Page 26 of Deadly Rival

I should have listened. Tensions will be high at the moment, and parading her around might not be the smartest move. Whatever, though.

“Ceremony?” Ophelia’s question has a weary edge, as though she’s heard enough bad news for one day. Tough luck.

“Yes. It’s in a month. You’ll walk to me, naked, in a room full of people, and I’ll tattoo you with my mark. Then you’ll kiss my hand and thank me for choosing you.”

She laughs, a loud, unladylike bray that has me hiding a smile of my own. Her father came from New York, and there’s a hint of that accent in the sound. “As if. I’d rather die.”

“People say that a lot, but they rarely mean it.”

I leave that sinister phrase hanging in the air. Hopefully she takes it to mean I’ve killed plenty of people.

It works. She snaps her mouth shut and hurries onward. We reach the elevator, and I stretch past her to summon it. She stiffens as my body brushes against her back. The doors slideopen, and our reflections stare back from the mirrored walls. God. I love seeing her like this.

The collar prevents her from looking at the floor, so all she can do is stare at her own reflection. She’ll like it even less soon. She tries to stand still and glare me down but rocks from foot to foot, ruining the effect. “Are your feet sore?”

“Would yours be, in these shoes?”

“Absolutely. Don’t worry. You can sit down soon.” Another short, gloomy corridor, and the door slides open, letting us into the light. It’s just past the breakfast rush, but the street is still busy, as Brothers and their Wards make their way to wherever it is they spend the day.

My friends find the Compound claustrophobic, but I enjoy the gentle, manicured feel of the place. It reminds me of the gated estate I grew up in—gaudy mansions separated by well cared for common grounds.

My home wasn’t a happy place, but the safety of the estate meant I was allowed outside on my own from a very young age. The Compound reminds me of escaping to play in the woods and parklands.

I was expecting curious glances—leashed Wards aren’t unknown but aren’t exactly common either—but every head snaps to stare as we walk by. Whispers follow us, and most of the looks aren’t friendly. Word got around, then. It’s not a surprise. Brothers and Wards, stuck here with limited entertainment, are all gossips.

I try to ignore the death stares and focus on Ophelia instead. Her lips are parted, and she’s twisting from side to side, staring at the people with wide eyes. She sees them look at her. She sees them register her collar, the leash, the bound hands. Then she sees them turn away.

Her bottom lip gives a single quiver, and it tugs at something in my chest, but I stomp that feeling down hard. No. She doesn’t get a single shred of pity from me. She’s here because she deserves to be.

A woman approaches. Annie. She’s friends with one of the girls, or maybe both of them. Cute in a chubby, gothy sort of way. She runs the little clothing store, and she’s the first woman we’ve seen by herself. Ophelia lurches toward her.

“Help, please! I’ve been kidnapped. I—”

She reaches the end of her leash and jerks to a stop as it pulls taut. Annie freezes, staring between me and Ophelia.

“Sir?” She looks at me with a question in her eyes. I’ve never got used to the Wards I don’t know calling me that. Quinn and Eve don’t because we're friends, but the rest are expected to.

Ophelia shouts over me. “He’s holding me prisoner! Don’t you get it. Call someone. Don’t just stand there…”

She trails off, and her shoulders slump. Ophelia is a lot of things, but she’s not stupid. I jump on the golden opportunity she’s just given me.

“Ophelia, meet Annie. She’s a prisoner too. Every woman you see is. You’ll get no help from them.”

Annie’s face falls at my words, and I can’t shake the guilty twist in my chest this time. The Wards hate to be reminded of their captivity, and I just threw it right in Annie’s face. She didn’t deserve it. She’s not Ophelia.

Annie swallows, then forces a brittle smile to her lips. “It’s not too bad here once you get used to it. I run the clothes shop on the high street. You should drop by.”

She nods to me, then speed-walks away. Ophelia stares at her retreating back. When she turns to me, her eyes are wide, gray pools. “I don’t…”

We’ve reached the high street, and she studies it for the first time. Quaint little shops, a cobbled street, and olde-worlde lights with hanging lanterns. It’s a scene from a Christmas card, just lacking snow.

“This place. It makes no sense.”

I lay a hand on her bound wrists and guide her forward. She moves without complaining, eyes drinking in every detail. She’s shell-shocked, but her gaze is still sharp. How much of her dazed attitude is genuine, and how much is calculation? I have to remember who she is and the environment she grew up in.

“We’re almost there.”

“And where would that be?” Snappy. She’s nowhere close to losing her bite.

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