Chapter 4
Ophelia
I can't breathe.
The shadows are gone, the lights are back, the temperature is normal, but I can't fucking breathe.
Again.
"That's,” deep inhale that somehow does not inflate my lungs properly. “—That's not possible," I manage to say, but my voice sounds far away, like I'm underwater.
My grasp on reality is slipping. I’m hallucinating. I have a concussion.
There are a million reasons that logically explain what I just witnessed.
"And yet." He raises a brow at me. It’s cocky, like he didn’t just complete disregard the laws of reality. "Here we are."
My legs give out.
I don't feel myself falling. One moment I'm standing, the next the world tilts sideways and the marble floor is rushing up to meet my face.
But I don't hit it.
Strong arms catch me, and suddenly I'm pressed against a solid chest. My face against expensive fabric, and the drum of a heartbeat under my ear. It’s steady. Calm. Completely at odds with the panic clawing up my throat.
"Easy," he says, voice soft. "I've got you."
I should push him away. I should scream, fight, do something. But I can't because now that I'm not standing, now that adrenaline is crashing out of my system, I realize how much everything hurts.
Every cell in my body, ever nerve, is alive, and they are all screaming. My head pounds from where I hit the sharp edges of the trunk, and I’m sure that if my ribs aren’t broken, they are bruised.
"I think—" I try to pull back, but my ribs scream. "Fuck. I think something's broken."
His arms tighten around me, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing. I want to protest, but I don't have the energy. My mind is foggy, and the pain is intense.
He carries me to the bed, that massive, black-sheeted bed I barely registered before, and sets me down carefully.
Fuck, I think. This is the most comfortable bed I have ever slept on. Whoever this guy is, and I still think he’s insane if he thinks that he is a God, he’s fucking loaded. I don’t hate it, even if I should.
The bed is much better than the floor. By leaps and bounds.
“Let me look.” He goes for my shirt, and I flinch. Those liquid eyes stare at me—a mixture of irritation and hurt. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me examine you.”
“Are you a doctor?”
He glares, and I know the answer.
“If you don’t trust me—”
I laugh, but this time the action makes me gasp in horrible pain. “Yeah,” I groan, rolling slightly to alleviate the pressure I feel. “Broken.”
“Can you please let me look?”
I open my mouth, No, on the tip of my tongue.
“You could have internal bleeding.”
Fuck. He’s right. I’m no doctor. I didn’t even go to college. But I’ve watched enough E.R. to know broken ribs could mean punctured lung, and I do feel a bit breathless.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But over the clothes, only.”
He says nothing. Instead, he gingerly lifts my arm, eyes examining the skin of my wrist gently.
“Ouch!” I gasp.
“This hurts?” His had is warm, and weirdly soothing, and there is concern in his gaze.
The intensity of it steals my breath, but only for a moment. I pull my arm back slightly, holding it close to my chest.
His jaw flexes, and I can tell he is clenching his teeth. “What happened?” he asks, his tone controlled. “Is this from the car?”
I shake my head, somehow trying to make him feel better.
"One of the men grabbed my wrist,” I hold it close to my chest. “I think he sprained it. I have an old injury here that he must have aggravated.”
His full lips press into a thin line. This knowledge makes him angry, even though I tried to absolve him of any guilt. “Anything else?”
"My ribs. I think on is broken, and my shoulder is killing me.
" I touch my forehead there is a raised bump under my hair.
I hiss as my fingers brush the space. “And my head.
Definitely my head." I laugh, and it comes out slightly hysterical.
"Probably a concussion. Or maybe I'm just losing my mind. Could be either at this point."
He's frowning now, and it's not the annoyed frown from earlier. This one looks almost... worried? What is he worried about? I should be the one concerned considering that I am hallucinating and kidnapped, my store is apparently trashed, and I probably have internal bleeding.
"You should be healing," he says, more to himself than to me. "Even with your memories suppressed, your divine nature should—" He reaches out, and I flinch.
He stops again. "Apologies,” he says, though he doesn’t look very sorry. “May I look?”
I nod, even though I shouldn’t. I should be trying to run out of this place.
“I’m going to need to lift your shirt,” he says. He doesn’t make a move, and I can’t help but wonder if this is some sort of ploy. After all, he’s kidnapped me, and yet, he’s been immensely kind.
I reach down and pull up my shirt, clutching the bottom of the fabric tightly in my hands.
His fingers brush against my ribs, feather-light, and I suck in a breath. Not from pain. From something else entirely. His fingertips are warm, and they feel nice against my cool skin. His brows knit together as he presses softly against my skin.
He’s so close, I can feel his warm breath against my skin, and I shiver.
"Cracked," he says, pulling back. "Not broken.
Your shoulder is badly bruised." His hand moves to my head, fingers sliding into my hair, and I should tell him to stop but I don't. "Concussion.
Mild." He pulls back, and the loss of his touch feels wrong.
"You should be healing already. Gods heal within hours, sometimes minutes. "
I close my eyes, subtly pulling away. I curse myself internally for allowing myself to get fooled. This dude us insane, and yet, I am sitting here, with my shirt under my breasts, allowing him to examine me and wax insane.
The panic hits me suddenly. What if he’s not insane. What if I am?
The shadows. The impossible cold. The way he moved, the way he knew things. The woman at my shop talking about powers. The cult.
None of this is real. It can't be real.
I scramble away from him, curling up, ignoring the way that the actions flare the heat in my ribs.
“Ophelia—” He reaches for me, but I curl away.
“Don’t touch me!” I yell.
He pulls back.
I’m hyperventilating.
“I'm having a psychotic break. That's what this is. I'm in a hospital somewhere, sedated, and this is all some fucked up hallucination brought on by trauma and head injury and—”
"Ophelia."
"This isn't real," I say. My hands are shaking. "This isn't happening. I'm—I'm sick. Like my mom. My dad always said—he always worried—"
"You are not sick."
"I am!” I gesture wildly at the room, at him, at everything.
I'm spiraling. I can feel it. The edges of my vision are getting dark again, and my chest is too tight, and I can't get enough air—
And then I feel it.
A stirring. Deep in my chest, like something waking up. Like roots pushing through soil. It's warm and insistent and utterly foreign, and it's spreading through my body like wildfire.
"What—" I look down at my hands and they're glowing. Faintly, green light pulsing beneath my skin.
"Ophelia—" Hades starts, but I'm not listening.
Because the plants are moving.
There's a wall of them near the bed, huge potted things I didn't notice before. Fiddle leaf figs, I think, and some kind of climbing philodendron. They're lush and green and completely out of place in this dark masculine room.
And they're growing.
I watch in horror as vines erupt from the philodendron, thick and fast and covered in new leaves. They shoot across the floor toward Hades like living whips, and I want to stop them, I need to stop them, but I don't know how.
"Stop," I gasp out. "Stop, stop, stop—"
But they don't stop. They wrap around his ankles, his legs, climbing higher. Within seconds he's covered in them, bound tight enough that a normal person wouldn't be able to move.
Hades looks down at the vines, then up at me. And he smiles.
"Fascinating," he says, like he's not currently being strangled by my homicidal houseplants. He looks euphoric even as the plants bite into his skin. And it’s not just that I can see him smiling…
I can feel it. The vines are transporting information to me, and as Hades, heart rate increases, I feel it through my body.
"I'm sorry," I'm saying, over and over. "I'm sorry, I don't—I don't know how—"
He flexes, just once, and the vines shatter. Not cut, not torn. They just disintegrate into ash and fall away from him like they were never there.
I gasp slightly, and his eyes grow concerned.
“Did that hurt?”
I can’t answer, but I press my uninjured hand into my chest.
“Fascinating,” he whispers. “You were never hurt by plant death unless you bore them.”
I can’t focus on what he’s saying. I’m too busy focusing on what the hell just happened.
"Oh god," I whisper. "Oh god, oh god—" I scramble off the bed, trying to get as far away as possible.
"Not god," Hades says, brushing ash from his suit. He's still smiling, and there's something in his eyes now. Something that looks like satisfaction. Like he's just confirmed something he wanted to believe. "Goddess."
I shake my head frantically. "No. No, that was—I didn't—"
"You did." He moves closer, and I press back against the desk, trying to make myself small.
"You called to the plants, and they answered.
Just as they always have. Just as they always will.
" He tilts his head, studying me. "Though you shouldn't be able to access your power if you can't heal. That's...unexpected."
"This isn't real," I say again, but even I don't believe it anymore. I cradle my head, closing my eyes tight. “Wake up O. Wake up.”
"You're exhausted," he says, his voice going soft again.
"Injured. You've been through a significant trauma tonight, and your power is surfacing for the first time in this life.
" He gestures to a door I hadn't noticed.
"There's a bathroom through there. Shower.
Rest. We'll talk more when you're thinking clearly. "
My eyes snap open."I'm not staying here."
"Yes," he says simply. "You are."
"You can't keep me here—"
"I can. And I will." He heads for the door. "For your own protection, if nothing else. The cult knows where you live, Ophelia. They know where you work. The only safe place for you right now is here. With me."
"I'll call the police—"
He ignores me, only pausing at the door. "Shower. Sleep. I'll have Hecate bring you something clean to wear."
“Who?”
Again, he says nothing, and before I know it, he’s gone.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway. Then I look down at my hands. They're not glowing anymore, but I can still feel it.
That warmth. That power.
I stumble towards the door my ribs screaming in protest. I pull the handle as hard as I can.
Locked.
Of course it's locked.
I try the handle again, pulling harder. Nothing.
"Let me out!" I yell, pounding on the door. "You can't! You can't just lock me in here!"
Silence.
I press my forehead against the door, and something that might be a laugh or might be a sob catches in my throat.
I'm a prisoner.
In a penthouse in Vegas.
Of a man who claims to be a god.
Who just might be telling the truth.