Page 4

JAMES

T wo hours.

Two hours that Ophelia has been in her cell. Two hours that I’ve been watching her.

She’d spent the first one awake, pacing the floor. When she exhausted herself, she collapsed on the bed.

She’s been asleep since.

I know all of that because I’ve been watching her the entire time since we left her there.

Well, not quite. Five minutes were spent climbing the stairs to the second floor with Topher. Three more went to getting rid of him by telling him to rest up before the big day.

When I lost him, I went into my room. Locked the door behind me. Took a seat on my leather armchair by the fireplace. My staff lit a fire there while others served our dinner.

Right before they went to their quarters in a separate house on my property as per my orders. They never asked why.

They knew what was coming.

Most of them have been working for me for years. My late father hired some of them. I kept them around. Mainly because they seemed as relieved as I was when their former boss had passed away.

They weren’t relieved when Topher started bringing Ophelia over.

See, it isn’t a secret. Our staff knows about our tradition. The Hawthornes’ and Morgans’ sick legacies.

In addition to the auction house, the men in our family established two traditions.

First, every man who turns twenty-one must auction off a virgin. Then, once she’s out of the way, sold to the highest bidder, we go on the hunt for another woman to breed then dispose of.

Two despicable rites of passage that I’ve managed to fuck with over the years.

This year, they’ll end for good.

Until then…

Nothing changes.

I’m still the cold, detached man I’ve always been.

Just like my dad and unlike Oliver, my business partner. He’s into the building connections. Forming friendships. Being social in general.

He’s too friendly, in my opinion, given how he can’t keep his dick in his pants.

I, on the other hand, have no interest in fucking around.

My work. That’s what I’m focused on. That’s what makes me a great lawyer.

An even better puppet master.

I hate to admit it, but the auction house has played a part in my success. And while I don’t step foot in the wretched place, I do make good use of the blackmailing material it provides.

It works because people fuck. They fuck a lot, and influential people are no different. We provide them with willing women who service them.

Then we take their pictures. Keep them as leverage for when a case can’t be won fair and square.

Oh, they know about it. Everyone knows. They still come to us. They fill the auction house Oliver runs and I’ve steered away from.

I’ll be there for the main event. The celebrated auction.

I’ll play my part. Then I’m taking them down.

Sure, I pretend to be all in. But it’ll be a farce. A facade I maintain even around Topher.

Lately, he’s been too close to Oliver and his son, Camden. I haven’t been able to trust him, despite my best efforts.

I give him the impression that I’m as invested as he is.

Tonight, he had a chance to prove to me that his heart was pure.

It was a test, and he failed.

He was needlessly cruel toward Ophelia. Aggressive. Violent. Excited to sell an innocent woman.

But I haven’t given up hope. He’s my son, after all.

As soon as he shows remorse, I’ll spare him.

Oliver and Camden? Never.

My friend had his chance. I gave him an out, and let’s just say, it didn’t work out as planned.

Ever since, neither he nor I have trusted one another.

The Morgans are as good as dead.

Movement on my screen snaps me out of my daze. Ophelia’s restless, twisting and turning in her bed.

The thought of another man or a woman like the Morgans having their hands on her…

Inconceivable.

My detailed plan will ensure it won’t happen.

Her fate will be no different from that of the other sacrifices before her.

One of the men I hired specifically for this job will wait for her. A day or two after the auction, he’ll kidnap her to an undisclosed location, give her the number to an offshore bank account.

He’ll set her free.

And I’ll never see or hear from her ever again.

Everything inside me rages against this decision, as final as it is.

That was the deal I made with myself even before I met her. Before I fell hard and motherfucking fast for Topher’s girlfriend.

The flames crackle in my fireplace. Lightning slices through the black of the night. Thunder cracks somewhere nearby. Heavy rain lashes at the large windows.

Faintly, I hear the leaves and branches of the old oak trees surrounding our property rustling in the wind.

Me? I’m here. A glass of whiskey in my tattooed hand. My black dress shoe tapping on the expensive navy rug at my feet.

My skin warms from the fire. From watching her on the CCTV app on my phone. The one Topher has no idea exists.

I take a sip from my drink. It burns my throat as I swallow.

Twenty-one years and nine months. It’s been that long since the last two virgin sacrifices were put up for auction.

Since two others were chosen to carry our sons right after the auction had taken place.

Since I managed to save Topher’s mom from being raped. By me.

Since I ended up saving both of our sacrifices without anyone being the wiser.

Over two decades ago.

This isn’t just any other virgin. Just any sacrifice. You know Ophelia.

Arthur Hawthorne, my father, would’ve belted me if he knew I felt even remotely attached to a woman. Any woman.

But he isn’t here. He and Oliver’s father moved—no, were forced—onto the next world. Even if they were still here, my father’s opinion wouldn’t have mattered.

I’m stronger than the kid I once was. More lethal.

Oliver is about to find out exactly how lethal I am, and soon.

But it’s not Oliver I’m looking at right now.

She isn’t yours.

Except I can’t get her out of my head.

Doesn’t matter. She. Isn’t. Mine.

She is special, though.

Otherwise, I would’ve gotten bored with her tears.

Nothing about Ophelia bores me.

Not a damn thing.

Fucking inconvenient.

Infuriating, really.

Can’t be helped, either.

She just had to go and crawl her way into my heart.

The first time Topher brought her over, I could tell she’d be different. It was glaringly obvious. To me, at least.

Topher, on the other hand, spoke about her as if she were a stray he had picked up off the street. As if she weren’t a rare, precious diamond.

His blatant disrespect for her is another test he failed.

He could’ve come to me. Could’ve asked to put an end to this tradition. I never suggested he couldn’t.

But then tonight, the way he handled her…

I did nothing like that at my initiation.

Even for the sake of pretense.

I take another sip of my drink, rolling it on my tongue as I reconsider.

Maybe he didn’t mean to be this cruel to her. Maybe he’s sulking because he can’t keep her.

Neither of us can. We aren’t allowed to marry or have a partner.

This is what our legacy is based on. No divorce. No distractions.

Men. Single men are all we’ll ever be.

My thumb rubs the screen where Ophelia sleeps. Sadly, my body doesn’t care for rules, legacies, or restrictions. My goddamn heart is a rogue motherfucker.

Ophelia is to blame for that. Has been to blame for that from day one.

At five feet two, my son’s girlfriend carried herself as if she were taller than both of us. Shoulders relaxed. Dark eyes facing me. Thick, black hair cascaded down her ramrod-straight back.

The black silk dress that enveloped her lean body didn’t look as old as I was sure it was. She pulled it off magnificently. Any designer would’ve begged her to model for them.

Her cheeks flushed, but she stared me down, regardless.

Her beauty was dark and not in a skin-deep kind of way.

Bone-deep.

With Topher’s hand on the small of her back—which had my jaw ticking and my fist clenched—Ophelia was ushered toward me. Her gait was confident, her heels barely making a sound on the wood floor.

Floating.

Our gazes locked.

“Dad.” Topher’s voice was distant. A murmur from another room. Universe, even. “This is my girlfriend, Ophelia Monroe.”

I outstretched my hand for her. Needed to touch her more than anything.

The one thing our families hadn’t allowed. You could fuck a woman, use a woman, then dispose of her.

Needing a woman had been forbidden. Going against it would’ve resulted in my death sentence.

I needed her anyway. It was the first time I had my eyes on her, in person, and I needed her.

She placed her hand in mine.

So small. Delicate. Soft.

“James Hawthorne. A pleasure to have you here, Miss Monroe.”

“Ophelia, please.”

A quick shake and a small smile from her. I pulled my hand back and never touched her again.

Until tonight. Until my hand was on her wrist. My cock strained my pants.

Then there was this craving for her. The fierce need that chipped at my sanity.

God, I can’t ever think like that. About keeping her.

What an absurd idea. It’s the third time tonight that I have to push it out of my head.

What for? I’m not built for a relationship. For love.

Warm, fuzzy emotions. None of that for me.

I want her.

No. No. What I’m feeling is obsession. It’s been plaguing me for a month, and now that I have her here, it’s more potent than ever.

It’s never been like this while I’ve been stalking her over the last month. Outside her home. When she took the subway.

She’s here. Finally mine.

For one night, I can have that.

Her.

Sonnet .

That’s the name I gave her in my head as soon as I laid my eyes on her. Everything about her is pure poetry. Her full lips. The curve of her hips. Her soft voice.

Her screams.

Her tears.

I put my drink on the end table a little too hard. The glass clinks. The whiskey sloshes.

This possessiveness is dangerous. Unstoppable.

Fuck, would you look at her. She’s adorable. Defenseless, curled up into a ball beneath the duvets.

I should leave her. Should set my phone down.

Should follow my own goddamn advice and rest before the main event tomorrow.

I laugh wryly into the empty room.