Page 52

Every lawyer, judge, and jury knows that adults are tried as one.

His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. Shoulders square.

When I give him nothing, he nods, twisting toward Camden. Whispering in his ear. Speaking so low that I can’t hear what he’s saying.

A grave mistake. He should know better than to turn his back on his opponent.

I slide the lock of Ophelia’s hair into my pocket. Looking straight ahead, my lips curve up.

He should know better, true.

Yet here he is, failing.

He could have my genes. Live off my money.

He’s nothing like me.

None of them are.

Tonight, Oliver will be the first to realize it.

Our first day of trial ended on a positive note. Obviously. I handpicked the jury myself. I own the judge who wisely threw out a few of the ADA’s objections.

There are other matters to take care of at the office. I should’ve told our driver to drop me off there after the trial.

But no.

They’ll wait for tomorrow.

I have personal matters to attend to at home , I told my assistant.

Preparing Ophelia for tonight.

I let myself into our home, dropping my keys and bag at the entrance.

This time, the silence in the house is a welcomed one. An expected one, since I was the one who called Clara on the way over here and ordered everyone to return to their quarters for the day.

The house is dimly lit, no light filtering in. In the winter, the sun sets early. It was already dark when I was driving over here.

The scents of rice and maybe—is that chicken?—carry to me. My heart beats one, two, three times for the effort Ophelia has put into cooking our dinners.

It’s completely unnecessary. I have people to do it for me. I can cook for myself.

But she insists on showing me she cares. That she loves me. And if she does it through food, I won’t deny her.

A crippling softness climbs up my throat. Spreads warmth across my face.

I’d be a fool to hold on to it.

Oliver will be here in a few hours.

I’ll hug her once he’s gone.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins. My vision is clearer than ever. The air filtering into my lungs is fresh. Clean. I taste blood on my tongue.

I need that.

I need her.

Ophelia waits for me in the living room. She’s tucked under a gray throw blanket on the couch, reading a book. The sight of her chain draping to the floor gets my cock hard.

“Sonnet.”

“James, hi.” She places the book on the end table next to her.

Using one hand. She’s been reading one-handedly too.

The other one rests underneath the blanket. Hidden.

A trap.

I’m proud. I’m furious.

She’s trying so hard.

My jaw tics. My chest is hot.

Loving a person is a motherfucking disease. Anyone else could’ve died at my feet, and I wouldn’t have lost sleep over it. I would’ve stepped right over their corpse. Called Clara to clean up the mess.

Sure, I hate what our family has put women through over the years. I’ve risked my life to save theirs. But they were merely tasks I had to cross off my list.

Ophelia, though.

I need her alive. Being obvious could end up with her dead.

“Clara said you’d be back early. I just didn’t think you’d be here this early.” Her smile is tentative. “Hungry?”

Hungry, or are we practicing? That’s she’s really asking.

“What’s for dinner?” I play her game, shrugging off my jacket. It goes on the nearest armchair, folded neatly.

The cuffs of my shirt slip through the loops. I roll the sleeves up my forearms, and Ophelia’s eyes are drawn to the movement. For a moment. They’re back on my face the next, dark and alert.

“Rice.” Adorable. She must’ve burned the protein.

I fight back a smile. This isn’t the time to admire the blush creeping up her cheeks.

She opens her arm to the side. Again, one arm. “Missed me?”

“Painfully so.”

It’s the truth. I thought about her throughout the trial. Through traffic. While my son was planning to kill me. I thought of her beneath me. At my side. On top of me.

Laughing. Moaning. Cursing me.

Cutting me. The wound on my arm has healed over the last two weeks. I have fresh, smaller ones across my back where she got me during our training. Bruises too.

Ophelia has bite marks and welts on her ass.

She knows the risks without me having to do worse. I don’t want to cause her actual harm. Anything that doesn’t have to do with sex is strictly off the table. She can hurt me, not the other way around.

My version of love isn’t conventional.

Then again, Ophelia isn’t a conventional woman. Tonight, though, Oliver will be led to believe that she is. That she’s disposable.

The cadence of my heart is furious. I’m sure she can hear it.

Casually, I stroll over to her. I’m dying to lean over and kiss her. Taste her. Sink my teeth into her plump bottom lip. I go behind the couch instead.

“You?” Placing one hand on her shoulder, I ground her. Trick her into thinking I’m falling for her act.

She pays attention to my every move. Her eyes narrow when she realizes I’m pinning her hidden arm down.

“Since the moment you left the house.” She’s not bullshitting me. Her tone is suspicious, nonetheless. Her body tenses, readying itself for a fight.

“That’s a good fucking girl.”

Creases line her forehead. “I didn’t do?—”

In one smooth move, I hook my arm around her waist, hoisting her up in the air, pressing her back to my front.

“Fuck!” Her knife glints in the dim light.

Lightning flashes outside the window, sending white light across the room.

She throws the hand holding the knife behind her. It scratches my shoulder, slicing through my shirt. I feel a sting.

Thunder booms in the distance. The chain connected to her ankle clangs on the floor.

“You’re a good girl. So fucking ready.” I pry the knife out of her hand, carrying her small body to the arm of the couch. Shoving her face into it. “You can do better. Tonight, you will do better.”

Ophelia growls. Thrashes. Her ass rubs into my cock and she stops when she feels how hard I am for her.

“What happens tonight?”

Slicing her T-shirt and panties off with a knife is cruel. Cutting her leggings just down to her crotch is humiliating.

It turns me on. I growl when the leggings I push roll down her body to her ankles. When I shove the torn shirt to her sides, exposing more of Ophelia to me.

Fuck, I’m ravenous for her, growing hungrier when she groans from how hard I press her cheek down on the couch.

“Tonight, you’ll fight. Really fight.” I run the blade along her bare ass. She shudders, clutching onto the cushions. I scare her, yet her gaze lets on that she’s plotting against me. “Me first. Then you’ll help me kill Oliver.”

“What?”

I lose the knife.

Crack! my hand connects to her ass.

That first pained cry.

Always the sweetest.

There’ll be plenty more where that one came from.