Chapter 6 - Ophelia
Ophelia
The shower helped. Sort of.
At the very least, it washed off the cloying scent of patchouli and sweat that clung to me.
I stayed under the hot water until it ran lukewarm, allowing it to wash away the blood, dirt, and the feeling of hands grabbing me in the dark.
But it didn't wash away the memory of vines erupting from my hands.
Or of the man who called himself Hades who'd moved me across time and space via shadows.
Allegedly.
Because I still don't believe that actually happened. Even though a part of me can still feel the sensation of Hades—what the fuck kind of name is that—breaking through the plants.
When I get out of the shower, there's a silk, cream night set on the bed, along with a bra and underwear, lace and expensive.
The fact that they are the perfect size freaks me out and lends credence to Hades—still struggling with that—being some sort of stalker.
But beggars can't be choosers, and I don't want to put on my stained jeans and t-shirt, so despite myself, I slip into the expensive, clean nightclothes.
They smell new, so I know they've been purchased for me.
Inhaling, I try to calm myself.
I can't afford to spiral. So instead of curling up in a ball and allowing myself to fall apart, I take inventory of my injuries.
My wrist is red and swollen, but I can move it without excruciating pain, which means that it is unlikely to be broken. My ribs are purple, and they hurt horrendously.
Outside of those two things, everything else appeared superficial, scratches and bruises.
They would all heal. And honestly, my injuries aren't the only problem.
I'm clearly losing my mind. Which is much more terrifying than the injuries across my body.
I press my hand against my chest, fingers finding the raised scar tissue through the silk. The one my father never talked about. The one that reminds me of why he took me away from her. From my mother.
When I was old enough to recognize the scar, and ask questions about it, my father gave me a very vague account.
She'd snapped, my mother, lost her mind, and took it out on me, tried to end my life in a haze of hallucination.
And now, I'm losing it as well.
Just like she did.
My worst fears are coming to light.
"No," I say out loud, because hearing my own voice helps. "No, you're not. You're just," I take a deep breath. "You're in shock. You were kidnapped. Twice. That's," I inhale sharply, "—that's normal. Normal reaction to abnormal circumstances."
My inner voice reminds me that gods, vines, and shadows were all not normal.
"Hallucination," I counter, still pacing. "Concussion. I hit my head. Multiple times. Concussions cause hallucinations."
I look down at my hands. They are shaking slightly, and I take a deep, steadying breath, flexing my fingers to try and rid myself of the feeling of vines.
"Shared psychosis," I try. "He believes he's a god, and I'm—I'm susceptible because of trauma and—"
The door opens.
I spin around, and he's there. Hades. Still in that perfect suit, though he's lost the jacket, and somehow, he looks more delectably dangerous.
His shirtsleeves are rolled up, exposing muscular forearms. Those liquid gold-flecked eyes find mine immediately, and I feel a part of me, the primal part, clench in desire for him.
He might be a psychopath, but he is incredibly handsome, and I am only a woman. I'm not going to ignore the way he exudes sexiness.
"You should be resting," he says, walking inside as though he didn't lock me inside.
"You should be in a psychiatric facility," I snap back. I try not to think about how vulnerable I am standing there in a tiny silk set.
I hesitate, just for a moment, and then I make for the door before I can think too much about it.
Shadows wrap around my waist.
Not rough. Not painful. But completely immovable. They're cool against my skin, solid despite being made of nothing, and they pull me back gently but firmly until I'm standing exactly where I was before.
"Let me go," I say, trying to keep my voice steady and failing. I blink several times. Wake up. Wake up. I attempt to remain outwardly calm, though inside I am having a meltdown.
I wonder if Hades can tell.
"I will." He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "Once you listen to what I have to say."
"I don't want to hear it," I growl. "I want to go home."
"Ophelia." My name, said in his dark, gruff voice, makes that lower ache clench hard. "Please."
The shadows release me. I stumble slightly, pressing my back against the wall, as far from him as I can get. He doesn't move closer, just stands there, hands in his pockets, looking at me like I'm something breakable, which honestly, pisses me off.
"I shouldn't have locked you in," he says finally. "I—" He stops, jaw tightening. "I was trying to protect you, but that doesn't excuse frightening you further. You'd just been taken. Restrained. And I—" Another pause, a swallow, as though the words are stuck in his throat. "I apologize."
I wasn't expecting an apology. It throws me off balance more than the shadows did. Hades doesn't look like the type of man who apologizes frequently.
"Are you letting me go?" I ask, pretty sure I know the answer.
"No. I'm not."
"So, the apology is pretty fucking empty."
He tips his head, conceding. "I suppose it is."
At least he's honest about being a controlling asshole. I suppose that's more than most men do.
"I want to go home," I say, and I hate how my voice cracks on the last word. "I want—I want my shop, and my apartment, and my life. I want—"
"I know." He takes a step closer, and I press myself against the wall. He stops. "But those men who took you, that woman? They're part of something larger. Something that won't stop until they have you."
"I'll call the police."
"The police can't help you."
"The FBI—"
"Can't help you."
"Then I'll leave the city," I throw up my hands in defeat. "Disappear. Change my name. Go on the lam or whatever."
"They'll find you." His voice is flat, certain. "They've been looking for you for years, Ophelia. They found you once. They'll find you again."
My blood runs cold. "Years?" There's no fucking way anyone, especially a cult, have been looking for me for years. I'm no one. The daughter of a poor man who bounced from job to job and barely made enough to keep a roof over our head.
We were nobodies.
"I suspect they've known about you since you were a child. But they lost track of you at some point. I'm not sure why or how." He sees my expression of confusion. "You moved frequently, correct?"
"How do you know that?" I ask, voice shaking. My eyes narrow. "Have you been stalking me?"
"No," he says, plainly. "I did a background check on you."
My mouth drops. I don't answer, but I don't need to. He can see it in my face.
"You lived in thirty different houses over two years."
I narrow my eyes. "My father had trouble finding work."
"Because he didn't exist until you were five."
"What?" My father very much existed. "I have no idea what you are talking about."
Hades's eyes narrow, and I try not to squirm under his gaze.
It feels as though he is looking right into my soul, and I do not like it.
"Your father, nor you, existed for years.
At least, not as far as the government is concerned.
No birth certificate, no social security number, none of the things that are usually needed in this world. "
My mouth drops. I am so confused. "That's not…" I shake my head. "We moved for work. My dad was in construction…" I think back to that time. My memories are fuzzy, after all, it was twenty years ago, and I wasn't of an age where I'd been thinking much about paperwork.
"I think he knew that the cult was looking for you, and that he did his best to keep you hidden."
I swallow thickly, trying to make sense of what he is saying. It feels like a lie, but at the same time, I can't argue. My father was indeed…shady…at times. And I, better than anyone else, knew he had secrets.
"Looking at your business documents, you bought your storefront a year ago, correct?"
I narrow my eyes and take a step forward, my anger replacing my fear. "How much fucking info—"
"I told you, I did a background check," he interrupts. "My guess is that the cult has been waiting for you to pop up, and you did when you filed those papers. There would have been enough information for them to put things together. They probably would have watched you as well."
My head is spinning. "This is insane," I say, as I start pacing up and down.
"My father was a construction worker. We barely made ends meet.
When he died, he left me with a shitty apartment, and a mediocre life insurance policy that allowed me to buy the store, and it's fucking floundering.
I don't understand what you all want." I look up at him, this tall, dangerous man, and try not to cry.
"Why me? What did I do?" I tangle my hands in my hair, trying not to pull the wet strands out in frustration.
"You didn't do anything." For a moment, I think he's going to come towards me, take me in his arms, but instead, he hesitates and makes a move towards the bar cart in the room.
He says nothing as he pours two drinks, brings one to me, putting it on top of a dresser. I appreciate he doesn't make an attempt to touch me. I don't think I could take it. I'm on edge. "It's what you are."
"I'm a florist."
"You're Persephone, a goddess."
"I'm not—" I shake my head. I inhale sharply. My stomach is turning, and I want to crumble on the floor and scream. This is more than a single person should be expected to deal with.