Reckless {HS}

fifty-one

Delilah's Pov

"I guess he's not home." The words slurred slightly as they left my mouth, the alcohol still humming through my veins. My hand fell heavily against Harry's door again, knocking louder this time. No answer.

I frowned, stepping back slightly to look at the building as if it would give me some kind of answer. It was late. Maybe he was asleep? Or maybe he just didn't want to see me. My mind raced with possibilities, but the buzz of too many drinks made it hard to focus.

My hand drifted down to the doorknob, almost instinctively. To my surprise, it turned easily beneath my palm. It wasn't locked.

I hesitated for a moment, glancing around the empty street. Should I just... walk in? The alcohol made me bolder than I normally would have been, so I let myself inside, the door clicking shut softly behind me.

The house was quiet—eerily so. I took a few unsteady steps forward, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the room. Everything looked as it always did, neat, in order, controlled. Except for the faintest sound coming from somewhere deep inside the house.

My breath hitched. What was that?

It wasn't music. It wasn't the TV. It was something else... something off. A muffled noise, like someone in pain. My heart started to race as a sinking feeling gripped my stomach. Could it be Harry? Was he hurt? Without thinking, I found myself moving toward the sound, my feet light but hurried.

The sound was coming from... downstairs? My brow furrowed in confusion. I hadn't even realized Harry had a basement. My panic surged, pushing me to move faster. If he was hurt, I needed to help him. I descended the stairs quietly, each creak of the wooden steps making my heart pound louder in my chest.

As I reached the bottom of the staircase, my breath caught in my throat. The basement was dimly lit, the air heavy with something dark, something dangerous. And then I saw it.

A man was tied to a chair, slumped over, barely conscious. His face was swollen and covered in blood, his body limp like he had already given up.

But that wasn't what terrified me the most.

No, it was the figure standing in front of him, tall and broad, his back to me. I didn't need to see his face to know who it was. The way he held himself, the way the air in the room seemed to bend around him in a suffocating tension—this was Harry.

I gasped. A small, involuntary sound, but enough to make him freeze. He turned, slowly, and my stomach twisted violently.

Harry was covered in blood. His hands, his shirt, even his face. His curls were messy, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat. His green eyes, normally soft when they looked at me, were cold, empty, like someone else was staring back at me. He looked dangerous—no, terrifying.

"Harry?" I barely whispered, but the word trembled out of me before I could stop it.

He took a step toward me, and I instinctively flinched. He didn't seem like the man I knew, the one who slept on the floor so I wouldn't be uncomfortable in his bed, the one who made sarcastic jokes and smirked when he caught me looking at him. This man standing in front of me, covered in someone else's blood, was someone else entirely.

I couldn't stop staring at his hands. They were soaked in it, dark crimson smudged across his knuckles. And the look on his face... it was hard, focused, almost indifferent to the scene in front of him.

I gasped again, louder this time, backing up toward the stairs. Every instinct screamed at me to get out of here, to run, to escape this nightmare.

"Delilah, wait," he said, his voice rough, deep, like he hadn't used it in hours. He sounded different too, like there was no warmth left in him.

I didn't stop. I couldn't. My heart was racing, my hands shaking as I turned and bolted back up the stairs, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

"Delilah!" His voice followed me up the stairs, louder, more urgent, but I didn't turn around. My mind was spinning, my legs moving on autopilot as I reached the top of the stairs, throwing the door open with trembling hands.

What had I just seen? Was that really him?

I stumbled out of the house, my heels clicking wildly on the pavement as I sprinted down the street, away from the darkness of that basement, away from Harry. My mind was a blur of confusion and fear, the image of him standing there, bloodied and cold, playing over and over again in my head. That wasn't the Harry I knew. That wasn't the person I thought I was getting close to.

The streets were blurry under the streetlights, my vision swimming from the alcohol and the panic, my heart racing as I kept running. I didn't know where I was going—I didn't care. I just needed to get away.

I could still feel his eyes on me, the way they'd stared right through me, as if I'd caught him in the middle of something that was far worse than anything I could've imagined.

I finally stopped when I reached a corner, my breath hitching in my throat. Leaning against a lamppost, I tried to catch my breath, my mind still reeling from what I had just witnessed. My heart pounded in my chest, my hands trembling uncontrollably as I tried to make sense of it all.

Why? Why was Harry doing that? Why was there a man tied up in his basement? A man he was... torturing?

The thought made my stomach lurch violently, the bile rising in my throat as I bent over, fighting the urge to throw up. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. The man I knew wouldn't do this. He wouldn't—couldn't—be this cruel. Could he?

But the blood on his hands said otherwise. The look in his eyes said otherwise.

I wiped the tears that had started to fall from my cheeks, my breath still ragged. What was I supposed to do now? Pretend I hadn't seen any of this? Pretend he was still the same person who I'd been lying next to in bed just last night?

I pushed myself off the lamppost, my legs shaky but moving forward. I didn't know where I was going, but one thing was clear: I needed to get far away from Harry. Far away from whatever this was.

Tears blurred my vision as I kept walking, the shock settling deep into my bones. Nothing would ever be the same again.

My heart was racing, my head still buzzing from the alcohol, but none of that mattered now. I just needed to get as far away as possible.

Suddenly, before I could react, a hand grabbed my wrist. The shock hit me like a punch to the chest, and I tried to yank my arm away, but the grip only tightened.

I barely had time to gasp before another hand covered my mouth, muffling my scream.

"Don't make a sound," a voice hissed in my ear.

My pulse hammered in my ears as panic surged through me. My mind screamed to run, to fight, to do something, but my body wouldn't listen. I struggled, twisting against him, but it was useless. He was too strong.

I was dragged backward, deeper into a shadowed alley, the dim streetlights disappearing behind me. My back hit the rough brick of a wall, and I felt the cold press of it through my thin dress.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But I couldn't. My chest was tight, the fear crawling up my throat, and my heart felt like it might burst out of my chest. I blinked, trying to see his face, but his hood was pulled low, hiding his features in the darkness.

"Stay still," he ordered, his voice cold, unnerving.

I froze, my body trembling. I watched as he pulled out a phone, his eyes locked on mine, making sure I didn't move.

He dialed a number. My ears rang with panic, but I could still hear his words.

"I've got her," he said, his voice as casual as if he were talking about the weather.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.