Chapter 24
I wake up with Amara's name on my lips, the ache between my thighs pulsing like a bruise. "I miss Amara," I mumble, voice thick with sleep. "I want to go see her."
Rhys is already dressed, standing by the window in a black shirt with silver buttons that catch the morning light. He turns, studying me with those dark eyes. "I've got work to do today anyway, doll. My men will drive you. They'll collect you at three."
"Alright," I say, stretching carefully. Every movement reminds me of last night—the ritual, the table, the way he fucked me while the coven chanted around us.
He leaves to make calls, and I slip out of bed.
My clothes are waiting on a chair—new ones, still with tags.
Black lace knickers, sheer enough to see through.
A black corset top with delicate straps and a sweetheart neckline that pushes my tits up just right.
Over that, a long black skirt with a slit up one side, showing flashes of thigh when I walk.
Black fishnet stockings and heavy combat boots with silver buckles.
A black velvet choker with a small silver crescent moon.
Everything fits perfectly, like he measured me in my sleep.
After I take a shower using his shampoo and body wash, and clean my teeth, I dress up in everything he gave him.
I walk over to him as though I'm coming for a gun only for my hand to go to his jacket. His wallet is in the inside pocket. I pull it out, open it, and take a handful of notes without counting.
"Thank you," I say sweetly, as I slip them into my bag, put the wallet back, and smile. I put his wallet back in his jacket.
His expression shifts. He pulls the wallet out himself, opens it, and empties every note onto my palm. Stacks of twenties and fifties. I count them quickly in my head—eight hundred pounds. My mouth goes dry.
"Rhys, this is... fuck, this is too much. I just needed a few pounds."
He just shrugs, like money means nothing. "You'll need it."
I don't know what to say, so I just smile nervously and stuff the cash away.
His bodyguards are waiting outside—two men in black, silent as shadows. They drive me to Amara's in a sleek black car. She opens the door in fishnets and a torn band tee, her eyes widening when she sees my outfit.
"Holy shit, you look like you crawled out of a Victorian wet dream," she laughs, pulling me inside.
We spend two hours catching up, sprawled on her bed with music playing low. Eventually I sit up. "Can you take me to get some Plan B?"
Amara's eyebrows shoot up. "You shagged him again?"
"In the coven tent, too," I admit. "We had sex on the table while they bound our souls together."
Her face lights up like Christmas. "No fucking way. Tell me everything. Was it hot? Did they watch? Did you come? Oh my god, I want that. I want someone to bind my soul while I'm getting railed on an altar."
She won't shut up about it the whole walk to the pharmacy. I grab a box of Plan B, then another, then another. Six boxes total. "This should be enough for now," I mutter.
"You thinking about the pill?" she asks.
I shake my head. "Don't know how long this thing with Rhys will last."
"Probably until the afterlife, since your souls are literally bound by a coven," she says matter-of-factly.
I blush and look away. I ask her if she wants anything instead, and she shakes her head.
At the counter, I pay for everything and get a bottle of water. I crack it open right there, pop the first pill, and swallow it while the cashier stares.
"How was the succubus last night?" I ask as we walk out.
Amara groans, but it's a happy sound. "Tried to get her name. Wouldn't tell me. Treated me like a client. Refused a date. By the time she was done with me, I was too fucked out to remember to ask again."
"She's taken me home twice now," I say. "On Rhys's orders."
Amara stops dead in the street. "And you're just telling me this now?" She grabs my arm. "Get him to tell you her name. I want to call her. Maybe she'll say yes to a date if I ask properly using her name. Come on, Ophelia. Do it for me, I need that devilish woman."
I nod, already wondering how I'm going to bring that up with Rhys.
We’re barely a block away from the pharmacy when three of them step out from a side street, blocking our path like they own the fucking pavement. Two lads and a girl, all around twenty, looking like the kind of posh, entitled pricks who think a trip to the local pub is a personality trait.
One of the blokes—a tall, arrogant tosser with a smirk that makes me want to punch him in the throat—locks his eyes on Amara. He doesn't even look at me.
"Can't believe it," he draws out, his voice dripping with fake disappointment. "I'm actually shocked you haven't come crawling back to beg me for another go, Amara."
Amara stops dead. The air around her shifts instantly; she goes from bubbly and excited to fucking lethal in a heartbeat. She looks him up and down with a look of pure disgust.
"Why the fuck would I miss you?" she snaps, her voice sharp as a razor. "You look like a fucking muppet from Sesame Street."
The bloke doesn't even flinch. He steps closer, radiating a confidence that’s entirely unearned. "I don't give a toss if I'm a muppet to you, love. 'Cause I hit that pussy so hard you nearly called me the Cookie Monster."
I blink, my jaw tightening. The sheer audacity of this prick is staggering. I'm standing there in my lace and leather, feeling the weight of Rhys’s money in my bag and the ghost of his touch on my skin, and this little worm is trying to play the big man.
Amara doesn't shrink. She bursts out laughing, a loud, mocking sound that echoes off the brick walls. "Me? Call you a Cookie Monster? Gray, fuck no. When you put that little dick in, it only tickled me, Elmo. You couldn't even break my hymen."
The second lad’s mouth drops open. He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, physically shaking as he tries to keep from howling with laughter at his mate's expense.
I can't help it; a small, wicked smile tugs at my lips. God, she’s savage.
I’ve spent so much of my life being the victim, the quiet girl, the broken thing, but watching Amara absolutely dismantle this prick's ego is fucking intoxicating. It’s a different kind of power than what Rhys has, but it’s just as satisfying.
Gray’s smirk doesn't just fade; it vanishes, replaced by a dark, ugly flush of rage. He looks like he’s about to pop a vein.
"You're just a fucking joke," Gray spits, his voice turning nasty. "Always talking about how you 'came out' gay. We all know the truth, you pathetic slag. You're only taking pussy because you can't get any dick. You're a failure at being a woman, so you've settled for the scraps."
The insult is sharp, designed to draw blood, but Amara doesn't even blink. She steps toward him, her eyes blazing.
"You're always talking about how I came out gay like it's actually going to make me go back to being straight," she sneers. "I would rather scissor a girl until we both bleed than be your little bitch for one more second."
She doesn't stop there. She’s on a roll now, leaning into his space, stripping him bare in front of his mates.
"And you will never touch me again. If you think you're trying to play chess with me, then I'm the best. I'll take you like you're a fucking pawn.
You think you're some big alpha man? The truth is you're a tiny-dicked prink.
If you want a fight, I will fuck you up, bitch. Checkmate."
Gray looks like he’s about to snap. His fists clench, and he lunges forward, his face contorted with rage. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Amara reach into her bag for her pepper spray, but she’s a second too slow.
I don't think. I just move.
I step firmly between them, my boots clicking hard on the concrete.
I don't say a word. I don't have to. I just stand there, my shoulders back, my gaze cold and unwavering. I make it crystal clear: if he wants to get to Amara, he has to go through me first. I might be smaller, but I’ve been through hell and back; a little town prick like Gray doesn't scare me.
The girl with them, a blonde with a pinched face and an expression of pure malice, lets out a shrill scream. "You fucking bitch!" she yells at Amara.
Amara, still tucked behind me with the pepper spray gripped tight in her hand, narrows her eyes. "Nicole. I see you're still a cunt. Just so we're clear, I'm not that same girl from high school who let you bully her for being goth."
Nicole sneers, looking at Amara with utter contempt. "You're just mad that I was getting more dick than you ever did. That's the only reason you went gay—because you were a loser then and you're a loser now."
I actually let out a laugh. A genuine, airy laugh at the sheer, pathetic absurdity of it all. I hold up one finger, silencing her.
"A woman helping men to bully another woman," I say, my voice calm but cutting. "Not cute, Nicole. Not fucking cute."
Nicole’s eyes snap to me. She looks me up and down, her lip curling. "And look at this. The town freak. The freak girl suddenly got a voice after staying mute for years? What happened, did you finally stop crying over your sisters being butchered?"
The air goes cold. The mention of my sisters is like a physical blow, but I don't flinch.
“The freak girl, dressed like it's Goth Weekend three hundred and sixty days a year, like anyone's fooled. You're not gothic, Ophelia, you're just wearing your dead mum's cast-offs because that's all your family could scrape together. At least the rest of us know it's a costume.”
"Stay in your place, Ophelia Sorrell," Nicole sneers, stepping closer. "Be the quiet little Whitby town freak girl who can't even look people in the eye. A freak bitch who wears Victorian dresses that don't match the time, looking like an odd duck. That's all you'll ever be. Just a freak.”