clears."
Delilah hesitated. The logic was sharp, undeniable. But the part of her that had always fought, that had clawed her way out of death pits, hated being told to wait.
"I don't like it," she said.
"You don't have to like it," Luc replied. "You just have to survive it. I'll send more supplies soon in a few days. For now, shower. Rest. Order yourself dinner."
The call ended.
Delilah lay back on the cot, staring at the ceiling. The water still clung to her skin, her hair damp against the pillow.
She wanted to curse Luc. She wanted to fight him.
She let the phone fall to the nightstand, then sank into the mattress. The softness under her bones mocked her; comfort was the enemy of killers. And yet, as her eyes closed against her will, she thought: Just one night. Tomorrow, the war would start again.