Page 27

Twenty-Six

Sebastian

Ophelia tumbles forward with a yell, smacking the ground. I jump the last stairs and drop to my knees beside her. “Shit. You okay?”

I help her to sit on the stairs. She looks at me wide-eyed, then studies her arms. Nasty scrapes cover her forearms and wrists.

She shifts her foot and winces. “My ankle. It’s sore. The shoes…”

The stupid fucking shoes. I made her wear the damn things. This is my fault. I’m an idiot. I should have taken better care of her.

“I’ll call Medical. Make sure they're ready.” Jacob, practical as ever, already has his phone out.

Quinn crouches in front of Ophelia. “You’ll be okay. The med center is brilliant.” She pulls a bottle of water from her enormous purse and hands it to Ophelia. “Here.”

She takes a sip. When she hands the bottle back, I get to my feet and crouch. I slide one arm under Ophelia’s legs and the other behind her back. She doesn’t complain as I lift her up, though she lets out a pained squeak. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll try not to jolt you around. ”

She’s quiet as I carry her the short distance to Medical. A man in a white coat waits outside with a stretcher, and I lower Ophelia onto it. He’s small, with a bald head, and has to be in his seventies. The glares he gives us tells me he’s a Brother. “I don’t need a cheer squad. Which of you is coming in with her?”

I meet his gaze. “I am.”

Quinn gives Ophelia a hug and promises to check on her tomorrow, and they leave. The doc and a younger assistant wheel Ophelia in, and for the next hour, I’m a spare part, hovering as they do their thing. Several tests later, she’s smiling again as they pronounce her free of broken bones.

“So, this machine isn’t an X-ray?” Ophelia’s gaze is sharp as she studies the printout of her ankle.

“No. Much more advanced. It shows everything from sprains to hairline fractures. You can see here—” He points to a faint red shaded spot. “—a little soft tissue damage.”

“That’s amazing. What sort of imaging do you have for areas like the brain? Do you have equipment that detects cancerous cells earlier than on the outside?”

I’m sure her barrage of questions will irritate the doctor, but he just smiles. “If you’re really interested, come back tomorrow. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Ophelia glances at me, and I can see her struggle as she realizes she needs to ask my opinion on the matter. It gives me a sick little thrill. “Can I?”

I raise a brow. “Not if you ask me like that.”

She bites her lip, then forces out, “Please, can I, sir?”

I smile. “Of course you may. Anything to keep my pet happy.”

The doctor leaves, and I bend to pick up Ophelia from her bed.

“I think I can walk. Just not in those shoes. ”

I ignore her, picking her up anyway. She’s stiff at first but soon relaxes, her head a pleasant weight on my chest. She has to be exhausted. “You’re never wearing those fucking shoes again.”

She’s quiet as I carry her back to my room, a sharp contrast to her animated chatter with the doctor. She hobbles when I set her down, but she doesn’t seem in too much pain. A few minutes later, she’s right where she belongs, naked and shackled in her pet bed, the shackle on her good ankle, of course.

The possessive rush I get as I lock her in is almost too good. She’s mine, and now there’s nothing holding me back. She begged me to fuck her, and that memory will keep me warm until the day I die.

I don’t give her the blanket right away. I sit on the edge of my bed and can’t stop staring at her. I own her. This woman right here is my property. It’s wrong on every level, but I just don’t care. Is a little power all it takes to turn me into a monster? Does it work the same for everyone? It would explain a lot about the world.

She notices me staring and frowns. “What?”

“What, sir,” I correct, but there’s not much intention behind it. I might get bored of the whole sir thing eventually. It doesn’t matter what she calls me. She’s mine.

She rolls over, tucking herself up in a ball so she’s not giving me a full-frontal view. Shame. It was a beautiful view. “I didn’t realize you were interested in medicine.”

If the question throws her, she doesn’t show it. “I always was. I wanted to be a doctor or a nurse when I was a kid, but I was nowhere near smart enough.”

I don’t like that. Not the words, not the flat resignation in her voice. “What makes you think you weren’t smart enough? Did you struggle with biology? ”

She sighs. “I have dyscalculia. It’s not severe, but I struggle with math. I know some people still manage to do medicine with it, but they need special tutoring. My dad said it wasn’t worth it. He pushed me toward marketing and management instead, and that’s what I studied in college. I thought I might enjoy it but…”

It wasn’t worth it.

Randall Calder’s net worth is thirty-two million declared and God knows how much in offshore tax havens. And he didn’t think a tutor was worth it? Bullshit. He had his own agenda. Medicine would have taken Ophelia out of his orbit. Out of his control. Running a legitimate business for the family? It kept her right under his nose.

Has she worked it out? Or does she keep telling herself, against all evidence, that her dad is a decent person? Gabriel said she seemed shocked about Eve’s abduction. Maybe she really doesn’t know how shitty her family is. Or doesn’t want to know.

I tuck Ophelia’s blanket around her. She looks small under it, and I get an almost unbearable urge to squish into the bed next to her and give her a cuddle. I can’t, though. Maybe I can relax a bit after the ceremony. For now, everything depends on her respecting me.

Her eyes close, and I can’t resist stroking her hair. The silky strands slide through my fingers like water, and it’s weirdly soothing. “My dad thought I was stupid, too.”

Her eyes shoot open. “Aren’t you a genius? Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“I struggled at first, though.” I tap my head. “Severe ADHD. I’m sure it comes as a great shock.”

She smiles, and it’s genuine. “How did you end up here, then? ”

“A teacher figured it out and told my parents. The right meds and some private tutoring, and everything clicked. My dad thought I’d follow him into law after all. I got to disappoint him all over again.”

I climb into my bed but settle on the edge so I can still see Ophelia. When I dangle my hand down, wonder of wonders, she takes it.

“I don’t think my dad would have let me be a doctor anyway. Too many late nights and bodily fluids. Not the image he wants for his precious daughter.”

The tired hurt in her voice blurs the curated image of Ophelia I’ve carried with me for ten years. The hard-faced, money-driven socialite. The perfect Calder princess. Nowhere in that image is a sad girl pushed into a role she never wanted, cut off from doing what she loved.

“You can learn medicine here, you know.” I throw it out casually, but it sounds ridiculous, and her incredulous expression speaks volumes.

“Right. I’m sure you people train your sex slaves to be doctors. Makes perfect sense.”

“You’re not—” I cut myself off. She is, and it’s not going to change. “You’re not just that. You can do what you enjoy, too. And if that’s medicine, I’ll make it happen.”

She’s silent for a while, then quietly says, “I’d like that.”

I should be pleased, but it feels off. She agreed too quickly to something that has to sound insane. Maybe she hopes saying yes will give her more time out of the apartment. More time to plan the escape I’m sure she still thinks is a possibility.

I squeeze her hand. “Good, then. I’ll talk to the doctor tomorrow.”

** *

Next morning, I wake up early and call down for breakfast. Jacob says I’m lazy because I never bother to cook, but why the hell would I? When the chefs learn how to make tailored prediction algorithms, maybe I’ll learn to make scrambled eggs that don’t taste like rubber. We all have our talents.

The smell of bacon must invade Ophelia’s dreams, because as soon as it arrives, she’s calling to be set free. I breathe through the heady rush it gives me. I’m getting addicted to it, to the constant reminders that she’s in my power.

She dresses in the clothes from her drawer without a word of complaint. The tiny denim miniskirt and pink crop top should be tacky, but she makes them look good. Her long, long legs could keep me entertained for hours. She doesn’t seem half as self-conscious as she used to be. I can’t tell if it’s real or if she’s just getting better at hiding it.

She attacks her food with gusto, and it makes me smile. I wasn’t exactly fair to her during dinner last night—I doubt she even tasted the food. I’ll have to take her again. Or, better still, order the food to be delivered and have it as a picnic somewhere away from the stuffy restaurant.

The direction of my thoughts jars me. Why am I planning fun dates for my prisoner? With the woman responsible for my sister’s death? I should be thinking up new ways to punish her. But as I watch her tear into a chocolate croissant as if she’s been starving for days, the urge to make her suffer is muted to a quiet background buzz.

As Jacob said, I stole her life. Isn’t that punishment enough?

We spend the morning practicing for the ceremony. She picks the words up quickly, but I make her do it over and over again. Maybe I enjoy the part where she has to kiss my hand a little too much. Can I be blamed? If we do it enough times in practice, it should come easily on the day. Muscle memory and rote repetition should take over.

Her eyes keep straying to the clock, and when it nears her appointment at Medical, she blurts out, “It’s almost time to go.”

“I’m well aware of the time. Do this again, perfectly, and you may go.”

She tenses at my little power play but doesn’t dare jeopardize her morning out by arguing. Another perfect run-through, and we’re on our way to Medical. I let her wear white sneakers to protect her healing ankle, and the outfit looks unnervingly like something Quinn would wear. I need to reassess Ophelia’s wardrobe.

The doctor who greets us isn’t the old guy from last night, and Ophelia’s face drops as he says, “I’m sorry. Richard isn’t well this morning. He left an hour ago—food poisoning, we think.”

“Oh.” Ophelia is the definition of crestfallen, and my heart twinges.

The doc—I don’t recognize him, but I’m never in here—says, “Don’t worry. I’ll show you around, if you like. He mentioned you were interested in what we do here.”

“Yes!” Ophelia grins as I wave her inside. “Very.”

They start to chat, and a message comes through on my phone. I cringe at the noise. Another one to add to the growing pile of unanswered messages. It’s from an anonymous sender.

I stare at the screen, black words on white that blur together, and a Zoom link.

Click the link in twenty minutes if you want to know the truth about your slut of a sister. Harrison Calder.