22. Cain
CAIN
I reach the tower with some relief.
It’s been a few days, but I’m still hurting after Titus mangled me in the fight, and I want to apply some more of the healing balm we have here.
The stuff actually works. I want to use some of the arnica we have, too, because my bruises look bad and I don’t wish for them to freak Ophelia out.
I’m not done talking to the girl yet. She’s a mystery I need to break open.
Perhaps I will leave it another day or two before I approach her again, though. Let my bruising mellow and give myself time to think about how to get her to tell me what the hell happened to her. It’s a driving need within me to know.
After all, the last time I saw Ophelia, my life changed for the worse, too.
I’d left my little brother Samuel alone when I’d gone to her house.
I normally didn’t worry too much when I did, because Samuel was so much younger and our father seemed to think the sun shone from his yellow curls.
He was the proverbial golden child, and he didn’t get the same harsh treatment as me.
Or he never had, until that day. The day when Father finally lost his patience with his childish questions and hit him so hard, he damaged him for life.
That had been the last time I’d seen Ophelia—her family had left for Texas on vacation the following day—and the guilt that I hadn’t been around to defend Samuel has remained with me forever.
The fact she disappeared after that has always seemed portentous to me, and I tried to find out what happened to her, but to no avail.
Now, she’s here at the college, and my need to know is tearing me up inside.
Pushing open the tower’s door, I stop dead in shock. Roman is pacing the floor like a caged animal. He mutters to himself as, every now and again, he hits his chest, hard, with his fist.
“Jesus, Rome, go easy! You’ll hurt yourself.” I step into the tower and take him in.
His hair is disheveled, and his cheeks hold color as if he’s getting a fever.
“What the fuck’s going on?” I ask.
He turns to me, his eyes green fire, and spits out, “That girl will ruin everything.”
I blow out my breath and shake my head. “Roman, you’ve got it all wrong. You’ve got her all wrong.”
He smiles, and it’s twisted and nasty. “Oh, I have, have I?” He strides right up to me, and watches me closely, when he speaks next. “So, I guess you’re okay with her and Malachi getting it on in front of the entire bar?”
“What?” Ice fills my chest at his words. Feelings I hadn’t expected over Ophelia flood me, jealousy being the most prominent. Why him and not me? “Fuck you, she did not.”
“Oh, she did. Saint saw. Everyone did.” He laughs. “Interesting, you didn’t know.”
“No, I fucking didn’t. What’s he playing at? She’s innocent. She’s been hurt.”
He shakes his head. “You think she’s innocent? You’re an idiot, Cain. You’re blinded by your past with her. That girl isn’t quite the na?ve little creature she appears.”
“She is,” I insist. “Christ, Rome, you only have to look at her.”
“Well, she’s certainly acting strangely for some supposedly innocent woman. Kissing Mal, and …” He pauses, but then with a dark, twisted smile, carries on. “She didn’t seem innocent when she was busy getting on her knees for me.”
I don’t have time to analyze what he’s saying before my body reacts. My fist drives into his jaw, and he staggers back. He roars and comes at me, taking me into the wall behind us.
“You made her do that ?” I demand as I grab his throat.
I turn us, using my size and brute strength to control him, as I push him against the wall. I wrap my hand around his throat and squeeze. It must fucking hurt, but he’s still smiling.
“Do what?” he wheezes. “She didn’t do what you’re thinking, with your filthy mind, and fuck you for thinking that of me, Cain. You ought to know better. She just kneeled in the grass for me, like my perfect, submissive, little lamb.”
Somehow that is even worse. That shows some weird emotional connection. Why would she do such a thing? Roman must have coerced her.
“She’s not your anything, and if you touch her again, I’ll rip your throat out.”
He shoves me so hard, I let go and stumble back.
“See?” he demands. “Do you see now?” He laughs, dark and bitter.
“This is what I’ve been trying to say. This is why we need her to go.
To leave. She’s going to tear us apart. It seems that each of us has some sort of feelings for her, no matter how fucked up they may be.
So how do we work that out, huh? Share her? I can see that working well.”
He laughs again, though there’s only bitterness in the sound, then he grabs his phone and stalks out the door, slamming it after him.
I ought to go after him and find out exactly what the fuck happened between her and him.
I ought to make sure he’s all right, because he’s acting crazy.
Deep down, I should have known Roman wouldn’t have her sucking his cock.
He’s right; I do know better. I know he’s not really into sex because of his childhood, but also because he believes it involves handing over your energy to another person.
He thinks it weakens us, and maybe he’s right.
There are so many damn things I ought to do at this moment. I don’t move, though, and barely breathe.
My brain is stuck on one thing. Those words that Roman uttered.
Share her . It’s so wrong, in so many ways, but I find myself hopelessly hard at the thought of it.
It has me that revved up, I might come in my pants.
The image of her between the three of us as we worship her pushes its way to the front of my mind.
Isn’t that what we’re meant to be about? Worshipping what is greater than us? Nature? Our history and ancestors? The gods? Well, we could worship her. Ophelia.
I imagine her in one of her loose, pale dresses, as sunlight strikes it just so, and we get to see the outline of her body.
It hits me then what she reminded me of that first night when she’d run from us in the forest. A wood nymph.
My father had a collection of antique erotica.
He didn’t know I’d seen it. He kept it in the top drawer of his desk, but I’d discovered it as a teenager.
It had been innocent by today’s standards, but for the Victorian period would have been scandalous.
They were playing cards mostly, but with naked women on them.
One of the cards, one of my favorites to look at, had been a wood nymph.
She’d been bending a tree branch toward her, to smell the blossom flowers.
Her skin was pale, she’d worn no clothes, and her blonde hair was twisted up around her head.
I moan and press my palm against my aching cock.
Ophelia would look so good naked, with her hair braided and wrapped up on top of her head.
I can picture her standing between the three of us, as we walk around her, the moonlight kissing her skin.
Would she spread her legs and let us take a peek at her most private place?
Maybe she’d lift her arms and twirl around for us.
She has the body of a dancer, slender, and light.
The three of us would be prowling around her, hungry, impatient. I realize with a heavy jolt that I’m not jealous of the thought of my brothers being there. I don’t like them with her alone, but the three of us? With her? It doesn’t seem like a bad thing.
Society deems such things wrong, but it doesn’t seem so wrong; it just seems right.
So, very right.