11. Bishop
Chapter 11
Bishop
“ Y ou could have just asked for some privacy instead of making a big show of leaving,” Ophelia says with a breathy laugh, convinced it’s sultry, but it only makes her sound incompetent.
“You came willingly,” I remind her, my tone cutting, watching her falter.
The waves of the water continue to crash in, powerful and unrelenting.
She flinches under my sharp words but tries to cover it by discreetly reaching to touch me.
I shrug her off, barely registering her presence.
Unlike Prescott, who always stood tall and unwavering, a monument of strength and resilience in the midst of my storm.
That was what pissed me off most about her.
Prescott never backed down, never folded—no matter how much I pushed her.
And here I was, trying to get rid of her, but she just…
stayed. In Altair. In my thoughts.
I couldn’t shake her, no matter how hard I tried.
Then Cam actually had the audacity to suggest Sly sleep with her to extract information faster.
Was I hearing this right?
Had my friends completely lost their minds, or had I lost mine for calling out how ridiculous it was?
Let Sly fuck my little troublemaker?
No fucking way.
The thought of anyone else touching her, of her being with someone else—it twisted something in my gut I couldn’t ignore.
I hated that she was still here, still a damn problem.
But I hated that I couldn’t stop thinking about her even more.
Ophelia’s face contorts into a pout.
“You’re always so cold, Bishop. Let me warm you up,” she suggests, her teeth grazing her bottom lip.
“This is our usual place…”
I scoff, the sound biting against the relentless crashing of the waves.
“Our usual place? Don’t kid yourself, Ophelia. There’s no us . We fuck because I need release, and because you obey.” Part of me needed her to follow, to be predictable.
But now, I’m starting to wonder if even that’s enough to keep me interested anymore.
Her little stunt today—it got under my skin, sure.
But it wasn’t like my troublemaker.
With Ophelia, that kind of resistance, that stubbornness, only pissed me off.
It was irritating. But with Prescott?
There was something different about it, something…
more. I don’t even know why it’s bothering me.
It shouldn’t.
Ophelia’s act of rebellion pushed me in the opposite direction, like flipping a coin and landing on the side I didn’t want.
But with Prescott, that little spark of resistance, that pushback—it’s like flipping the coin and finding something I didn’t expect, the challenge, the unpredictability, something I didn’t even realize I was craving.
Ophelia’s eyes widen, hurt flashing across her features before she masks it with a coy smile.
“You don’t mean that. Remember all those nights we spent here? The passion, the—”
“Convenience,” I cut her off, my voice as crisp as the night’s breeze.
“You’re not making any sense,” she says, already reaching for the button on my pants.
“It’s just stress, I can take care of that.”
She forcefully frees my cock from its confines.
I feel Ophelia drop to her knees, but I’m too consumed by my own selfish desires to stop her.
I really was a heartless asshole.
Her mouth wraps around me, compliant.
Obedient. Boring.
“That’s right,” Ophelia coos seductively, encouraging me as she takes me into her mouth again, and I let myself drift away, lost in the pleasure.
My mind wanders elsewhere as she continues to please me.
Asshole . That’s what Prescott liked to remind me I was.
Fuck, she was so goddamn annoying.
Her eyes—those honey-colored flames—pierce my brain with that stubborn, unrelenting defiance.
She never backs down.
No matter how much I want her to quit, she doesn’t.
Her gaze burns into me, a challenge I can’t escape.
Fuck. I needed her gone.
Ophelia’s touch becomes background noise as my thoughts spiral, consumed by Prescott.
That fiery, unyielding stare.
The tight set of her jaw, the way she stands her ground like she’s daring me to break her.
It should make me hate her more, but instead it fucking sparks something in me, something I can’t control.
It’s infuriating. And yet, it’s fucking intoxicating .
“Bishop,” Ophelia moans, pulling away for a second.
“You like that, baby?”
I grunt in response, pushing her head back down.
She complies eagerly, mistaking my roughness for agreement.
If only she knew the tempest raging in my mind.
Prescott. Always Prescott.
Her refusal to bend, to break, to give in to my demands.
It’s maddening. And now, with the possibility of Sly getting his hands on her…
The thought makes my blood boil.
“Fuck,” I growl, my hips jerking involuntarily.
Ophelia makes a pleased sound, mistaking my reaction for enjoyment of her efforts.
But it’s Prescott I’m seeing, Prescott I’m imagining submitting to me.
My hands tangle in Ophelia’s hair, gripping tighter as the fantasy takes hold.
In my mind, it’s Prescott’s defiant eyes looking up at me.
The image is so vivid, so intoxicating, that I have to bite back a moan.
“Harder,” I command, my voice rough with need.
Ophelia obliges, her enthusiasm growing.
But it’s not enough.
It’s not her.
I close my eyes, letting the illusion overtake me completely.
It’s Prescott’s lips wrapped around me, Prescott’s throat constricting as she takes me deeper.
I imagine her eyes watering, but still blazing with that indomitable spirit.
Even in submission, I know she’ll be a force to be reckoned with.
The vision intensifies, consuming me.
I can almost feel Prescott’s silky, ash-blonde strands with a hint of green still streaked through it.
I see the fire in her eyes as she challenges me even in this vulnerable position.
My breath comes faster, my heart pounding in my chest.
“That’s it,” I growl.
“Take it all.”
Ophelia hums in response, the vibrations sending shockwaves through my body.
But in my mind, it’s Prescott’s muffled moan I hear, her defiance finally crumbling under the weight of her own desire.
I’m close now, teetering on the edge.
“Submit,” I command, my voice rough, needing the control.
The word echoes in my mind, a desperate plea disguised as an order.
In my fantasy, Prescott’s eyes flash with understanding, a mixture of rebellion and surrender swirling in their depths.
She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t yield completely, but there’s a shift in her demeanor that sends a jolt of electricity through my entire body.
My hips buck involuntarily, pushing deeper.
In reality, Ophelia adjusts seamlessly, but in my mind, Prescott gags slightly, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.
Tension coils tighter within me, a spring wound to its breaking point.
With a guttural groan, I tumble over the edge, my release crashing through me in waves of white-hot pleasure.
For a moment, reality and fantasy blur, and I swear I can taste Prescott’s defiance on my tongue.
Her rebellion sated beneath my cock.
As the aftershocks subside, the illusion slowly fades.
I open my eyes to find Ophelia looking up at me, her expression a mixture of satisfaction and pride.
“See, I told you I could make you feel less stressed,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
The words are like a bucket of ice water, dousing the lingering embers of my imagination.
I quickly tuck myself away, zipping up my pants as reality crashes back in like the relentless waves.
Guilt and disgust wash over me, not for using Ophelia—I’ve done that countless times before—but for allowing Prescott to invade my thoughts so completely.
“You’re welcome,” Ophelia hmphs, rising to her feet and brushing sand from her knees.
She leans in, clearly expecting a kiss, but I turn away, denying her.
“This means nothing more than what it is,” I say, my voice flat, cutting through the air like a blade.
“Stop fooling yourself into thinking it does.”
Her expression shifts, hurt quickly replaced by anger.
“You’re such an asshole, Bishop,” she spits, unknowingly mirroring Prescott’s words.
The word hits me like a punch, and a flash of rage ignites inside me.
No one— no one —gets to call me that.
Least of all her. With Prescott, it’s different.
I’m used to it from her, and for some screwed-up reason, it doesn’t piss me off the same way.
But from Ophelia? Fuck no.
“Did I give you permission to speak to me like that?” My voice drops to a dangerous tone.
“Apologize. Now.”
“I was just—”
“I said apologize,” I interrupt firmly, leaving no room for discussion.
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” I question.
Her shoulders slump as she gives a frustrated sigh, but she does as I request. “I’m sorry for speaking to you disrespectfully,” Ophelia mutters, her eyes downcast.
I nod, satisfied with her submission.
“Good. Now take off your top.”
She hesitates for a moment, clearly wanting to say more, but thinks better of it.
And as usual, she obeys without question, her hands moving quickly as they fumble with the buttons on her shirt.
Her obedience suddenly sickens me.
She’s just so ordinary.
So compliant. And so, so boring.
Ophelia’s shirt falls to the sand, and she stands there, exposed and vulnerable.
The breeze raises goosebumps on her skin, but she doesn’t move to cover herself.
Her eyes are fixed on me, a mixture of desire and resentment swirling in their depths.
I turn away from her, gazing out at the shore.
The familiar rocky edge that borders the perimeter of Altair’s watery depths glitters like a false promise, beautiful but hollow.
Just like Ophelia.
I shift back toward her, my hand reaching out to trace the curve of her collarbone.
She shivers at my touch, her breath catching.
“You like that?”
“Mmhmm,” she murmurs, leaning into my touch.
Her eyes flutter closed, savoring the moment.
I pull my hand away abruptly, leaving her bereft.
“Too bad,” I say, my voice void of any warmth or sympathy.
“Get dressed. You need to do something for me.”
Confusion flashes across her face, quickly replaced by anger.
“What? But I thought—”
“I want you to go find Prescott and bring her back here.”
“What. Why—”
“You want to make me happy, don’t you?”
Ophelia’s eyes shift, a flicker of defiance crossing her features before she masks it with practiced subservience.
“Of course I do,” she responds.
“But how am I supposed to accomplish that?”
“That’s not my problem,” I grunt, indifferent.
My mind is already made up.
“Fine,” she says, her voice clipped.
She bends down, retrieving her discarded clothing.
As she dresses, I turn back to the water, my thoughts drifting once again to Prescott.
The thick, ominous clouds, signal a storm to come.
They perfectly reflect the turmoil within me.
I need to regain control—over Prescott, over this situation, over myself.
This obsession is dangerous, a weakness I can’t afford.
“I’ll find her,” Ophelia says, her voice visibly tight, not that I care.
“But don’t expect me to work miracles. That girl hates you.”
I turn to her, a cruel smile twisting my lips.
“Make her curious. Appeal to her savior complex if you have to. Just get her here.”
Ophelia hesitates for a moment, her eyes searching my face.
Whatever she sees there makes her shoulders slump in resignation.
“Fine,” she says again.
“But this is the last time, Bishop. I’m not your puppet, I’m your girlfriend.”
Aren’t they the same thing, though?
I ignore her empty threat, knowing she’ll always come crawling back.
She’s too addicted to the scraps of affection I occasionally toss her way.
“You’re wasting time,” I command, waving her off dismissively.
As her footsteps fade away, I turn my attention back to the turbulent water ahead.
“And Ophelia,” I call after her.
“Don’t disappoint me.”
She doesn’t look back, but I see her shoulders stiffen at my words.
Good. Let her feel the weight of my expectations.
As she retreats, I’m left alone with my thoughts, the sound of her footsteps fading into the distance.
The wind picks up, carrying the sharp scent of precipitation and ozone.
Rain is approaching, and I can almost feel it—like Prescott.
Unpredictable, relentless, a force I can’t escape.
I close my eyes, trying to find some semblance of peace, but all I see is her.
Her defiance, her fire.
Just like the storm that’s coming, she’s always on the horizon, crashing through my mind, impossible to ignore.