35. Cain
CAIN
The drive to Ophelia’s parents’ house seems interminable. The silence in the car is heavy, and I think we’re all worried about how we’ll be received. We have to face up to what’s happened, but it’s fucking stressful not knowing how Ophelia’s father is going to react.
We discussed whether to take any weapons with us from the safehouse but decided against it.
Turning up to Ophelia’s parents’ house armed felt like we’d be waving a red cape to a bull.
We need to show we’re on their side. We are not the enemy.
We also don’t want to risk a shootout with Ophelia caught in the middle.
I’m glad to be driving, instead of sitting on my ass and worrying the entire way. I’m still worrying, but the driving is distracting me.
My dad giving us men to help guard the tower has cleared a huge obstacle in our path to returning home.
It means we can keep Ophelia safe, and with the added security of the college, I can’t see how her father can object.
On numerous occasions now, he’s failed his daughter, in my opinion.
Sending her to that fucking hellhole where Roman found her within seconds of being raped was a terrible dereliction of duty.
We finally arrive in the familiar neighborhood. We park, and I warily eye the greeting committee at her parents’ gate. Five armed men are waiting for us.
“Time to face the music.” I twist in the driver’s seat to take in the guys behind me, and Mal rolls his eyes.
“Let’s hope they aren’t about to shoot us in the face,” he says.
Ophelia gasps, and I throw Mal a warning glance. She doesn’t always have the same sense of sarcastic humor as he does and can be more literal in how she interprets things. Probably due to the many years she spent isolated from the world in the cult.
“Sorry, baby.” He grabs her hand and squeezes it. “I was only kidding.”
She offers him a tight smile and squeezes his in return.
We file out of the car, and the armed men step forward.
“Miss Sinclair,” one of them greets her.
“Hello, Devon.”
She ducks her head in a tiny nod, and I want to tell her to lift it again, to hold her chin high.
“It’s good to have you back with us,” he replies, but not before sending a cold glare in our direction.
I grind my teeth and fight not to make a comment. I catch Malachi’s eye and hope I’m telling him by eye contact alone to keep his mouth shut. This is a precarious moment, and one wrong word could fuck everything up.
The armed guards usher us onto the property and walk us to the door. It swings open to reveal Ophelia’s father, his face like fucking stone. Great. His expression is not a good sign.
Ophelia’s mother is standing behind him, and she hops from foot to foot in her excitement to see her daughter.
“Mom,” Ophelia says, her eye brimming with tears.
Ophelia’s mother pushes past her husband, and, ignoring the rest of us, pulls her daughter into her arms. The two women cling to one another, their shoulders shaking as they cry.
“I’m so sorry, Mom.” Ophelia sniffs. “I never meant to worry you.”
“It’s okay, darling. I’m just glad you’re safe now.
” Mrs. Sinclair untangles herself from her daughter’s arms but keeps hold of her, as though she’s worried that if she loses contact with her again, Ophelia will just float out of her life.
She uses one hand to brush a stray lock of hair out of Ophelia’s face.
“But don’t ever do that to me again, okay?
Always try to find some way of letting me know you’re safe. ”
I want to fight Ophelia’s case, to tell her mom that Ophelia wouldn’t have needed to run if her father hadn’t sent her away, but I keep my lips firmly pinned together.
I’m conscious of her father standing there.
I hate how this man has so much power over us.
It isn’t right. We’re allowing him to make decisions over what’s right for her, when he was the one who sent her away in the first place.
He doesn’t know what’s best for Ophelia.
We do.
We are escorted by the armed men into the living room, and as we walk in, Ophelia following with her mother at her side, I notice the man standing by the large fireplace. He’s in his mid-forties and wearing an expensive suit. His hair is already graying, and his slim face is pinched with concern.
As soon as Ophelia enters, her gaze locks on him, and she cries out.
“No.” She backs up, colliding with one of the guards, who gently moves her forward again, his hand on her back.
“Take your fucking hands off her,” I growl at the guard.
The man glances over at Mr. Sinclair, who gives a brief nod.
My attention goes back to Ophelia. What the fuck? Why is she so scared?
She turns to her dad, her eyes wild. “Don’t send me back there again, you can’t.” She spins back to the man by the fireplace. “Doctor, that place didn’t help me.”
“You’re the bastard who sent her there?” Roman rounds on the man I assume is the doctor who sent her away, and he fucking loses it.
He launches himself at the man, but the guards are faster.
Two of them lunge for Roman and grab him.
The bigger of the guards restrains Roman, yanking his arms behind his back.
The smaller of the two draws back his fist and punches Roman directly in the face.
Roman’s head flies back, blood exploding from his nose.
They caught him by surprise, and he never got the chance to defend himself.
Ophelia screams, her hands clamped to her mouth.
“Hey!” I yell, torn about what to do. Every instinct wants to see me jump in and protect my fellow Preacher, while I’m also hyperaware of Ophelia’s father.
“What the fuck?” Malachi shouts.
“Do you know what you cost me?” the doctor spits as the guard delivers another two fast blows, this time to Roman’s stomach.
Roman tries to fold in two, but the man holding his arms stops him.
The guard punches him in the face again, this time cracking Roman’s cheekbone, and I spot a glint of metal.
No wonder the first blow stunned Roman so much—the guard is wearing brass knuckles.
This was planned, I realize. Ophelia’s father already knew Roman was going to catch a beating. He wanted us here so he could get his men to deliver it.
I can’t let this happen, no matter what Ophelia’s father decides. I move, rushing forward to help Roman.
I grab the man who has hold of Roman’s arms, but my movement is halted by the press of a sharp blade against my throat. I swallow and hold my hands up, my gaze never leaving what’s happening to Roman.
I’m not the only one being threatened. Mal has a guard with a gun on him. The one Ophelia had called Devon is holding her back. She’s screaming and crying, her face puce with emotion, clear snot running from her nose.
Her father roars his anger as he storms up to Roman. “You murdered a member of staff and mutilated them in the sickest way. You think you’re remotely the sort of man who should be near my daughter?”
The guard holds Roman up. He’s sagging a little, his nose still gushing blood, a cut on his eyebrow, and his stomach must be hurting him from his posture.
“You’re a sick fuck,” Roman spits.
Her father backhands Roman across the face, and Roman gives a grunt of pain.
Ophelia screams again. “No! Stop!”
Her father turns to Mal and me. “You took my daughter, stole her away from a place where we were trying to get her help. You didn’t even have the fucking decency to let us know she was safe.”
He glances back at Roman, who lifts his head, his eyelids fluttering. One eye is swollen almost shut, the bruising as dark as paint. Roman sniffs—the sound thick and throaty—and then hawks a mouthful of blood right in her father’s face.
There’s a terrible, pregnant pause, a stillness before the onslaught, where everyone is holding their breath as the next moment is decided.
If Ophelia’s father is armed, Roman’s action could well be his last. Then Mr. Sinclair roars and pulls back his fist and lets it fly.
For a guy who must be in his late forties, or early fifties, he’s got a mean right hook, and Rome’s temple splits under the assault.
Bright red blood pours down one side of his face like a mask.
Jesus Christ, they’re going to kill him.
I attempt to move again, desperate to step in and stop this, but the blade at my throat slices my skin. The wet trickle of blood runs down my neck and pools in my collarbone.
“Don’t even fucking think about it,” the man holding the knife growls by my ear.
Only my need to stay alive for Ophelia stops me from doing something stupid.
“Daddy, stop. Nooooo . Stop.”
Ophelia screams out her frustration and, bending down, bites hard into the arm of the man holding her. He yelps, drops his hold on her, and she runs toward her father and Roman.
She grabs her father’s arm as he pulls back to take another swing.
“Stop!”
She screams the word so loudly it seems to get through to him. Her father freezes and blinks a couple of times. I see the exact moment the red mist of rage clears in his gaze. His daughter clings to his arm, digging in with all her might, and tears stream down her face.
“If you touch him again, I’ll never speak to you for as long as I live.”
Her father scowls, but his body sags a little, and I know the fight has gone out of him.
He lowers his arm, but, as he does, the doctor steps forward.
“Ophelia, your friend must face consequences for what he did. The man killed a guard and needs to be punished.”
“A rapist!” Ophelia spits out the word. She places two hands on the doctor’s chest and pushes, sending him staggering back a few steps. “Did you even check that facility regularly? Did you?”
I watch in awe as she prowls after the retreating doctor, a queen defending her king, except in this case the king is a battered and bleeding Roman.
“He saved me.” She points a trembling finger at Roman. “He probably saved my life. At the very least he saved me from being raped.”