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Chapter Thirty-Five

Sebastian

Ophelia smiles as I enter, but it’s a brittle expression. Her face is pale. I frown and take her hand as she gets to her feet. “Is everything okay?”

She meets my gaze. “Yes. I’m just tired. And hungry. It was a busy shift.”

“She did great,” Wade says. I hadn’t even noticed him lurking in the corner. I’m not sure I like him but can’t put my finger on why. He seems nice enough.

“Of course she did. She’s amazing.” I hold out my hand, and Ophelia clutches it, gripping hard. There’s something desperate about it, as though she’s drowning.

Something is bothering her. I mean, of course something is. Throw a dart at Ophelia’s brain, and you’d hit a million things that might be stressing her out. She’s a captive. Her brother is dead. Her dad is an asshole, and she’s about to go back to him. Her head must be a scary place full of shadows. I should take her home and let her rest .

But actually, fuck that.

This could be her last night here. It could be my last night alive. I’m not going to spend it moping about, and neither is she. Once we’re clear of the med center doors, I clip her leash to her collar and set off in the opposite direction from my apartment.

“Where are we going?” Her voice is still distant, as though she’s not really interested in the answer.

“Out.” Mysterious and cryptic. Hopefully annoying enough to pull her out of her own head.

It works, of course. She looks at me properly, eyes focused. “Out to where, sir?”

She gives the title a playful, almost sarcastic lilt. I don’t think I’m supposed to like it, but I do. Oh God, she’s not going to turn into a brat, is she? I’m the worst possible person to enforce rules. I don’t even bother about the ones I make for myself. Most of the time, I can’t remember what I’ve said. I need her to be sensible enough to keep track.

Focus. It won’t matter tomorrow anyway.

“You’ll see. What’s your favorite type of champagne?”

She blinks at the question but gives it thought. “I know it’s a little tacky, but Krug Rose. I like the sweetness.”

The girl has taste. I knew it.

“Well, you’re in luck. We have the best wine cellars in the world.” I steer her toward the quaint little social hub, with its cobblestones and old-fashioned signs. We stop outside the bar.

It’s still early, and a weekday, so there are only a few patrons already drinking—an ancient couple at a table outside, two middle-aged Brothers perched on barstools arguing about something, and four women dressed for the country club, chatting at a table inside. I scan them quickly. No Portia, thank God. I don’t need to deal with the formidable Queen Bee of the Wards right now .

Ophelia pauses, studying the bar. “It looks so normal.”

I’m not sure if she’s talking to herself or to me, but I answer anyway. “After a while, it is normal.”

We head inside. The bar has a speakeasy feel, dark wood and velvet furniture. It feels like it should smell of smoke, but cigarettes are banned inside here just like they are everywhere else. Not that I’ve ever smoked. I tried it once and threw up in a bush.

I lead Ophelia to a cozy booth right at the back, tucked away from prying eyes. The bartender arrives right away. Though he’s in his seventies and dresses like it’s 1940, we’re good friends, Michaele and I. Always keep the most important people close.

He grins at me, showing a gold tooth. “Sir! I thought you must have fallen down a well, it’s been so long. I’ve got some interesting new drops I think you’d enjoy. Should I bring up a selection?”

I return his smile. “Soon. The lady is choosing today, though. A bottle of Krug Rose, whatever vintage you prefer.”

He nods to Ophelia. “Ma’am has excellent taste. I’ll call one up right away.”

He departs, leaving a cloud of heavy cologne behind him. Ophelia stares after him. “He knows you well. Is he here every day?”

“Every day except Monday. Never come here on a Monday.” I shudder. “He lives in the Compound. Hardly any other outsiders do. He was a top sommelier and got depressed after he retired. Kendrick brought him in, and he loves it here.”

She pulls her gaze back to me, brow creased. “Does he know about Wards? That we’re all captives?”

We. She said we, and it’s another painful sip of air into my waterlogged lungs. She’s not excluding herself from the group yet. “Sort of. Most of the outsiders think it’s a kind of voluntary captivity. A kink thing. And they know not to talk to the women.”

Any reply she might have made is cut off when Michaele returns with champagne in an ice bucket and two chilled glasses. For an old guy, he can still carry a lot. He sets it down with a flourish and pours two perfect glasses. Ophelia takes a sip, eyes closed, and sighs. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Anything else?”

“Yes,” I say, “Please send up to La Table Royale for a charcuterie platter and fresh bread.”

“Of course.”

He departs, and I raise my glass. “To finding happiness in the strangest places.”

She hesitates, that odd, distant look creeping over her again, before she chinks and takes a sip. “I’ll drink to that.”

An hour later, the bottle is almost empty, the food is eaten, and Ophelia’s eyes are bright. From the pink spots in her cheeks and the animated way she’s gesturing with her glass, I’d guess she’s not a big drinker. I’ve coaxed her into gossiping about some of the clients at her salon, and now that the floodgates are opened, there’s no stopping her.

“Oh. This one lady—she has a French name, not Marie but something like that—she always brings her dog in a handbag. But it’s not like a chihuahua or a poodle. It's massive, maybe a Labradoodle? I’m not sure. It’s in a giant carry-all. She rocks it like a baby, and the dog loves it. She’s got biceps like a bodybuilder.”

I laugh with her and refill her glass.

I’m not trying to get her drunk—I swear I’m not—but it’s just so nice seeing her relaxed. When she lets her guard down, she’s a lot of fun. She seems to be enjoying the break, too .

The bar is filling up, mostly with Brothers winding down after a stressful day. The table of chatty women left a while ago. I stare at Ophelia, with her bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and all at once, the table between us feels too much. I move over to her side. “Scooch over.”

She does, shifting into the corner, and our eyes meet as I rest my leg against hers. In the dim light, her eyes are the gray of a stormy day, and unless I’m very much mistaken, they’re filled with expectation.

The magnetic crackle between us, which has been there from her very first day, urges me to touch her. I rest my hand on her knee, then slide it higher, pushing up the prim knee-length skirt I let her wear for work. Her eyes widen as I move it higher and higher until it’s bunched at her waist. She whimpers but doesn’t try to stop me.

Tucked in our corner, and with the table between us and prying eyes, it’s unlikely anyone will notice. But I’m not done yet. I chose a very sensible blouse for Ophelia’s working day—a blouse with buttons.

I set to work on them one by one, thanking the god of men with terrible impulses that she sassed me this morning and gave me an excuse to take away her bra. When I reach her breasts and keep going, her breaths come faster. “Sebastian…please.”

She should be calling me sir, but I don’t give the slightest shred of a fuck right now. I love how my name sounds on her lips.

And it doesn’t sound like she’s asking me to stop.

I undo the last button but keep her covered for the moment. Then I slide a hand under the smooth cotton and find her nipple rock hard. I knew it.

“I love showing off my pet.” I push the shirt to the side, exposing one breast, but cover it with my hand when she lets out a desperate squeak. “No one else gets to touch you. I’ll never allow it. But I have a lot of fun letting people look.”

I glance over my shoulder. Most of the bar is just as it was, but a few men shoot interested glances our way. I duck my head and whisper in Ophelia’s ear as I move my hand, exposing her, “People are watching.”

Ophelia’s cheeks are bright red, and her pupils fill her irises. I nudge her legs apart and make an experimental pass between her legs. “Oh. Feel that.” I push the tips of my fingers into her slippery entrance. “Absolutely soaked. You love this.”

She closes her eyes and lets out a little moan that’s lightning to my cock as I push the shirt away from the other breast. She’s on display, her nipples are stiff peaks, and she presses her lips tightly together as I return my attention to her pussy, circling her clit.

“You’re just too beautiful to keep hidden away. I like to show off what I have. All my most prized possessions.”

She draws in a shuddering breath at the word, and I smile. I’ve got her now. A heavy dose of praise with a dash of degradation. That’s the perfect mix for my Ophelia. I start to rub her clit in earnest, and she squirms on the seat.

An idea hits me, and it’s so perfect I can’t hold back from sharing it with her. “Every month, I run a poker night for serious players.” Her eyes flutter open, confused, at the change of topic but quickly close again when I pinch her clit. “None of my friends attend—they can’t play for shit. It’s a small group of acquaintances.”

She’s working with me now, shifting herself against my fingers. The champagne really helped chase away what remained of her inhibitions. “If you stay, you’ll waitress for me at one. Topless, of course. All night long. When you’re not serving drinks, you’ll kneel beside my chair like a good little pet waiting for your master’s instruction.”

Fuck. Fuck, I can picture it, and it’s perfect. I want it—I want her—so badly. I want her to choose this. Me. She opens her glassy eyes, staring at me as I work her clit. Her hands open and close. She’s close. “How does that sound, Ophelia? If you like the idea, come for me.”

Unfair, but I don’t give a shit. I push her straight over the edge, watching the flush stain her chest as she bites her lip and whimpers. Moisture coats my fingers. I ram them deep into her pussy, and she clamps around me like she’s desperate for it to be my cock. Fear not, darling, your wish shall soon be granted.

I swallow her moan with a kiss. Her lips part, and I taste champagne as her tongue meets mine. I kiss her until the orgasm fades and her greedy pussy stops trying to crush my fingers. When I pull back, she blinks, then her gaze flicks around the room, panicked, before she presses her head into my chest.

We put on quite a show.

My cock is a rigid, aching bar, and I can’t stand it any longer. I study Ophelia, then do up one single button beneath her breasts. I shift the fabric so it just skims her nipples. “We’re going home. That’s all the coverage you’re getting. Say ‘Thank you, sir.’”