Chapter 33
OPHELIA
Time had lost its shape. It had dissolved into a muddy, terrifying loop of shivering cold and the dripping of water somewhere in the dark.
I didn't know how long I had been in the cell. Hours? Days? The darkness was absolute, save for the sliver of sickly yellow light that bled under the heavy iron door. My stomach had twisted from a hollow ache into a sharp, cramping pain, demanding sustenance that wasn't coming.
They had thrown a bowl of something into the room earlier—a grey, gelatinous sludge that smelled of sour milk and rot. I hadn't touched it. I would rather starve than let whatever poison Malathor brewed into my veins.
My wrists were raw. The ropes had been replaced by iron manacles that chafed against the skin, cold and unforgiving. They were chained to the wall now, giving me just enough slack to sit on the damp straw mattress or stand with my back hunched.
I stared at the door. I could hear him breathing on the other side.
The guard.
He wasn't an Obscurer like Rosette, nor a high-born mage like Malathor.
He was a low-Cenite, a hired thug with barely enough magic to light a candle, but enough muscle to snap my neck.
I could smell him through the cracks—unwashed skin, cheap fabrics, and the metallic tang of a sword that had seen too much use.
"Please," I called out. My voice was a broken rasp, dry as parchment. "Hey!"
The breathing stopped. A heavy boot scraped against the stone.
"Please," I tried again, licking my cracked lips. "Just... tell me where we are. That’s all. Are we near the coast? I can smell salt."
Silence.
"My family will pay you," I lied. I had no family who would pay. Cain wouldn't pay; he would just kill. But this male didn't know that. "I am Ophelia Alistair of House Alistair. My lineage is valuable. Whatever Malathor is paying you, I can double it. Just let me go."
The lock clicked.
Hope, bright and foolish, flared in my chest. I scrambled up, the chains rattling loudly.
The door swung open, and the guard stepped in. He was a brute, his face scarred, his eyes small and mean. He didn't look like a savior. He looked like a butcher eyeing a carcass.
"You never shut up, do you?" he grunted.
"I can make you rich," I pressed, desperate, backing away until my shoulders hit the cold stone wall. "You don't have to—"
His hand moved faster than I expected for someone so large.
The slap sounded like cracking ice in the small room.
My head snapped to the side, my vision whitening. The force of it threw me off balance, and I crumbled to the straw, the taste of copper flooding my mouth. My cheek, already cut by Rosette’s magic, throbbed with a fresh, blinding agony.
I gasped, looking up at him through a curtain of hair, shock paralysing my lungs.
"Rich?" he sneered, looming over me. He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back, forcing me to look at his yellowing teeth. "You think you have power here, little bitch? You are a package. A parcel to be opened by Master.”
He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his breath reeking of onions and stale ale.
"Malathor said to keep you alive. He didn't say I couldn't have a taste." His eyes dropped to the thin silk of my nightgown, torn at the hem and stained with the grime of the floor. "You keep running that pretty mouth, demanding things, and I’ll gag you with my cock. Do you understand?"
Terror, cold and primal, washed over me. It was a familiar terror—the kind that lived in the marrow of my bones, planted there by a father who had looked at me with the same disdain.
"I understand," I whispered, tears leaking from my eyes.
"Good." He shoved me back against the wall, my head cracking against the stone. “Now shut the fuck up."
He stormed out, slamming the door. The lock engaged with a finality that echoed in my soul.
I curled into a ball, pulling my knees to my chest, trembling so violently my teeth chattered. I wiped the blood from my lip, staring at the stain on my hand.
Cain.
The name floated to the surface of my mind, unbidden.
It was ironic, a twisted cosmic joke. I was sitting in a room that offered the comforts of a dungeon, terrified of a male threatening to assault me, and my heart was crying out for the Prince of Death.
Cain was a monster. I knew that. He was violence incarnate, a storm of shadows and temper.
But he had never looked at me like that.
When Cain looked at me, it was with intensity, yes, with possession, certainly—but never with that greasy, dehumanising hunger.
Cain’s touch was heavy, but it wasn't cruel. It was a demand, not a theft.
I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking back and forth. He would kill them, I thought, a vicious comfort blooming in my chest. If he saw this... if he saw the bruise forming on my face... he would tear this male apart.
I clung to that image. I clung to the idea of Cain’s rage like a shield.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch, twisting into unnatural shapes.
The lock clicked again.
I flinched, scrambling back into the corner, covering my chest with my arms.
But it wasn't the guard.
The door opened smoothly, and the air in the room instantly grew colder, heavier. The scent of musk and expensive wine drifted in, masking the smell of damp straw.
Malathor entered, looking immaculate in a velvet coat, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Beside him, Rosette glided in, her purple dress a slash of violence against the grey stone.
"Still in one piece?" Rosette drawled, her eyes raking over me with boredom. "I told the guard he could cut a finger off if you were annoying."
"We need her pristine, darling,” Malathor said, though his eyes were cold as he looked at me. "Mostly."
He stepped closer, and I tried to press myself through the stone wall. The chains clinked, a pitiful sound of captivity.
"You haven't eaten," Malathor noted, nudging the bowl of sludge with his polished boot. "A pity. You'll need your strength."
"Go to hell," I croaked.
Malathor chuckled. "I own this hell, Ophelia. You are merely renting space."
He gestured to Rosette. "Leave us."
My heart stopped. I looked at the Cenite—the one who hated me, who wanted me dead—and for a split second, I wanted to beg her to stay. Because being alone with Malathor felt infinitely worse.
Rosette narrowed her eyes, her jealousy radiating off her like heat waves. She lives to be the center of attention. "Why? Do you plan to play with the toy before the Prince of Death arrives?"
"I plan to inspect the merchandise," Malathor said sharply. "Go. Check the perimeter wards. I feel... disturbances."
Rosette scoffed, shooting me one last look of pure venom before turning and sweeping out of the room. The heavy door closed, but didn't lock.
I was alone with him.
Malathor turned his attention back to me. The amused smile dropped. In its place was a look of clinical, predatory curiosity.
"So," he said softly, taking a step toward me. "The Prince of Death chose you."
He circled me, like a shark sensing blood in the water.
"I always wondered what his taste was. His whores were always so diverse. I assumed he liked them stronger. More... formidable." He stopped, looming over me, his shadow falling across my face. "But looking at you... trembling, weak, pathetic... perhaps Cain just likes things he can break easily."
"He didn't break me," I whispered, my voice shaking. "You won't either."
"Won't I?"
He crouched down, bringing his face level with mine. He reached out, his hand hovering over my knee. I flinched, kicking out, but he caught my ankle in a grip of steel.
"Does he touch you?" Malathor asked, his voice dropping to a murmur. It wasn't a question of romance; it was an invasion. "Does he spread these legs and take what he thinks he owns?"
I stared at him, horror freezing the air in my lungs. He was enjoying this. He was getting off on my fear.
"Or is he too noble?" Malathor sneered, his thumb pressing hard into the soft flesh of my calf. "Does he play the gentleman? Because I assure you, Ophelia... when he comes for you—and he will come—I am going to show him exactly what he failed to do."
He leaned in, his eyes dark and empty.
"I am going to take you right here on this filth. In front of him. I want him to watch. I want him to see me claiming his prize while he screams behind a barrier he cannot break."
The image he painted was vivid, horrific. Me, pinned down. Cain, helpless.
Tears welled in my eyes, hot and stinging. My body betrayed me, trembling uncontrollably. I was the victim again. Always the victim. First my parents, my mother selling me off like cattle. Then the world, ignoring my pain. Then Cain, locking me away. And now this.
Something inside me fractured.
But it wasn't a break. It was a snap.
A sudden, blinding flare of rage ignited in the centre of my chest. It burned through the fear. It burned through the trauma.
I was so tired of being the thing things happened to. I was so tired of males thinking I was nothing but glass to be shattered.
I looked at Malathor. I saw the arrogance in his eyes, the certainty that I was already defeated.
And I lied.
"You know nothing about him," I spat.
The words came out stronger than I intended. Malathor paused, his eyebrows raising.
I forced myself to hold his gaze. I forced my chin to lift, despite the terror hammering in my pulse.
"You think he is gentle?" I let out a harsh, jagged laugh. "You think Cain is a gentleman?"
I leaned forward, fighting the urge to vomit, and let the lie spill out, weaving a tapestry of protection around the male I was starting to love by claiming him in the most primal way possible.
"He fucks me like he hates me," I hissed, my voice trembling with a faux passion that shocked even me. "He touches me like he owns my soul, Malathor. He doesn't ask. He takes. And he does it with a fire that you could never summon in a thousand lifetimes."
I saw Malathor’s eyes widen. I saw the shock ripple through him.