2. Ophelia
OPHELIA
I like feeling how sore I am there. It means they really happened.
Those three gorgeous men claimed me as their Pet, for real.
I close my eyes and rub my clit, as memories of that night in the woods—and all the heady, intense nights since—assault me.
One time that stands out in my mind was the way Cain and Malachi lifted me over Roman and held me as they impaled me on him; it was so erotic. God, I wish I was with them right now.
I never thought I’d had a voyeuristic streak, but I love how they’d simply watch as one of the others fucked me, their gazes hungry as they waited their turn.
Other times, they’d play with themselves, fisting their massive cocks, and coming all over me.
I liked it best when they were all touching me at once.
I slide my fingers over my slippery clit.
I’m already wet and needy at the thought of them.
As I replay the images of what we did, like a movie reel in my mind, I speed up my movements.
Soon, I’m strumming my clit frantically, chasing that feeling only they can give me.
The release, the shattering, wonderful moment, when I lose myself, and find myself at the same time.
When it comes, it’s with Cain’s arms wrapped around me, Roman’s gaze holding me trapped in its intensity, and Malachi’s voice whispering filthy nothings to me.
I slam my free hand over my mouth and push two fingers inside myself as I come hard around them.
I pump them in and out, trying to replicate the sensation of their cocks in me.
The noises my fingers make are loud enough to make me blush, and I pray the guard can’t hear, but it’s too late to stop. I can’t do anything but keep fucking myself until I’m sated.
Once it’s over, I sag back against the pillows. The ecstasy fades away, leaving me hollow and empty. Sad … I realize that I’m unbearably sad.
Resting my head on my pillow, I close my eyes and let the exhaustion steal over me. Maybe if I sleep, I’ll wake a little less despondent and be able to think more clearly.
Filthy whore. Dirty, bad girl.
My eyes shoot open, and I sit up with a strangled scream.
No, no, no . He can’t be back. My worst nightmare was that this would happen, but I’d thought it wouldn’t be until more time had passed, as my memories of them faded, and their power to stop him wore off. This soon?
I tell myself I imagined it. He’s not in my head, it’s just me, making myself crazy.
You’re an abomination.
Okay, that wasn’t me. That’s him. Back. Once more.
My gaze ricochets wildly around the room, as if I’ll find him hiding in here, watching me for real. I think that might be less horrific than him being in my head. Living in my mind, haunting me, and making me crazy.
“Ophelia?” Mom bursts through the door, her face taut, eyes wide. “What is it? You screamed like you were being murdered.” She puts her hand to her chest in a self-soothing gesture. “My word, you scared me.”
I stand and pace, raking my fingers through my hair. “You have to let me go back”
“You can’t. Your father doesn’t think it’s safe.”
They are a pair, what with her blaming him, and him blaming her. They sent me away, and when they got scared, they dragged me back again.
I laugh, bitterly. “Oh, I’m not safe—not when he’s here . You brought me back to him.”
Her brow wrinkles, and she glances around the room anxiously as though she expects to see someone. “Who’s here? Darling, no one is here.”
I push her—an act that surprises even me—and she staggers back, her mouth falling open in shock.
“He is! He is here.” I tap my fingers viciously against my head.
I squeeze my eyes shut and tears spill out between my closed lids, streaking down my cheeks.
“I’ll never be free now,” I cry. Opening my eyes, I fix my mom with an angry glare. “ You did this. You both did this.”
Father appears in the doorway, the security guard standing close behind him. His gaze flicks between me and Mom. “What’s going on here?” he demands.
“You’ve allowed him back in.” I hit my head on the side of my palm. “I can’t have him back; I can’t bear it. He’s so nasty. The things he says.”
“Darling, please.” Mom reaches for me.
I can smell your pussy. You’ve been playing with it like a dirty, sinful girl. When I get you back, I’ll be the one to do that.
“ Shut up ,” I scream. “Shut the hell up.”
“Oh, God, what’s wrong with her?” Mom sobs and puts a hand against the wall, steadying herself. “She’s worse than ever.”
“Take me back,” I cry. I turn to my dad, tears and snot running down my face. I must look like a total mess, but I don’t care. “I need to go back. They made him go away. It worked, but then you hauled me out of there, and now he’s back. I can’t live like this. Take me to Verona Falls.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” My dad reaches out for me, but I stagger back.
“The Preachers made it okay. They made him leave me alone. I need them.”
“Who are the Preachers?” Mom asks, shooting a worried glance at my dad.
“My friends. They helped me.”
I’ve completely lost control, and instead of fighting to rein myself in, I’m leaning into it. I want to lose control. Maybe if I can lose who I am, the Prophet will forget me, too.
My legs give way, and I crumple to the floor. I wrap my arms around my knees and rock. I sing a song from the commune, softly, because I need to make a noise to keep his voice from overwhelming me.
“Oh, God.” Mom sobs, her hand over her mouth.
“I’m calling the doctor,” my father says quietly.
I laugh, and know I sound crazy, but I don’t care. Does a little part of me want to scare them? Am I trying to punish them for taking me away from Verona Falls? “That won’t do any good. The stupid doctors can’t make him stop. Only they can, and you made me leave them.”
Father strides out of the room, and I hear him make a call. I stay where I am, crying, softly singing to cover up the voice, and rocking myself gently to soothe my overwrought mind.
Mom sits on the floor with me, and as I sing, she talks.
A stream of nonsense about what people I don’t care about have been doing and plans we can make.
All the shopping we can do, and iced teas we can share as we stroll in the park.
None of it will happen because I’m being haunted again, and I’ll end up hanging from the rafters sooner than later. I can’t go on like this.
I’m not sure how much time passes—it could be ten minutes or perhaps it’s an hour—but then a slender man in his mid-forties walks into the room.
His eyes are gray, as is the hair around his temples.
He’s wearing a suit, but I recognize him as one of the doctors my father uses when any of his men are injured.
He glances at me, at Mom, and then at Father, and nods once before taking something out of his bag. His expression is serious.
I see the needle and I panic more. “No, no, no. You can’t. I need to keep singing, so I can’t hear him.”
My father grabs my upper arms. It’s not lost on me that his fingers grip where Roman’s were.
The same place as my men made me theirs, my father holds me prisoner.
He keeps me firmly in place, and the doctor presses the syringe into my arm.
I cry harder, feeling as if I’m about to shatter and lose what is left of my mind, except I don’t.
Instead of breaking, I float. I drift, and soon I can’t recall why I was crying in the first place.
Perhaps it’s better this way.
The doctor helps Mom get me on the bed, and she covers me with a blanket. I hear them, see them, but I can’t fight them anymore because, while I’m still awake and aware, I’m all floaty light, and my limbs are useless.
My parents and the doctor file out of the room, and I overhear the doctor tell my parents I may need to stay in a residential mental health place for a while.
“Did you see the bruises on her arms?” my father asks.
“They are consistent with a man grabbing her,” the doctor says.
I giggle softly to myself. Yeah, a man grabbed me, all right, and I liked it. I try to say that, but the words are slurred and mushy, like I’m talking through a mouthful of cotton candy.
“A few weeks of rehab,” the doctor says, “just to let her rest her nervous system.”
No, this is bad. I should move, but I can’t, and the floating is getting more intense. I’m smiling. I don’t know why I’m smiling when they’re discussing sending me away, but I can’t stop myself.
The doctor presses his lips into a line. “I think she needs to go tonight. As soon as possible. What I’ve given her won’t last until morning.”
Mom lets out a cry. “No! We brought her back here to be safe. I can’t send her somewhere else.”
“If you don’t,” the doctor says, “her mind is at risk of shattering forever. I know a place with tight security. She’ll be safe.”
“We’ll discuss it, Doctor.” Father’s tone is serious. “I need to talk with my wife in private.”
“Let me know within the next two hours whether you want to move her there or not,” the doctor replies.
Their voices recede as they walk away, and I try to lift my arms to wave goodbye, but they won’t move.
I drift and float and smile, not really bothered by what they’re discussing. I can’t hear the voice anymore.
He’s gone, and that’s all I care about.
That and my Preachers.