Chapter 3 Cain
Cain
Daisy returns from the bathroom and immediately takes the seat on the other side of Ophelia. I’m kicking myself for not grabbing it sooner so she couldn’t sit there. Yes, maybe it makes me an asshole, but I’d wanted to stake my claim.
After all, Daisy might be from Ophelia’s past, but I knew our Pet long before Daisy ever did.
She was mine first.
Daisy is much quieter now, and she was hardly chatty before. She sips her tea, and the way her gaze keeps darting between the three of us men and Ophelia makes me believe she’s trying to figure this all out.
I’m dying to touch Ophelia.
I keep getting flashbacks to being inside her at the same time as Malachi, and it’s so hot.
“Do you want to watch television?” Malachi asks the two girls.
“No,” Ophelia answers quickly. “Why don’t you play your guitar? Something soothing.”
Fine by me. I do like to listen to him play.
Malachi rushes to fetch his guitar and sits back down, holding it lovingly the way a parent might hold a child. It is his baby, after all.
Strumming a few chords to tune the instrument and warm up, he finally begins to play. It’s a classical tune, one I first heard many years ago, and as the soothing sounds fill the room, I notice Daisy’s eyes droop.
I want her to go to sleep so we can talk in private. This is unexpected, and something about it is making me all kinds of antsy.
Finally, Daisy’s head lolls onto Ophelia’s shoulder, and soft, tiny snores escape her.
“She ought to go to bed,” Ophelia says softly, “but I don’t want to wake her.”
“I’ll carry her to the room if you get the door for me.” I stand so I can pick her up.
Ophelia nods, and I hoist the still sleeping Daisy into my arms and march through the tower. She doesn’t stir, which is surprising, but maybe she’s too exhausted from all the traveling she’s done. Being on the run must be incredibly stressful, and she’s only young.
Holding the door while I walk through, Ophelia then darts in front of me and hauls the covers back on the bed, so I can gently place Daisy onto the mattress. Ophelia covers her back up and kisses her on the forehead.
It’s affectionate, almost maternal, and a sudden image of her as the mom of our kids hits me hard. Would I want that?
I haven’t thought of it seriously, other than idle fantasies of her filled with our seed, rounded, and growing a life. I might have a bit of a kink for the idea, but seeing her like this, I realize just how good a mom she’d be.
We turn to leave the room, but Ophelia pauses. “I don’t want her to wake up in the dark, scared, and not know where she is. I’ll turn a lamp on.” She does so, then we sneak out, taking care to be quiet.
We return to the living area to find Mal has put his guitar away and is drinking a beer. Rome is sipping at what looks like a scotch. He’s not really getting any proper food to line his stomach, and he’s on pain meds, but I’m not his mother, so I let it go.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask Ophelia.
“A small glass of wine would be nice.” She flashes a tiny smile. “It’s been quite the day.”
Hasn’t it just. I walk to the kitchen, open the fridge, and take out the screwcap bottle of wine, and open it, pouring her a glass. Then I grab myself a beer.
I sit back down beside Ophelia, and this time I let my hand rest heavy on her thigh. She’s mine, ours, and I like to feel that ownership when I get the chance.
“So, your friend…” Mal glances at the hallway, before shaking his head. “I don’t know, Ophelia, she’s kind of strange...”
Ophelia’s leg tenses under my fingers, and I glance over to see her jaw set and her shoulders high. Mal just stepped on a landmine with that comment.
“Like me, you mean?” she asks snippily.
Oh, he’s gone and done it now.
He holds her gaze, his head tilted slightly. “Ophelia, baby, we’re all a little bit fucking strange. Look at me, for example. I’m the weirdest one among us. I didn’t mean it as an insult, okay?” He holds his hands up. “What I meant is that I get the distinct feeling she’s hiding something.”
“Me too,” Roman says in his new, slightly muffled way of speaking.
“She’s probably scared,” Ophelia says, softening a little. “That’s understandable, isn’t it? Considering everything she’s been through.” She gives her head a slight shake. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, not fully.”
I sense the defensiveness in her tone. I decide I’ll talk to her later and try to approach the subject slightly more sensitively than Mal just did.
“What do you want to do?” I ask her. “I think we’re all on the same page, right? That so long as the Prophet is alive, he’s a danger to you. We have to take him out.”
She bites her lip, and I’m shocked as tears come to her eyes. Anger fills me. Does she care about that bastard?
“Do you have a problem with that, Ophelia?”
She closes her eyes for a moment. “It’s not that I don’t want you to. I suppose I’m just scared.”
“What of?” Roman leans forward. “Once he’s gone, he can’t haunt you anymore.”
“That’s just it,” she says. “He can haunt me more, don’t you see?”
“How come?” I ask.
“Because what if his powers are real? I mean, the only alternative is that I’m crazy, and I don’t want to believe that. If they’re real, then if he dies, he can haunt me. Will haunt me. With his goddamn spirit hounding me, I’ll never be free.”
The way she says goddamn is so cute, it almost makes me smile, but not quite because her words cause my heart to ache.
I don’t immediately discount her worry that the Prophet might hold some strange powers, because the three of us believe similar shit. Why dismiss her fears when we practice our own rituals that would seem strange to so many?
“The thing is,” I say carefully, “if he’s dead, then you are safe physically, yes?”
She nods once.
“And if he’s dead, and it’s only his spirit haunting you, then we have ways to deal with that.”
I’m sure Roman can find a way to lessen his influence on her psyche. At least we wouldn’t be worried about that fucker turning up and kidnapping her or some nefarious shit.
I believe good wins over evil, and we might do some fucked up shit, but ultimately if it comes to a battle between us and the Prophet, we’re definitely on the side of good.
I want to see him torn apart, burnt to ashes and scattered to the corners of the earth. Over the top, maybe, but I don’t care. The rage I feel is unhealthy. The moment I wake up, it’s there. Anger. Hatred, even. Burning in my stomach, setting fire to my soul.
Losing Ophelia had been a big deal to me as a child, because it had left me lost at a time in my life when there was little good. That fucker took my best friend. He tore her from my life, and now he’s still haunting her.
Maybe I’m telling myself that we’re getting rid of the Prophet for Ophelia’s sake, but there’s a little part of me that’s aware I’m also doing it for myself.
Needing to move, I stand. The violence simmering under my skin scares me. I’ve always liked to fight. Being beaten up helps calm me, and I get how fucked up that is, but this is something else. It’s as if I’m on the edge of totally losing my shit.
“Cain?” Mal’s voice is a warning. Low and serious. “Are you okay?”
“I want to be there now, dealing with this bastard.” I clench my fists at my side. “I can’t cope with him still being in this world and breathing. He deserves something worse than death.”
For an insane moment, I imagine bringing him back here and keeping him prisoner.
Torturing him would be fun. Making his every fucking living moment hell would be cathartic.
But one glance at Ophelia tells me it would be a terrible idea.
It would drive her crazy, and she’d lose her mind if he was held captive here.
Still, the idea gives me a little moment of happiness. Maybe I need to meditate, but not the way Roman does, trying to get in touch with his ancestors. Maybe I just need to sit and imagine the Prophet going through the fires of hell. It might make me happy, if nothing else.
Malachi stares at me as he talks. “I think we all need to take some deep breaths. Maybe get a good night’s sleep, calm the fuck down, and make a rational plan. If we do this without those things in place, we risk it all going wrong.”
Ophelia speaks, her voice grounding me in a way nothing else can. “Yes, there are innocent children in the cult. I won’t see them being hurt.”
We fall silent for a beat, and Ophelia moves her legs under her and yawns. I really look at her, taking her in. She’s exhausted. Her face is drawn, and she’s pale.
“We ought to head to bed.” I glance down the hallway. “How are we going to do this? All together, or maybe not, what with your friend here?”
“Christ,” Roman mutters.
I turn to him, thinking he’s talking about what I said, but he’s rubbing his jaw, his face a map of pain.
Ophelia sees it, too, and grimaces. “Why don’t I sleep with Rome tonight? You two take the couches. Then tomorrow I will talk to Daisy. I just couldn’t face going into it all today.”
I resent it a little that she chooses him over me, but as I look at my friend’s face, pain etched and exhausted, I suppose I can’t begrudge it.
I nod. “Of course.” Pulling her to me, I kiss her hard on the mouth. “But tomorrow, you spend some time with me.”
She giggles. “Cain, I already spent some time with you earlier. I’m still not walking right.”
That has me smirking and kissing her one more time, biting her bottom lip and dragging it into my mouth before letting go with a moan. “Go on, take our wounded soldier to bed before I decide to do more than just kiss you.”
She shakes her head. “You’re a beast, Cain.”
Oh, she hasn’t seen anything yet.
Mal kisses her, too, softer than I did, but he runs his hands over her ass and squeezes, as if wanting to take the memory to bed with him. Then she leads Roman out of the room, and they ascend the spiral staircase.
“Lucky fucker,” Mal grouses. “Almost seems worth getting beaten up.”
“Definitely,” I reply.
His dark laugh is amused but sardonic. “Cain, you enjoy being beaten up. It’s hardly a high price for you to pay.”
He’s not wrong. I do.
It’s my capacity for pain, my tolerance for it, my size, and the fucking fire burning in my chest that has me worrying that I’m going to explode.
And if I do, I might take us all down with me.