9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Ophelia
J ulian is gone. One second he was here, the next—nothing. Like he was never here at all. I knew he wasn’t human. Knew he had power. But knowing and seeing are two different things.
Now, I’m alone in my tiny studio. Well, not alone.
Five other guys stare at me, watching, waiting. One of them looks almost exactly like Julian, but I know immediately that he’s not. I don’t just see it—I feel it. Something in my gut tells me this is someone else entirely.
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
"So, you’re Julian’s mate," the lookalike says, his voice steady, almost bored.
My fingers twitch at my sides, uneasy, and that’s when I notice—my shirt has shifted. The mark is showing.
A sharp pulse of embarrassment crawls up my spine as I grab the fabric, pulling it closed, but it’s too late. They’ve already seen it. We all know they’ve seen it.
I press my fingers against the hem of my shirt and lift my chin, locking eyes with the one who spoke. "So what if I am?"
A low chuckle rolls through the room, deep and edged with amusement. The stranger smirks, tipping his head toward me. "Feisty. I like her."
I turn toward the voice. Another guy, taller than the rest, leans casually against the wall like he has all the time in the world. Dark hair, messy in a way that looks too effortless to be accidental. His smirk lingers, widening slightly when I glare at him, like I’m the most interesting thing in the room.
Their stares pin me in place, heavy with something unreadable. Five strangers. Five men who clearly know more than I do about what’s happening to me.
"Owen," he says, his voice similar to Julian’s but flatter. Less emotion, less edge. Like he’s not interested in playing whatever game his brother seems to enjoy.
I grip the hem of my shirt a little tighter. I don’t like that they look so much alike, but they don’t feel alike at all.
To his right, another one sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. Broader, heavier presence, already over this conversation.
"Lucas," he says. He doesn’t smirk like Owen. Doesn’t watch me like he’s weighing my worth. Just looks me over, unimpressed. "Before you ask—no, I’m not the friendly one."
"That would be me."
I turn toward the voice. Another one speaks up, leaning against the chair behind me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I know he’s there.
His grin is easy, unbothered, like this is all some inside joke I’m not in on.
"Seth," he says, flashing a smile like he expects me to remember it. "And don’t let these guys fool you—I’m the favorite."
Lucas scoffs. "No, you just think you’re the favorite."
Seth shrugs. "Same thing."
The tension shifts, not gone, but redirected for half a second. He’s testing me, baiting me, waiting to see if I’ll push back, if I’ll play along.
But before I can decide, another voice cuts through the space—softer than the rest. He’s been watching me the entire time, but not like Lucas or Owen. More neutral, deliberate, like he’s measuring me.
He’s been watching me the entire time, but not like Lucas or Owen. More neutral. More deliberate. More careful. Like he’s waiting to decide something.
A sigh escapes him. "Adrian."
I flick my gaze toward the last one. He stands like he’s part of the background, like he’d rather be anywhere but here. But there’s something sharp in his stillness, something contained.
His voice is low. "Caleb."
No smirk. No reaction. Just a name. A look. And his presence—silent, unmoving—settling into the room.
I take them all in again, pulse steady, expression blank. None of them seem as cold as Damian, but I don’t trust them either.
Owen doesn’t take his eyes off me. Julian’s face, but not Julian.
Lucas exhales, sounding like this has all been a waste of his time. "Alright, now that we all know each other—" he gestures vaguely toward me. "How much do you actually know about the bond?"
I hesitate, grip tightening on the hem of my shirt. "Only what Julian told me." The words feel too thin, too uncertain.
Owen watches me, unreadable, his eyes never leaving mine. "And what is that?"
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to cross my arms again. "That the bond is something I can't control. That it binds our souls or something like that."
Seth—I think it’s Seth—lets out a low laugh, leaning back like this is the most entertaining thing he’s heard all night. "Yeah. Something like that."
My patience snaps. "What the fuck happened tonight?" My voice is sharp, cutting through whatever quiet amusement lingers in the air.
Silence.
A shift. Something unspoken pressing against the space between us.
Owen is the one who answers, his tone matter-of-fact, like he’s explaining something inevitable. "That would be the mate bond. Except on steroids."
Caleb exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "Fun most of the time. Right now, not so much."
Owen shoots him a look before turning back to me. His gaze is steady, too steady. "Besides, you called him."
My stomach twists. Something cold and sharp presses against my ribs. I freeze, shake my head, and step back slightly. "I did not. No way."
Adrian shifts, arms crossed as he leans against the wall. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something certain in his tone. "Not on purpose. But you're tied together by the thread of your very soul. You called. He came. Simple as that."
A hollow feeling spreads through my chest, heavy and unshakable. The truth settles in my bones before I can even fight it.
"So that’s it?" I say, my voice sharper now, edged with something close to panic. "I just have to accept that I have no control over my own body? Over my own damn mind?"
Owen tilts his head slightly, still calm. Too calm, it’s the same way the world sees me, emotionless. "You have control. But the more you resist, the harder it pulls."
I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers to my temples. I don’t want it to make sense. I hate that it does. "So you’re saying I have to give in to this bond?" My voice is quieter now, but no less tense.
Owen shakes his head, his gaze locked onto mine. "Not give in, per se. But you need to make a decision. Or at least hear him out."
The words hit harder than they should. Because I know. I’ve known. I already know I can’t ignore this forever.
I throw the covers off, barely feeling the cold air as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My body still aches—not from exhaustion, but from something deeper, something I don’t have the energy to name. The bond hums faintly beneath my skin, not as intense as before, but there. Lingering. Waiting.
I shove it aside, and head toward my closet without a word.
I don’t care what I put on—just something comfortable, something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m sitting here waiting for answers I don’t want to hear. I grab the first hoodie I see, tugging it over my head before shoving on a pair of leggings.
When I step back out, they’re all still there. Lounging. Waiting. Like this is just another night, like my entire world hasn’t shifted underneath me.
I grab my keys.
"Where are you going?" Lucas asks, sounding entirely too casual, while I'm planning my escape.
"On a walk. Enjoy yourselves."
I don’t stop. I don’t wait for their response. I just move toward the door because I need air, need space, need to clear my head before someone else tells me what I don’t want to hear.
"Sit down," Adrian says, his voice calm, even, but laced with a quiet certainty that makes me grit my teeth. It’s not a demand, not a request—just something final, something that tells me arguing would be pointless.
I don’t turn around.
"We called someone that may be able to help you. To read you. See why your bond is so strong and why things moved so fast."
I exhale sharply through my nose, gripping my keys tighter before finally turning back. "Fine."
I plop down onto the couch, crossing my arms, tapping my fingers against my knee. If they want me to sit here and wait for some supernatural diagnosis, fine. It’s not like I have much of a choice.
The air shifts. It’s subtle at first. A hum beneath my ribs, vibrating just under my pulse. The lights dim—not flickering, just… adjusting, like the room is making space for something else. A breeze stirs the air, carrying the faintest trace of something unfamiliar.
Without warning, they’ve arrived.
Not appearing in a dramatic flare of shadows like Julian and the others. No overwhelming force pressing into my chest. This is different. Like reality bends around them, like the space simply allows them in without a fight.
And still, I scream.
Not a cute, startled gasp—an actual, full-bodied scream, instinct launching me off the couch.
Seth barely holds back laughter. "Oh, she’s awake for this one. That’s new."
I glare at him, heart slamming against my ribs. "You think this is funny?"
"A little," Lucas mutters.
I turn back to the intruders.
The woman stands effortlessly poised, barefoot on my living room floor, the hem of her dark silk dress swaying slightly as though touched by a breeze only she can feel. Her auburn curls spill freely over her shoulders, wild but deliberate, untamed but not careless. Silver eyes—hypnotic, too sharp, too knowing—take me in all at once, as if she’s already figured me out.
Beside her, the man leans lazily against the arm of a chair, smirking like he’s been here the whole time, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to say something just to get under my skin. Dark tousled hair, an unbuttoned collar, red-and-gold eyes gleaming with amusement and absolutely no urgency.
Adrian exhales like this is a formality at best. "Selene and Theron." He glances at me. "Our parents."
My head jerks toward them, eyes narrowing. "Parents?"
Selene tilts her head, silver gaze flicking to the Mark on my skin before returning to my face. A soft hum leaves her lips, not in surprise. or concern—in interest.
"She’s destabilizing," she murmurs, her voice smooth, warm. She lifts a hand, the delicate rings on her fingers catching the light as if the gesture itself means something. "I can feel it."
My skin prickles at the certainty in her voice. "You want to explain what the hell that means?"
Theron exhales, shaking his head, the smirk still there but softer now, edged with intrigue. "It means we need to know exactly what’s happening to you. And for that, you need to stop fighting it long enough to listen."
I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes. "Right. Because I should just take the word of two people who walked through my living room like reality doesn’t apply to them."
Selene’s lips twitch. "That’s fair. Let’s make this easier. You ask the questions first."
I glance between them, skeptical. "Really?"
Theron shrugs, settling into a chair like he’s been here the whole time. "Why not? I’d want to know who was screwing with my life too."
I inhale sharply through my nose, already regretting this. "Fine. What are you to Julian?"
Selene leans back slightly, resting her weight on one hip. "His aunt. And before you say anything—yes, I know. I don’t look it. Demonic blood has its perks."
My eyes snap to Theron. "And you?"
He smirks. "Uncle. Younger than his father, but infinitely more charming."
"That’s debatable," Selene mutters under her breath.
Theron places a hand over his chest in mock offense. "You wound me."
I roll my eyes. "So, Julian’s entire family is a supernatural mess, and now I’m tangled in it because of some cosmic matchmaking glitch?"
Theron laughs, tipping his head back like I’m the funniest thing he’s heard all day. "Oh, I like her."
Selene’s expression is more measured, but her amusement is obvious. "It’s not a glitch. It’s a design."
I shake my head. "No, it’s a mistake."
Her expression doesn’t waver. "You think that because you’re fighting it. But let me guess—despite how much you resist, despite how much you tell yourself you don’t want this, the bond is still pulling. You still feel him, don’t you?"
The question lands like a rock in my chest. My jaw tightens, but I say nothing.
Theron drags a breath through his nose, clearly unimpressed. "Look, we can get into all the poetic fate stuff later. Right now, the problem isn’t whether or not you like this bond. It’s why it’s moving so fast."
I grab onto that immediately. "Yes. That. Why is this happening so quickly? And Julian looks like he’s one second away from completely losing it. Is that normal for him? I don’t know. Maybe it is. Maybe this is just who he is."
Selene and Theron exchange a look—one of those silent conversations that makes my stomach tighten.
Selene sighs, finally moving to sit, her posture still too effortless, too composed for someone delivering what I assume is about to be bad news. "Your bond isn’t just strong. It’s unstable. It’s reacting faster than it should, and Julian…" She pauses, her lips curving slightly. "Well. He’s taking the brunt of it."
I straighten slightly. "What do you mean?"
Theron rests an elbow on the arm of his chair, watching me. "Your bond should be like a slow-burning fire, right? Controlled. Gradual. Except yours? Someone doused it in gasoline and lit a match."
"Great. Super helpful. Thanks."
Selene ignores my sarcasm. "Julian is feeling the full weight of it, more than you are. Probably because—" she waves a hand in my direction, as if gesturing to my entire existence "—you’re resisting."
I scoff. "So what, this is my fault? He’s turning into a possessive psychopath because I’m not swooning into his arms?"
Theron grins, clearly enjoying this too much. "Not your fault , exactly. But let’s just say, the more you fight, the worse it gets for him."
I exhale sharply, resisting the urge to throw something at his smirking face.
Selene tilts her head slightly. "You feel it too, don’t you? The way it’s pulling, the way it’s waiting for you to make a choice."
My fingers twitch at my sides, my breath feeling just a little too uneven.
"And if I don’t?"
"You’ll keep fighting it. He’ll keep feeling it. And eventually?" Theron shrugs. "Something’s going to break."
Theron’s words settle in the air between us, thick and unshakable. Something’s gonna break. I hate how much sense that makes.
Before I can push back, Selene exhales through her nose, a quiet, knowing sound that immediately puts me on edge. She shifts slightly, brushing a stray curl behind her ear, adjusting the stack of rings on her fingers like she’s working up to something.
"That’s not the only thing we need to talk about."
I blink, stomach twisting at the sudden shift in her tone. "What now?"
Selene leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, silver eyes meeting mine without hesitation. "Your family."
My fingers twitch, curling against my thigh. "What about them?"
Theron snorts, shaking his head. "Oh, come on. You had to know this was coming. It’s not just Melanie running her mouth on national television. It’s your entire bloodline, sweetheart."
Selene hums, tapping a ring against the arm of her chair. "Cassius Arden. Your father. The real question is: how much do you know about him?"
I scoff, rolling my shoulders back. "Enough to know I don’t care."
Theron smirks. "That’s the thing about Cassius. Even when you don’t care, he still finds a way to make himself very relevant."
I clench my jaw, refusing to rise to whatever bait they’re dangling. "I know what I need to. He’s a businessman, he’s powerful, and he only cares about himself. There. Covered it."
Selene watches me too carefully. "And Calliope?"
The name hits like ice water down my spine. My stomach twists, my nails digging into my palms before I can stop them.
"She’s dead," I say, voice tight. "Not much else to say."
Theron exhales dramatically, shaking his head. "See, that’s what I was hoping you’d say. But it’s not true, is it? There’s plenty to say about Calliope Arden—if you ever bothered to listen."
A slow ache blooms in my chest, the kind that never really goes away, the kind that lingers no matter how much time has passed. I should be used to it by now.
I wanted to listen. I wanted to know her.
But she died before I ever really got the chance.
"I don’t need a history lesson," I snap.
Selene tilts her head, studying me like she already sees through my defenses. "No, I suppose you don’t. You already know the important parts, don’t you? You just don’t like to talk about them."
I press my lips together, refusing to let them see how much this conversation is digging into something raw.
Theron leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, his smirk softening just slightly. "You miss her."
It’s not a question.
The air feels too heavy, my throat too tight. I exhale sharply, shaking my head. "What does it matter?"
Selene’s voice gentles, but it doesn’t waver. "Because your mother was important, Ophelia. And not just to you."
I swallow, looking down at my hands, fingers twisting together. "She wasn’t even married to my father that long. He had an affair. Rosalind was already pregnant with Melanie before my mother even died."
Theron exhales through his nose. "Cassius never wastes time, does he?"
I shake my head, jaw tightening. "No. He doesn’t."
Selene leans back, watching me carefully. "And yet, despite all of that, Rosalind still raised you like her own."
My stomach twists, and suddenly, this conversation feels even more exhausting than before.
"She did," I say, quieter now. "She made sure I remembered my mother. She talked about her like she was still here, like she wasn’t just a name in a family history book." I pause, pressing my nails into my palm, focusing on the sting. "But she was still my mother, too. Rosalind. She never made me feel like I didn’t belong."
Theron whistles, shaking his head. "So let me get this straight. You’ve got an angel for a stepmother, a power-hungry father, and a dead mother whose name still carries weight. Yeah, you’re definitely in the clear."
Selene ignores him. "And yet, Rosalind wasn’t at Melanie’s wedding."
I go still.
Selene raises a brow. "Why is that?"
I exhale sharply, crossing my arms tighter. "She wasn’t invited."
Theron lets out a low whistle. "Oof. Cold."
"Melanie made sure of it," I continue, jaw tightening. "She never wanted Rosalind to be part of our lives after she left our father. She spent years making sure we knew she wasn’t an Arden anymore. That she wasn’t family. When she married Dominic, it was her chance to erase the last thing tying her to Rosalind."
Selene hums in thought. "And how did Rosalind feel about that?"
I hesitate, the memory hitting me all at once. The way Rosalind smiled, soft and warm, like it didn’t hurt at all. Like she understood. Like she always understood.
"She didn’t fight it," I say after a long moment. "She never fought Melanie on anything."
Theron raises a brow. "And you don’t think that’s strange?"
I shake my head. "She’s not like you. She’s not like any of you. She doesn’t want power, she doesn’t play games, she—"
"Kept you hidden," Selene finishes. "Kept you safe. Which is exactly why this might be a problem now."
A lump lodges itself in my throat, cold and solid.
"What are you saying?"
Selene leans forward, eyes sharp, voice softer now. "I’m saying that whatever happens next, you need to be prepared. Because if you don’t act first, someone else will. And Julian?" Her lips curve, not quite a smile. "He’s not the waiting type."
Theron stretches his arms behind his head, still smirking. "And considering he’s already barely holding it together, I don’t think you want to see what that looks like."
They leave, and I open my laptop, pulling up the interview.
I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I need to see it for myself. Maybe I need proof. But the second it starts, I know. They’re right. This is a problem.
Melanie’s voice is perfectly measured, perfectly cruel, designed to cut without leaving a mark. And the world eats it up—the audience, the headlines, the people who will never know me but will believe every word of hers. My chest tightens, a slow, sinking weight settling inside me.
I’m so unhappy in my life. Why? Why can’t I be happy? Why can’t I just let someone make me happy? My fingers twitch against the keyboard. Maybe Julian could do that.
The thought hits too fast, too hard, and I swallow it back just as quickly. But first—first, I need to do something.
I click on my email, scanning the name I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since it arrived.
Rhys Westwood. Investigative reporter.
I want to do a story on the Arden and Arden-Forsythe families. I have reason to believe that Melanie Arden’s success wasn’t entirely earned. If you're interested in helping, let me know.
Underneath, he left his phone number. I don’t hesitate. I type out a message and hit send before I can second-guess it.
Hi Rhys. This is Ophelia Arden. Let’s talk.