Page 55 of Deadly Rival

I sleep deeper than I have in weeks. Months, probably. Ever since I began planning to take Ophelia, I’ve slept in short, fitful bursts, mind filled with probabilities. Success or failure. Satisfaction or death. But nowhere, in any of my models, did I factor in that I might actually feel something for the woman who killed my sister.

How vulnerable she is, sleeping in her little bed, does something to my heart that it shouldn't. I used her roughly, but she still let me tuck the covers around her and kiss her cheek. I’d expected a bitch—cold, tough, and ruthless. I didn’t prepare for Ophelia’s quiet intelligence.

I shouldn’t keep praising her, but I can’t seem to resist it. I’m fascinated by the pink spots that rise in her cheeks when I do and how she looks away, afraid I’ll realize she likes it. It’s adorable and splitting my heart in two. It’s so hard to reconcile this Ophelia with the vicious one from my teenage memories. Even when she tries to be tough, it doesn’t suit her.

She can act the Calder princess all she likes, but it’s paper thin, and underneath, she’s fragile.

Fragile and mine.

She’s kicked the blanket off in her sleep, and I can’t help tucking her back in as I creep out of the room. In the silent apartment, the ticking clock on my life is all I can hear.

Ten days.

240 hours.

14,400 minutes

And…I pause as my brain locks in the numbers…

864,000 seconds.

Item one on my agenda, preparing Ophelia for the ceremony, is an abject failure so far. I won’t have time to get to it again today. But item two, making sure she understands that no one is going to help her, will be getting a workout later.

“Sebastian?”

I jump. How long have I been standing here? Long enough for Ophelia to wake up and wonder where the hell I am, clearly. Through the window, the sunset over the forest is incredible.

Sunsets always hurt. Maggie loved to paint, and the more color she could add, the better. I used to tease her about her paintings and tell her they looked like a rainbow threw up. Six months before she died, one of her sunset paintings won first prize at the school art fair.

She rubbed her victory in my face every chance she got, annoying the hell out of me until I threatened to throw the damn thing in the fire.

I kept the huge canvass on my wall for years until I couldn't stand to look at it anymore.

I lean my head on my fist and take a long, slow breath. I’m the wrong person for this, and it’s becoming more obvious with every passing second. Instead of planning, I'm zoned out, staring at a fucking sunset. I try not to think about the mammoth task that lies ahead and walk to the bedroom.

Ophelia has the blanket wrapped around her but not clutched tight like she did this morning. She’s becoming less and less worried about me seeing her body—one small win on my part, I suppose. Her hair is still messy from sleep, and her eyes are wide and confused. Maybe it’s my imagination, but she seems to relax a little when I come in.

“Oh. There you are. It was so quiet. I thought…”

To my great satisfaction, her voice still rasps a bit. It’s an electric shock to the new savage side of myself, and part of me longs to grab her hair and use her mouth all over again. I can. She’s mine.

No. She needs some kindness, too, if only because I don’t want her to run screaming from me at the ceremony.

“You thought I’d left you all alone? I wouldn’t do that, beautiful.”

I fetch the key to her shackle, unlock it, and massage the skin where it lay. She tenses but doesn’t pull back. Nor does she resist when I peel the blanket off her and study her naked body. I could watch the way her hair falls over her breasts for a long, long time. Again, I picture her as a sea goddess stretched out on a rock. Absolutely stunning.

I hold out my hand. “Time to get up, pet. You've got a busy evening ahead.”

She blinks at me, a wary crease forming between her brows, and I can’t blame her one single bit for being suspicious. She takes my hand, though, and gets to her feet. Quiet and compliant. It’s nice, but I don’t trust it. I’m sure she’s scheming, looking forward to getting out of the apartment for the evening. But I’ll enjoy it while I have it.

As soon as she stands, her gaze locks onto the flaming sky. I lead her to the window and wrap my arm around her waist, tucking her against me. She fits perfectly, and I can’t helpbreathing in the scent of her hair. A hint of fruity shampoo and, underneath it, her.

The sun is just falling below the tree line, and it paints the sky every shade of red. “Maggie loved to paint. Sunsets, especially.”

I don’t know why I say it. The colors forced the words out, I suppose. Ophelia stiffens but doesn’t back away from the topic. “I remember. She won the art contest. She was very talented.”

It’s my turn to stiffen as a familiar wash of anger, so old it’s almost drained of meaning, cleanses the softness from my thoughts. “You remember. Why do you remember? You treated her like shit.”

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