Page 25

Twenty-Four

Sebastian

I could slam Ophelia against the wall and fuck her right now, in the creepy corridor, and I don’t think she’d care. I could, but the tiny part of me that isn’t completely corrupted is holding me back. I want her to ask for it. Beg, preferably. And yes, using the hot salve is a dirty trick, but I don’t care. It’s happening today.

She shifts on her feet as we wait for the elevator. Gabriel and Jacob have both experimented with the salve before and told me they had fun teasing the girls until they went crazy. Neither of them was a big enough asshole to use it in public, though. That honor is all mine.

Ophelia’s dilated pupils and the way she reacted when I first applied it show it’s not going to disappoint me, either. I didn’t tell her the effect will get stronger over the next two hours. I’ll let her discover that fun fact all by herself.

She’s quiet as I lead her through the streets to the restaurant. A summer breeze makes the air pleasant, but it doesn’t do anything to calm her flushed skin. I keep a firm hand locked through her arm to help steady her—the shoes I chose really are stupidly high, but the way her ass looks as she totters along is worth it.

I pause as we reach the stairs up to La Table Royale. She has her lip between her teeth, and her eyes meet mine as I study her, then adjust the strap of her dress a fraction to the right. I brush her nipple with my thumb, and her lips part, eyes closing as she moans. “Oh, God, please don’t.”

I ignore her and circle it again, fascinated by the way her breathing picks up. This is only half an hour into the process. What will she be like once it hits its peak? My cock is already rock hard, and this will probably be as bad for me as it is for her, but that heady rush of power is in the driving seat again, pushing me onward.

“You know the magic words. Let’s go.”

I slip my arm around her waist as we climb the wooden stairs.

Unlike most of the entertainment spaces in the Compound, which lean toward masculine decor, La Table Royale is pure chintzy French elegance. Spindly tables with white cloths hold bouquets of pink and white flowers, and the napkins are shaped into fussy fans.

Oval pictures hang in gilt-edged frames, showing scenes from before all the royals got their heads chopped off. Women in gowns and men in tights. It’s the polar opposite of my style, and one glance at Ophelia’s bemused face tells me it’s not what she was expecting. I bend my head to whisper, “Revolting, isn’t it? But the food is good.”

She smiles at the comment, then catches herself and looks away.

The restaurant is packed, though the crowd is mostly much older. There’re a lot of Brothers in the sixty-plus category, and their Wards all love this place. It's a mix of couples and a few larger groups. One packed table has a bunch of balloons and a sign reading “Happy 65th Birthday, Yvette!”

Perfect. As I hoped, Ophelia stares at the people, eyes wide. “Are all these women…”

“Yes. Wards, all of them.”

“How long have they been here? The older ones, I mean.” Her voice is quiet, and she’s stopped fidgeting.

“I don’t know. Most Brothers join before they turn thirty. A few come later, but almost none after forty. So, assuming their Wards are a similar age, thirty years, give or take? Some longer.”

The birthday table breaks out in raucous laughter, and Ophelia jumps. I steady her, but she doesn’t even seem to notice. She’s staring at what must be the birthday girl, if the silly plastic tiara is anything to go by. She’s grinning, sipping on a glass of champagne like any old lady enjoying a night out with her friends.

For a moment, I’m as entranced by the scene as Ophelia. I’ve let myself grow too used to this place. I’ve stopped noticing how twisted the Compound is, but brought back to reality by Ophelia’s shock, the weirdness smacks me right between the eyes. These women are captives. They’ve spent their entire lives in this one small place, and yet, somehow, they’re making the best of things.

“Seb!” A voice jerks me out of my reverie, and I turn to see Jacob and the rest of my friends seated at a round table, watching me with a frown. “We’re over here. You okay, mate?”

A few other diners turn to us—Jacob’s booming voice isn’t exactly subtle—and frowns replace smiles. I’m still the ugly duckling of this place, then. Big fucking deal.

I squeeze Ophelia’s hip to get her attention. “Come on. Everyone’s over here. ”

Everyone, I see, includes Hadrian and Candice. I didn’t invite either of them, but Candice is pretty much a given wherever Quinn is, and she’s made it her mission to bring Hadrian out of his shell with limited success. He’s never rude but just doesn’t seem used to speaking with actual humans.

Quinn leaps up, grabs Ophelia’s arm, and drags her into the seat beside her. “Holy fuck. That outfit is amazing.” She glares at Jacob. “I want Seb to pick my clothes from now on.”

I hold up my hands as I seat myself next to Ophelia. I have Eve on my other side, and it feels like a deliberate maneuver. What’s the army phrase? A pincer movement. “Not a chance. Though, if you like, I’ll give Jacob some suggestions that go beyond Annie’s boutique.”

Quinn rolls her eyes and lowers her voice. “Why this place? We’re the youngest people in here by, like, thirty years. Might as well have gone to bingo with Grandad.”

I wrap my hand around Ophelia’s leash and give it a shake. “I don’t think you’d want me to bring her to bingo like this?”

There’s an unspoken agreement between all of us that we play things as cool as possible around Jacob’s grandad. Quinn opens her mouth, but Eve cuts her off. “Maybe you ought to introduce Ophelia to everyone else?”

Eve. Polite and ladylike even in the craziest of circumstances.

Ophelia, oblivious to what we’re talking about, stares wide-eyed at Candice’s screen. The CI is smiling right back, and Ophelia looks about as comfortable with her as I first was. Well, I am supposed to be blowing her mind today. No time like the present.

“How rude of me.” I gesture around the table. “This is Jacob, Quinn’s Patron. This is Hadrian. And this is Candice.”

They all offer polite greetings, Candice included. Ophelia looks from her screen to me and back again. I would have let the awkwardness drag on forever, but Quinn jumps in. “Candice is a cybernetic intelligence. The first of her kind. She's a good friend. I’ll bring you to the lab and show you the world we’re building!”

The pride in her voice is heartwarming, and I don’t miss Jacob’s small smile. He’d been worried Quinn wouldn’t find a place in the Compound, but things settled as soon as she met Candice.

“That’d be wonderful.” Candice says with her odd accent—US with a distinct Scottish twang. “Where’s somewhere you always wanted to travel but never got the chance?”

“I…” Ophelia glances around the table. She’s probably worried this is some sort of setup to make her look like an idiot.

Quinn grins. “Just talk to her. She’s a real person.”

Debatable, but I certainly wouldn’t say that in front of Quinn. If there is ever a campaign for cybernetic rights, Quinn will be the figurehead. Or she would be, if she wasn’t stuck here.

“I…Well…Egypt, I suppose. I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids.”

“Oooh. Me too.” Eve’s voice has a wistful note, and I have another of those moments where reality hits and everything wobbles. She never will, and it’s as much my fault as anyone’s. All of us Brothers are as guilty as the rest, keeping our dirty little secret.

I shake the mood off as dinner progresses. I pre-ordered a tasting menu for the table, ten courses paired with wine, and Ophelia chats with the girls through the first three. She won’t even look at the guys, and I can hardly blame her. Having dinner with your new friends and the men holding them captive has to be tricky to get your head around.

By the time the fourth course—paté with wafer-thin toast points—comes out, she’s squirming on her seat. It’s time.

I slide my hand onto her thigh. She squeaks, then covers her mouth and sits with a fixed expression as I draw circles on her skin. It’s so, so tempting to push her knees apart and go straight for her clit, but by this point, she’d probably orgasm from a single touch. Entertaining, but not what I want.

She clutches her knife and fork as though she’s going to stab me with them but doesn’t touch her food. Conversation has shifted away from her, and I need to drag it back. As soon as there’s a lull, I say, “Ophelia used to own a beauty salon. Didn’t you, pet? What was it called?”

All eyes lock on her. I pause my fingers long enough for her to take a shuddering breath, then give her a light pinch just as she speaks. “Kallos!”

It’s a high-pitched shriek, and confused glances pass around the group. I rub the spot I just pinched. “That’s a pretty name. What does it mean?”

She’s clamped her thighs together but can’t stop me from working my finger between them. I tease the spot just above her clit, and she lets out a tiny whimper before she forces out, “It’s Greek for beauty.”

“How did you come up with that name?”

Her face is bright red, and she gives me a single, pleading glance.

“Are you all right, Ophelia?” Eve’s soft voice cuts in.

“She’s fine. I just gave her a good dose of hot salve before we left. She’s finding it a bit distracting.”

The table is slow to react. Hadrian and Candice look confused. Gabriel smirks—he was the one who first told me about the salve. Jacob mutters something about just wanting to have a nice fucking dinner for once, and the girls both shoot me laser death stares I’ll feel for months .

“You bastard!” Quinn shrieks, and some of the old coots send disapproving glances our way. “You take that poor girl home right now.”

Eve shakes her head like she’s not mad, just disappointed, and it bothers me for a second, until Ophelia lets out a strangled whimper. I stop my fingers dead. I almost pushed her over the edge.

“She had her chance for that but didn’t want to take it.” I shrug, as if baffled by her choice. “All she had to do was say one simple phrase. But we’re here now, and I think I’ll give her a choice.”

I move my hand again, and she shudders. She must be right on the edge. Which of my two terrible options will she take? It depends how desperate she is, I suppose. I give Ophelia my full attention and raise my voice to make sure everyone, even the surrounding tables, will hear.

“I can make you orgasm right here, in front of the whole room. Or you can spend the rest of dinner on your knees beside me while I feed you, and I’ll do it later. In private.”

I watch her face for the moment I know is coming, and it arrives right on queue. She looks for help. To the girls first. All she gets from them is a sympathetic look from Eve and a mouthed “Fuck him” from Quinn.

Then she tries Jacob, who she must think has some sort of authority. People often do. He shrugs. “Sorry, love. What your Patron says goes.”

Next, she scans the rest of the room. Most of the other diners have gone back to their meals, our brief scene forgotten already. The few still watching return her look without expression.

She tries me, and I return her pleading look with the flattest stare I can muster. “The rules are different here.” I move my fingers again, and her eyes flutter closed. “I make them. ”

Will she let me push her over the edge? I can’t decide what I want more. Having her at my feet would be fun, but if she climaxes here, it’s a victory. The moment balances on a pin head, stretching out until she jerks away, shoves the chair out from under her, and drops to her knees.

There’s fury in her eyes, and it’s beautiful to see. I smile down at her. “Only a few more courses to go. I’ll—”

A chair scrapes, and Quinn thumps to her knees right next to Ophelia. “Well, I guess this is how we’re all eating, then.”

My eyes are drawn to Eve. She hesitates, then her face sets and she gets to her knees. She looks up at Gabriel, and I swear he fucking melts. He bends to whisper something in her ear and pets her hair. Zero chance he’ll pull Eve into line.

This is turning from a teachable moment into a joke.

Jacob’s hand covers his mouth, and his shoulders shake. No help there either. If I want control of this situation back, I’ll need to do it myself.

Fuck.