Page 21 of Deadly Rival

Looking at Ophelia doesn’t do anything to help calm the raging…something that just ripped away all my senses. Her legs are spread wide, and thanks to the tiny skirt, I can see almost everything. I trace my gaze along the curve of her thigh, and it takes all I have not to run my finger up that smooth, tempting skin.

And I can. If I want to, I can. She’s trapped and mine to play with. And all at once, I do want to. More than anything else. How soft would her skin be? What noise would she make?

It’s been a while since I’ve spoken. I drag my gaze back to her face, and the wide-eyed terror there edges me back toward reality. She’s looking at me as if I’m a serial killer with a mask and knife. I need to capitalize on this.

Get it together, for God’s sake.

Fear. She’s afraid of me, and that’s good. She needs to be. It was Jacob who suggested cuffing her to the chair and denying her food until she gave in on the clothes. I can’t believe how well his tricks seem to be working, but I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m pretty sure he knows how to do actual torture, so mind games like these would be child’s play for him.

I get up from the floor and take the seat next to her, leaning on the arm as if we’re having a pleasant chat in a restaurant. She watches in silence as I select one of the huge, buttery croissants and take a bite. I’ve eaten at plenty of Michelin-starred restaurants, and the food here at the Compound stacks up well against them all. I give thanks every day for my speedy metabolism.

I tear off a chunk of the soft pastry and hold it up to her lips. She frowns, lips pressed tightly together as if I’m trying to feed her toxic waste. I run the tip of my finger over her lower lip, and she jerks her head back, shaking it from side to side.

Maybe fear has made her forget her hunger for the moment, but she definitely needs to eat. I tap her cheek. “Let’s play a game. For every bite of food you eat, you may ask one question. You must be dying to know where you are.”

And I’m dying to tell her. Both Gabriel and Jacob told me delivering the bad news to their Wards was horrible. I’m pretty sure Gabriel is still traumatized by it. But I’ve been looking forward to this for a long, long time. The moment I tell Ophelia I’ve locked her into a cage and she’s never getting out.

Her gaze skitters around the room, landing on everything except me. Maybe looking for something to latch her hopes on to. Bad luck, pet. There’s only me.

She doesn’t respond, and I shrug. “Never mind, then. You can go back to your room for a few more hours.”

“No. I need to know.”

She snaps the words, and I raise a brow. I keep my voice calm, though my blood surges again. “Well, then. You know what to do.”

She swallows, then opens her lips. I don’t push the food in. Following a dark instinct I didn’t know I had, I hold it away from her face, forcing her to stretch out her neck to take it. A light blush colors her cheeks, and watching her do something so demeaning has my breath coming faster. The excitement trickles lower, and my cock stiffens as her soft lips brush my skin.

Christ. This wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal.

She snags the food and yanks her head back, gray eyes hard as she chews and swallows. She doesn’t rush into her question but still asks the most obvious one.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in my apartment.”

She stares, waiting for more, but I just tear off another bite of the croissant and hold it up.

She shakes her head. “That’s not—”

“Fair? This is my game. I decide what the rules are.”

She locks eyes with me, and the struggle is beautiful to watch. She’s desperate to tell me to go to hell but can’t. After a long moment, she stretches her graceful neck out again and takes the food.

Fuck. I could play this game for a long time.

This time, she frames her question with a lawyer’s care. “Where is your apartment, specifically, in the world?”

“In the middle of the Feinhart Forest.” Accurate, but not informative. I hold up another bite, and this time, she takes it without fuss.

“Why have you taken me captive?”

“You’re to be my Ward.” I watch her closely for a flash of recognition but don’t see anything. Maybe dear old Dad nevertold her about the Brotherhood and our weird, arcane practices. She takes another bite.

“What is a Ward?”

Oh, good. The fun part. I keep my tone light and conversational, as though I’m not slamming a wrecking ball into her life. “My captive sex slave. For the rest of your life.”

It doesn’t register at first. I can see by the way her brow creases as she runs the words through her mind. Then the dawning horror I’ve been waiting for hits. She presses herself into the chair, and a clank echoes around the room as she jerks on the handcuffs.

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