Page 23

JAMES

G ray light filters into my kitchen. Heavy raindrops tap against the glass windows in a consistent rhythm.

Some families—who aren’t us—will be celebrating Thanksgiving together soon. Heavier rain will patter on their roof. Their windows. Their front porch.

Harsh, then soft. Fast, then slow. Sleet will come down. Possibly snow.

The weather, however flimsy it may be, remains reliable.

There was a time when I considered myself reliable. I could always trust myself to react exactly how I had for decades.

I’m not so sure of it anymore. With Ophelia in my home, I’m beginning to question myself.

It should be impossible for me to change. To look at her as a person, rather than an object to use. The fact that I might’ve never considered her as property in the first place rattles me.

The floor is warm under my bare feet as I walk over to the sink. The house is quiet, other than the rain outside and the water I use to rinse my coffee mug before placing it in the dishwasher.

This is the third morning I’ve woken up in my bed, knowing she’s in her cell. Two floors below me. The second morning of having a house with no staff milling about. No work emails. Not having to threaten other people over the phone.

Just me and Ophelia.

And my goddamn feelings.

My lips twist at the notion. I’m incapable of having any emotion other than hate or lust for power.

Haven’t been, at least.

Then Ophelia became mine.

Last night, she was so good. So obedient. Much more after that first night when she’d fought me.

I rewarded her by rubbing her into five orgasms, edging her each time until she cried. I fucked her throat. Fed her. Spat water in her mouth.

That wasn’t anything new.

What changed was her final words to me before I left.

She didn’t say she hated me. Didn’t flutter her eyes shut and sunk into the bed, wishing me away.

She lay under the covers where I put her, staring at me, seeing through me.

There was something on her mind. Something that piqued my curiosity. I wanted to drag it out of her. Torture it out of her.

What was it?

I didn’t ask. Refused giving her the upper hand.

But damn it, she intrigued me. Taunted me.

The pull to her will be the end of me.

I slam the dishwasher door shut. That uncontrolled anger spikes inside me again. Has me clenching my fist.

Fucking her. Breeding her. Of course these are the reasons I’m doing this.

A huff of a laugh bursts past my lips. Sounds as harsh as a cough.

With Topher’s mom, the process was easy.

She chased me around on campus. The med student had five years on me, but she was persistent. By then, I had already been initiated into my father’s organization.

I was repulsed and disgusted by the next step I was forced to take. I despised the idea of forcefully breeding a woman.

Except I couldn’t kill my father just yet.

I couldn’t kidnap Faye, either. When I took her out on a date to tell her I had no other choice, she smiled. She begged me to do it. Was adamant that it would be okay as long as we kept it between us.

She gave me her consent.

Relief didn’t wash over me at that. I was already responsible for the disappearances of Oliver’s and my sacrifices. No one had reported them missing, as I suspected.

Putting a child in Faye and saving her would’ve been more complicated.

Eventually, I had it figured out.

The solution was a simple one.

Until it wasn’t.

Ophelia isn’t her. Nothing like her or anyone I’ve ever met.

She’s different. I am different around her.

Her dark eyes. Her beating heart. Her personality that keeps changing and drawing me in.

Maddening.

The other mug on the granite counter taunts me. Her mug.

I had a plan for today. I’d come down here after my workout, make her coffee. Let her drink water from my mouth. Feed her.

Hear her tell me, of her own volition, that she doesn’t hate me.

And I haven’t given up on the idea of hearing her beg.

Goddamn rain. I can’t think straight like this. Can’t focus with the drops on my window that look so much like her tears.

My dick thickens, pushing against my jeans.

Concentrate.

She was about to say something else last night. I crave it. I need it.

I’m about to burst out of my skin.

I have to make it stop. Have to remind myself that she’s nothing to me.

Her tears are nothing.

Her thank yous are nothing.

The way she fights then bends for me.

Nothing.

There will be no feeding and orgasms this morning. No soft touches to even out the cruelty.

For my sake, I have to remind myself of who I am.

My phone lights up on the counter. Topher. After days of radio silence.

After over twenty-four hours that she hasn’t mentioned his name.

I slam my fist on the counter. No more of this. Of caring about her. Of this obsession.

I have to dehumanize her. Have to minimize the control she has over me. Eliminate it.

Before that, my son.

Topher: You up?

Me: Yes.

Short and to the point. I haven’t told him I have Ophelia here. I may never say it to him. Soon enough, she’ll be gone.

No.

Topher: Busy? Kinda need to talk to you.

He never asks if he can call. Something’s wrong. I might not be the best father figure, but he knows he can call at any time.

After all, he is my son. My only son.

Until—

“Silence,” I bark at the empty house. My voice bounces off the walls.

I can’t talk to him when I’m drowning in her. I have to silence the noise in my head. Put Ophelia in her place.

Once things are back in order, I’ll talk to him. Clearly, he’s unharmed. Alive.

Whatever he wants isn’t urgent.

Me: I’ll call you later.

Topher: K.

A derisive laugh huffs out of me at that. My father wouldn’t stand for K . He wouldn’t stand for drunk texts and debasing the initiation, either.

The prick.

“Get up.” He towered over me, hands on his waist.

I looked up at him from the floor. Ignoring the throbbing pain in my ribs, I snarled at him.

My growth spurt only started at seventeen, two years later. Until then, he was bigger. Taller. Stronger. Didn’t matter how many hours I’d spent in the gym. How much muscle I’d gained.

I might’ve been a replica of him with our matching dark hair and cold blue eyes.

Back then, though, he had a few inches on me. A grown man’s power.

For years, he’d had an advantage over me. Punched my ribs. Kicked my stomach. Beat the shit out of me while making sure no one could see the bruises.

“Get the hell up. You’re my son. Stop acting like a wounded, pathetic animal.”

“Fuck you.” Every part of me wanted to stand up and fight back. Refusing him felt better. “I’m done listening to you, do you hear? Fuck. You.”

“Goddamn crying baby.” His dress shoe connected to my arm.

Then another kick landed on my bruised ribs.

He raised his tattooed hand, fisting it—a demonstration of power.

“What are you thinking, lying there, taking it like some weak fuck? How do you plan on taking over our firm? Ruling over our empire? Hmm? Answer me.”

At the time, I had no idea why an attorney would have to be a violent monster. When I turned twenty, I understood.

By then, I loathed him and everything he stood for.

He kicked me again, the force of the blow flipping me over my back. Just so I wouldn’t forget he was there, he stepped on my ribs, leaning his weight on top of me.

I snarled.

“Answer me.”

I’ll do all that and more, old man. And by the time I’m done, you’ll be long gone.

“Answer.” Kick. “Me.”

“You’ll see, sir,” I spat out. “You’ll see.”

Unlike me, Topher never took a beating in his life. Nothing remotely close to it.

Somehow, he grew up to be more violent than I’ll ever be. The way he treated Ophelia was the last straw.

He’ll have to learn to tame those urges.

I won’t stand for it.

What I’m doing to Ophelia isn’t the same. I own her. She’s my pet. She thanks me when I shoot my cum down her throat.

She’s stopped hating me.

Problem is, she still has a modicum of control over me.

That part drives me insane.

It has to end before I can set her free.

I will never set her free.

The voice in my head is insistent.

Another reason I need to take care of my little problem in the cell.

Pocketing my phone, I head over to my den, getting my rope.

I moved it from my room down here last night when I couldn’t sleep. I had no intention of using it on her so fast. Thought that I was in control of my urges. Of her.

I was wrong.

I need her out of my head.

Her punishment for seducing me can’t wait.

Down the stairs I go, taking two at a time.

There’s order in my life. I have to reclaim it.

“James.” She’s already up when I arrive. Under the covers, doing what she was told.

Being a temptation. A distraction.

I say nothing. Flip the lock. Enter the cell.

“Hi.” Her voice is hoarse from sleep. It speaks straight to my cock.

I still stick to my silence.

It’s then that she notices today’s going to be different. Her large brown eyes run over my body. My dark, long-sleeved T-shirt. The rope in my hand.

“No food?” With a furrowed brow, suspicion paints her voice. “A rope?”

“Up.”

“No.” She raises her voice, pulling the duvet up and over her body. Her fight is another temptation that I ignore. “You can’t keep torturing me. Or if you do, it can’t get any worse. I won’t let you do this to me.”

“Is that so?” I’m a prick for mocking her.

For doing it for no apparent reason. It doesn’t help me in the slightest. I don’t feel any less drawn to her when I’m being cruel.

The desire to get into that shitty bed and cradle her is intense.

“You didn’t look so tortured last night when you came on my fingers. ”

The flush on her face is crimson red. “You bastard.”

“Come here.” I’m done waiting. I yank her up and out of the bed, wrapping one arm around her waist. Pinned to my body, she screams and punches me.

“Lying doesn’t suit you. I was the one who wiped your dripping pussy clean for the last two days.

Had to bring six clean pairs of panties because you ruined yours. You moan when I spit into your mouth.”

“I hate you so much.”