Ophelia
A familiar voice breaks the chaos, tone bone dry.
“A rolling pin, I can handle. Good thing it wasn’t a bloody dildo this time.”
“I’m not even going to ask,” another voice replies, unimpressed. “Because whatever that means, I already know it’s something I don’t want to understand, and frankly couldn’t give less of a damn about.”
“What the actual hell are you doing here?” Octavia shrieks, her pitch somewhere between outrage and disbelief.
My pulse is still hammering from the fright, one hand pressed to my chest as I try to steady my breathing.
When I finally look toward the doorway, they’re all there—Arlo, Milo, Isaak, and Hunter, their boots dusted with snow.
But it’s Arlo my eyes find first.
He’s in dark jeans, a navy winter jacket, and a knitted hat that ought to look ridiculous, yet somehow doesn’t.
Something about it tugs at the edge of recognition, a flash of familiarity I can’t place. The thought barely forms before a sharp pain blooms at my temples.
I wince, pressing a hand to the side of my head.
He notices immediately, and takes a step towards me, concern flickering across that guarded face.
I lift a hand, stopping him before he can come any closer.
For a moment, I can’t look at the hat again, as if it’s the trigger itself. So instead, I look at him.
There’s nothing remotely boyish about Arlo. Everything about him is composed, the way he stands, the set of his jaw, the stillness that somehow carries more weight than words ever could.
His shoulders are broad beneath his jacket, his gloved hands resting loosely at his sides, but it’s the look on his face that does it, the kind of hard, unreadable expression that keeps people exactly where he wants them, at a distance.
Milo stands beside him, taller by a few inches than both Arlo and Isaak, broader too.
There’s a certain weight to him, muscle and mischief held together by sheer volatility.
His hair’s a wild tangle of dark curls he’s clearly never bothered to tame, and faint ink creeps along his hands and the side of his neck, flashes of it visible above his collar.
He catches me looking and grins, a little unhinged.
Isaak and Hunter linger just behind, quieter, and harder to read.
Both watchful.
Both dangerous.
I pull my gaze back to Arlo, narrowing my eyes.
I don’t understand what game he’s playing, or why he’s here.
Whole countries were supposed to separate us. But apparently, there’s no escaping the monster, not when he insists on finding me wherever I run.
Milo’s the first to move. He kicks off his boots, scattering snow in the entryway, then strips off his jacket.
The moment he steps forward, Octavia’s glare could cut glass, but he only grins, totally unfazed.
“What are you doing here, psycho?” she snaps, tugging her own jacket off and taking a cautious step back as he advances.
He tilts his head, mock wounded. “You thought you could run off and I wouldn’t follow? You wound me, spitfire.”
She opens her mouth, no doubt ready to unleash something vicious, but he’s faster.
In a blink, he’s closed the space between them and slings her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing.
“Let me know which room is ours, baby,” I hear him say, already heading for the stairs.
“Fucking hell, you are not sleeping in my room, you psycho. Get lost, or I swear I’ll kill you in your sleep.”
“Ah, that’s your love language, isn’t it? You do know how hard you make me when you get filthy.”
Their voices fade as they disappear around the corner. I watch them go, eyes narrowing.
I’ll need to get Octavia alone and ask her about this. They don’t look like strangers, or even casual acquaintances. They move like people who know each other far too well.
Piper stands a few feet away, arms folded, watching the men with that quiet, unreadable expression she wears so well.
For a moment, I think she won’t speak at all, but then she draws a small breath and lifts her chin.
“I think it’s better if you leave,” she says, her tone soft but poised. “I’ve no idea why you came here in the first place, but…” Her eyes flick briefly to Adelaide before dropping again. “There’s another room upstairs. It has a king bed. You can share, if you must.”
Silence stretches after her words. Piper’s voice isn’t loud, but it carries, steady despite the faint tremor I catch at the end.
She glances down almost immediately, fussing with the sleeve of her jumper as though she’s said too much.
Across the room, Hunter’s gaze lingers on her. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something there—something that looks remarkably like pride.
Then Piper turns and makes for the stairs, her steps quiet.
Hunter follows a beat later, his eyes still on her as she disappears from sight.
I can feel Arlo’s gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting, but I keep mine fixed elsewhere, pretending not to notice.
Adelaide exhales sharply, turning to Isaak, and then to me, pointedly. “I told you he’s the bloody devil,” she mutters. “Appears out of nowhere, like he’s just teleported straight from hell itself. Probably keeps a portal handy for dramatic entrances.”
Isaak regards her with the sort of disdain reserved for intellectual disappointment.
“You truly can’t be that witless, viper.
The devil is a theological construct, not a physical entity, and teleportation, while a fascinating theoretical notion, remains firmly within the realm of speculative physics.
Try engaging your brain before speaking next time, it’s allegedly a fine one. ”
Adelaide arches a brow, unruffled. “Oh, forgive me, devil. I forgot your degree in condescension came with a minor in arrogance. I was making a point, not defending a thesis.”
He lets out a low breath, almost a laugh. “You’re studying law, not philosophy, and yet you scored ninety eight on that jurisprudence exam, one point above me, though frankly I’m starting to suspect clerical error. Listening to you now, I’d place your IQ somewhere near room temperature.”
Her eyes flash. “And yet you followed me here, didn’t you? Seems intellect doesn’t exempt you from poor judgement.”
She turns sharply on her heel. Isaak follows, their voices rising in another volley of barbed remarks until the sound fades up the staircase and a door slams shut above.
Silence.
Just me and Arlo.
A faint scent of smoke makes me frown. My gaze darts toward the stove. “Oh, damn it.” I rush over, grateful to find the sauce merely threatening to burn, not ruined.
I turn off the heat, cover the pan, and exhale.
When I turn back, Arlo is still there, watching me. Seated on the stool where he’s been eating rambutan, as if he owns the place.
I open my mouth to speak, but he stands.
Slowly.
So slowly.
He takes a step toward me. I take one back.
He smirks.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice tight.
“Where else would I be?” he asks.
Before I can respond—before I can even make sense of what’s happening, he closes the distance, grabs me by the waist, and hauls me effortlessly over his shoulder.
“Arlo!” I gasp, my fists hitting his back, but he doesn’t even flinch. He’s already taking the stairs two at a time.