Page 17 of Deadly Rival

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I sleep in the guest room, though “sleep” is putting it strongly. All night, I alternate between watching Ophelia on the night vision cameras, pacing the apartment, and staring at the ceiling, wondering just what the hell I’ve got myself into. When the sun starts its slow creep up the wall, I can’t wait any longer. Jacob said to wait until seven, but screw that.

I’m doing it now.

Ophelia’s night went better than mine. She passed out around ten and didn’t stir until just after four. She must be absolutely ravenous by now, so I order a breakfast buffet from the kitchen, check all the knives and scissors are locked away, and push through the second note.

Ophelia,

Get dressed in your new clothes, and you may join me for breakfast.

Sebastian

A dark shiver runs through me at the words. Power. It’s a dark lake, and I’m sinking into it. Power over someone who deserves every bit of this. All of it and more.

In late-night, alcohol-fueled conversations, both Jacob and Gabriel confessed to fantasizing about the very situation we have found ourselves in, but I never did. Kinky role play? Sure. But having another person under my control twenty-four hours a day? Far too much work.

Watching Ophelia pick up my note, though, I can’t deny the thrill. What will she do? I lean closer, not wanting to miss a single expression on her face. Her pretty face. It’s true, she is, and I’m seeing it more every moment.

She wraps the note in her hand, crushing it, then closes her eyes. What is she thinking? Is she wondering how far I’ll go? Whether I’ll really let her starve? The answer, of course, is no, but Jacob assures me she’ll crack long before we reach that point.

She uncrumples the note and reads it again. No throwing it straight in the trash this time. She stares at it, then throws it to the floor and stomps to the closet.

She yanks open the drawer, digs her hands in, and dumps the contents on the floor.

God, I had fun picking these clothes. Nothing in the whole pile cost more than forty dollars. I chose cheap, stretchy fabric and brassy, clashing colors, and made sure everything is as short, tight, and low-cut as possible.

She picks through the pile, examining each item, then throwing it down again. To most people, this would seem petty and ridiculous. Someone like Quinn wouldn’t have given half a shit. But Ophelia? I recognize her type. She’s like Kendrick. Like me. She works hard to present the face she wants to the world, and this is going to rip it to shreds.

Petty for some people, but agony for her.

Good.

The available underwear is just as tacky and cheap as the rest of the clothes—push-up bras that will have her almost spilling out of the tops. She picks up a lacy red one and holds it up, frowning. She rubs the material between her fingers. Is she imagining how she’ll look in it?

Minutes pass as she studies every single piece of clothing. Then, finally, she bundles up some items and heads to the bathroom. Does she actually think I won’t have cameras in there? Silly girl. Privacy is a thing of the past for Ophelia, and I’ll make sure she knows it.

In the bright bathroom lights, sequins glimmer on the outfit she’s picked out. It’s probably the least offensive option, but I still smile. A miniskirt, black flecked with silver, designed to sit low on the hips. And a bright red top with spaghetti straps and gaudy sequins across the bust. The bottom will stop just under Ophelia’s tits, and hideous tassels hang from the bottom.

She’ll look like a stripper in a cowboy-themed strip joint. I should get her a matching hat.

She starts to undo her silky blouse, and my amusement fades. Gabriel watched Eve for months on camera before he collected her. Did it make him feel like a creep? I do, but it doesn’t stop me from leaning closer as she peels off the blouse and folds it neatly before setting it on the vanity.

God, her body is perfection. Of course it is. She wouldn’t allow it to be anything less. Her height gives grace to her curves, a willowy elegance, but her breasts are fuller than I expected. She hides them under sensible clothing, but now they’re all I can see.

It’s been a while. Months of flirting with beautiful women but never taking it further has me on a hair trigger, ready toexplode. I love women. I wouldn’t call myself a playboy, exactly, but the thrill of the chase, and the fun that comes after, is my favorite pastime.

I don’t have the patience for all the tedious gym work my friends use to work out their frustrations, so I mostly just watched porn and complained. Now, the real thing is right in front of me, and she’s reaching behind her to undo her bra.

Jesus. It’s like being fourteen all over again.

Her breasts spill free, and oh, I wish I was in there with her. They’re natural, no implants, full and heavy.

You hate her.

Yes, I know, but justlook.

You own her.

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