Chapter 18
eighteen
OPHELIA
I didn't have much time on my own.
A few moments after I was standing beneath the water, I felt eyes on me.
A pair of gigantic hands brushed my bare waist lightly, seconds later.
I probably shouldn't have leaned against Dante's chest after what he'd said, but I leaned against him anyway. Regardless of his newfound assholery, he had definitely saved my ass in the penitentiary the night before.
Sure, maybe I could've figured it all out and done it all myself. But with how close things had been, that wasn't likely.
So, I cuddled.
He pulled me closer in response.
My eyes closed as he held me beneath the hot, falling water.
It shouldn't have been so comfortable.
It shouldn't have felt so right.
But it was. And it did.
I let out a long sigh. "I need to start washing up."
"Why?"
"I have to figure out what to do about the prison."
"Your throat is covered in bruises, you're so exhausted that your wings are drooping, and you scared the hell out of me. You're not lifting a finger today."
"I don't remember hiring you as my boss."
"You'd be better off if I was. A mate is a lot less tolerable when it comes to you risking yourself than a boss." He gently plucked something out of my feathers. I glanced over, and found a small chunk of clay between his fingers. "I'm washing these for you."
"No way. I'm too tired to fuck you right now, and that's exactly what's going to happen if you try to wash my wings."
"You being too tired for sex is the first thing we've agreed on since you woke up."
"No. We agree that my rescue plan went to shit in the prison."
"Do we also agree that you should've included me in that plan and taken me with you in the first place?" he asked, his voice measured.
"We do," I admitted.
"Then there are three things we agree on."
"New record," I mumbled, my eyes closing as Dante grabbed some soap and carefully began to clean my wings.
Every touch made me warmer, but he clearly wasn't trying to turn me on. He knew exactly how to touch me when he wanted to do that, and he was avoiding the parts of my wings that he knew were the most sensitive.
All of the tension in my body seeped away as he worked the soap through my feathers with one hand, holding my weight up with his other arm around my waist. A disturbing amount of dried clay fell when he did, but I was enjoying his touch too much to care.
Dante washed my hair after my feathers, and carried me back to bed half-asleep when I was done. My bare body was draped over his as he settled on the bed, my wings draped out on either side of us.
"This is my favorite way to sleep," I mumbled, barely conscious. "I missed it, after the prison."
His arm tightened around my waist. "I did too. You should've said something."
"Why?"
"We're mates, Angel."
"Doesn't feel like it."
His chest rumbled. "It will."
His quiet promise followed me into sleep.
I woke up in the same position I'd fallen asleep in, but one of Dante's arms rested lightly on my shoulder blade. I could hear the soft sound of his thumbs on the screen of his phone, a foot or so away from my head.
I breathed in slowly, and his scent filled my lungs. I felt... good. Really good.
Maybe even amazing.
Some deep, forgotten part of me didn’t want it to end.
I felt genuinely safe, for the first time in as long as I could remember. Maybe ever.
It was the kind of feeling a woman could get drunk on, or lost in.
It took me a few minutes to reassemble the walls I kept around my heart. To remember why I had distanced myself from everyone—and Dante in particular.
I reminded myself of him referring to me as an object he’d protect to get himself out of the prison.
The way I always felt vulnerable after screwing anyone—but especially him.
The way he’d abandoned me after reluctantly knotting me in the studio.
The way work always came first for him.
He was even working on his phone while he held me in the bed he claimed was going to be ours. Which was fine. He probably hadn’t even been tired.
But it supported a pattern.
I needed to remind myself of that, to protect myself.
After a few minutes, I’d retaken control of my emotions enough. I lifted my wings, stretching lightly, and raised my head.
Dante’s attention was on me immediately, his hand guiding my wing as I eased it off his arm. The touch was intimate, but I’d steadied myself against the sensation.
I put my wings away and sat up slowly. My bare body was slick with sweat, but my stomach was growling something fierce.
“You’ve got to be starving. Here,” I held my wrist to Dante’s face awkwardly, trying to avoid the discomfort of waking up together in my bed, completely naked, when I was trying to avoid feeling things for him.
Instead of biting my wrist, he kissed it. Lightly.
Then he released it, and he sat up too.
The motion slid me down his abdomen.
My eyes widened slightly as his erection rested against my center, the tip near my asshole.
“Do you want to bite my throat, or…” I trailed off.
Dante surprised me by tossing the blanket aside and sliding to the edge of the bed. “I can hear your stomach growling, Angel. There’s no world in which I bite you while you’re starving.”
“Okay, but…” I trailed off again as he stood up, lifting me with him.
Grabbing his shoulders for support, I hooked my legs around his back to keep myself balanced.
Dante crossed the room, carrying me into the closet and setting me down on my feet. “Get dressed. I’m taking you to breakfast.”
“Breakfast? Like, at a restaurant? I don’t really like—okay, then.” I muttered the last two words as he left me in the closet, alone.
I pulled a sports bra on quickly, and was stepping into a pair of neon panties when he came striding back into the closet. There were a bunch of clothing protection bags draped over his shoulder, and a stack of boxes in his arms.
“You’re seriously moving in?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“We should discuss that first.”
“Like we should’ve discussed your prison rescue plan?”
Ouch.
Okay, I kind of deserved that.
I recovered quickly. “That was only one night. Are you only moving in for one night, or—“
“That nearly cost us both your whole life, Ophelia. I’m moving in. Permanently. It's not up for debate.”
So, this was a losing battle.
Cool.
Time to change gears.
“We should at least have our own rooms if we’re going to—“
“Not happening.” Dante hung his clothing bags on an empty rack. The closet was easily big enough for ten times as many clothes as I had, with built in drawers all over the place and tons of space on the racks.
He opened the first box and started loading his clothes into one of the drawers.
Dammit.
I finally pulled my panties the rest of the way on.
They… didn’t feel quite normal.
I grabbed another pair from the drawer and checked the brand.
“When did you replace my underwear?” I asked him.
“When I moved you in.”
My eyebrows shot upward.
I’d been living on coffee and focused on pottery, so it wasn’t hard to believe that I’d missed the change, but still.
“Why?”
“Because yours were shitty, and your ass deserves the best. I ordered you new bras in the same style as yours, too, but the pixie boutique they’re coming from doesn’t work quickly.” He set a box aside and opened the next one.
I blinked.
There was a pause.
I decided against yelling at him. What was the point? He’d just complimented my ass and bought me more comfortable undergarments.
I wasn’t insane enough to be mad about that, even though it was obviously over the line.
“Don’t replace my overalls,” I finally said.
“I know better than that.” Dante finished emptying the last box, then disappeared from the closet again. He was back with more boxes while I was leafing through my overall options, trying to decide which one would work for the breakfast.
“What kind of restaurant are we going to?” I checked.
“A casual one.”
“Thank god.” My relief was impossible to miss.
“I know you well enough not to take you to a five-course breakfast, Ophelia.”
“Apparently.” I grabbed my favorite pair of overalls and stepped into them.
Dante made quick work of putting the rest of his clothes away, then stepped into a pair of boxer briefs and unzipped one of his clothing bags.
I eyed him. “Are you putting on business clothes to take me to breakfast?”
He stopped, his hands on the fabric. “Yes?”
“Is that a question?”
“Is it?” He looked back at me.
“Do you have jeans or something? I’m going to look like a crazy person next to you in paint-stained overalls.”
“I have a pair of sweats.”
“One pair? That’s the only thing you have other than business clothes?”
“Yes.” He sounded reluctant to admit it. "Ordering more wasn't a priority."
“We’ll go shopping after breakfast, then.”
He gave me a look. “If I’m buying myself casual clothes, I’m buying you nice clothes, too. There's at least one boutique in the city that keeps clothing stocked that works with wings.”
I made a face at him. “It’s not the same.”
“It is.”
“Fine.” I padded out to the bathroom. Dante joined me while I slathered lotion all over my skin. He was eyeing my face lotion, so I slid the gigantic bottle toward him. He hesitated a beat before pumping some into his hand.
"It's probably not as fancy as whatever you usually use," I said.
"Lotion is lotion."
"But the fancy jars are prettier."
"They are."
"I tried putting mine in a cute little jar I made for it a couple years back, but I hated dipping my fingers in.
I made a pump bottle after that, but it never worked right, and it was a huge pain to transfer the lotion back and forth, so I gave up.
" I paused, glancing his way. "Not sure why I told you that. "
"Because you're comfortable around me, I hope."
I made a noncommittal noise, even though he was right.
"What did it look like?" he asked.
"What did what look like?"
"The jar."
"Oh. I don't remember. I've made a shitload of pottery since then. I like patterns and bright colors more than neutrals and solids, so they probably had flowers or stripes or something."
He nodded.
There was a moment of silence between us. It wasn't awkward, but it wasn't completely natural, either.
It went on a little too long.
I dug my eyeliner and mascara out of the drawer and put it on quickly. I didn't own any other makeup, so that was obviously out of the question. I'd tried other makeup in the past, but I had too many freckles, and I'd never managed to make it look decent enough to bother regularly.
The silence continued.
Dante leaned back against the edge of the countertop. He wasn't far from me, but he wasn't too close, either. "Do you remember the first night we spent together in the prison?"
"It would be hard to forget."
"You told me I was agreeable," he said.
"I was clearly wrong."
"You weren't."
"You said you got bored in every past relationship, too," I pointed out.
"I did. When I was looking for a mate, I had a tendency to win women over without ever opening up to them.
I've been thinking about it. I thinks it's why I always ended up bored.
I wasn't myself with them. They saw the version of me that I let them see, and they never tried to get to know me.
Or I never let them. I don't want to do that with you. " His admission was slightly reluctant.
"Would you have forcibly moved yourself into one of their homes?" I asked him.
There was a pause before he answered. "No."
"Then even if you never open up, whatever we are is genuine." I leaned toward the mirror and carefully lined the outer half of my eyelid.
"We're mates, Ophelia. What we have is definitely genuine."
"I'm getting really tired of that word."
"Is there a word you would prefer?"
I swiped mascara on. "I don't know. What are my options?"
"Significant other?"
"I'll pass."
"Spouse."
"God, no." I screwed the lid on my mascara and set it down.
"Partner?"
"We're not in business together."
"Lovers is applicable."
"We haven't had sex in weeks," I pointed out.
"You haven't seemed interested. And actually, I've been wondering why you haven't." He adjusted the way he was standing, so he faced me a little more.
"Because of reasons." I put my makeup away, just so I wouldn't have to look at him.
"What reasons?"
"Reasons that are my own business, Dante." I closed the drawer. My wings were stiff, but I hoped he didn't recognize that particular clue into my emotions. "You're the one who said you don't like to open up. You know plenty about me, and I barely know anything about you."
"You haven't asked me anything," he said.
"Of course I haven't. I'm trying not to develop feelings here." I gestured between us just a little violently.
His eyes narrowed, and I realized what I'd just said.
Shit.
"Why are you trying not to develop feelings?"
"Reasons." Turning away from him, I took a step toward the bedroom.
He caught my wrist before I could escape. "What reasons, Ophelia?"
I tried to pull my wrist away. His grip was gentle, but he didn't let go.
"I'm not doing this right now," I said.
"Why not?"
"Because."
"Because why?"
I spun to face him again, tense, and pissed, and... stressed.
"Fine. You want the truth? I don't want to fuck you because it's going to make me feel things for you.
And I don't want to feel things for you, because I'm not a priority for you.
Whether or not you have any feelings about me or our situation, your work and your family are always going to come first."
He looked like he was going to disagree.
I kept going. "I get it. I genuinely do.
But being told that you don't want to fuck me because of your meetings, and seeing you always in a rush to get away from me, still doesn't feel good.
Yeah, sure, we have a mental connection, but it doesn't fix anything, and it doesn't mean anything. Not really."
"It means something to me," he countered.
"What does it mean to you? That I belong to you? That you can't bite anyone else? That we're going to spend the rest of our immortal lives revolving around each other even if we barely tolerate each other? There are a lot of shitty things it can mean, and I'd rather it was meaningless."
"I don't barely tolerate you," he said in a low voice. "I like you, Ophelia."
"What do you like about me?"
He didn't answer.
Not immediately.
I sent my wings away. Leaving them out suddenly felt way too vulnerable.
"You don't know me, and you've spent the last few weeks trying to force me to adapt to your life, your lifestyle, and the way you think things should be.
You're a good guy, but you're not someone I can be safe with. Not emotionally."
His throat bobbed.
And he finally let go of my wrist.
The victory was hollow.