Chapter 17 #3
Ophelia makes a sound like she's been punched.
"That tattoo," she says, her voice shaking. "Where did you get it?"
I look down at the exposed mark—a scythe. The symbol of Demeter.
"All the faithful bear it," the cultist says. "The mark of Demeter's chosen. The symbol of those who serve the prophecy."
"No." Ophelia backs away, her hand moving to her throat. "No, that's not possible. My father—" She stops, her eyes going unfocused. She looks ill. She's shaking.
"Ophelia—"
"My father had that tattoo," she whispers. "On his chest. I remember—" Her breathing speeds up. "I remember asking him about it when I was little. He laughed it off. Told me it was a youthful folly, and I believed him. Why wouldn't I?" She looks at me, eyes wide and green, filled with unshed tears.
"Your father was one of us. A member of the faith." He snarls. "He betrayed us. Stole you away when you were just a child. Denied us the Maiden."
"Shut up!" Ophelia takes a step toward him. "My father would never be one of you. He would never—"
But he's not done.
"We've been searching for you for years. Ever since Martin took you."
Ophelia makes a sound like a wounded animal.
"My mother," she breathes, and her whole body is shaking now.
Her hands come up to her head, pressing against her temples like she's trying to hold her skull together.
"She was trying to kill me. She said—she said I had to die pure.
That I couldn't be corrupted. That," she inhales sharply, "that they could start again. "
Her knees buckle, and I catch her before she hits the ground, pulling her against my chest.
She's hyperventilating, her fingers digging into my shirt, her whole body trembling.
"Can't breathe," she gasps. "I can't—there's not enough—"
Panic attack.
"Ophelia." I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. "Breathe. Look at me and breathe."
Her eyes are wild, unfocused, and I fear I'm not going to be able to pull her back from the edge.
"I need—" She's pulling away, trying to escape my grip, trying to run. "I need out. I need to get out. I can't—"
"Thanatos," I snap. "Take care of this."
He steps forward, eyes gleaming as he looks at the man we've captured.
I release Ophelia, and she stumbles toward the door.
"Wait—" I start to follow.
She spins back, and I see tears streaming down her face, see the absolute devastation in her eyes.
"My father was in the cult," she says, and her voice breaks. "My mother tried to kill me. And what's worse is that they knew. They knew who I really was, and they both lied. They tried to harm me… Everything—everything I thought I knew about my life is a lie."
"Ophelia—"
"Don't." She backs away, her whole body shaking. "I need—I can't—"
She runs.
I should let her go. Should give her the space she needs to process this revelation.
But I can't.
I can't watch her run from me again.
I flash after her, materializing in the corridor just as she's stumbling against the obsidian wall. She's hyperventilating, her hands pressed against the stone like she needs something solid to hold onto.
"Ophelia."
She spins to face me, and I see the devastation in her eyes.
"I don't know anything," she says, and her voice is raw.
"I don't know who I am. I don't know what's real.
My father was one of them. My mother tried to murder me.
My whole life—" She laughs, but it's broken, edged with hysteria.
"Ophelia doesn't even exist. I'm just—I'm just a vessel.
Something they bred me for. I'm not even a person, I'm a—"
"Stop." I cross to her in two strides, gripping her shoulders. "That's not true."
"Isn't it?" She stares up at me, tears streaming down her face. "I couldn't remember, but now I do. We lived there. They... they bred me." Her voice breaks. "I'm not real, Hades. I never was."
"You're real." My hands move to cup her face, forcing her to look at me.
"You're the most real thing I've ever known.
You're not a vessel. You're not a prophecy.
You're Ophelia. You're stubborn and sarcastic and you make terrible jokes when you're nervous.
You care about people. You bring life wherever you go. That's real. You're real."
She shakes her head, and I feel her tears against my palms. "That's rich, coming from you."
The words hit harder than they should.
"What does that mean?"
"You've been lying to me since the beginning." Her voice is bitter. "You don't want me. You want your wife. Just like the cult does."
I know there are no words I can speak to her right now. She can't hear them.
So instead, I do the only thing I can.
I kiss her. I pour myself into it, letting her know how much I see her, how much I feel her.
It's desperate and possessive and probably unfair. She's in pain, she's breaking, and I'm using her vulnerability to take what I want.
Her gasp of surprise parts her lips, and I take advantage, deepening the kiss, pouring everything I can't say into the contact. My hands move from her face to her waist, pulling her against me, anchoring her to something solid while her world falls apart.
For a moment, she freezes.
Then she kisses me back.