Chapter Eighteen
Ophelia’s eyes shot open. Moonlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling window of the French Quarter rental, illuminating the tiger.
Her tiger. The tiger’s massive form hovered over her protectively, but her body just lay there unresponsive.
She was unable to move anything except for her eyes.
Panic was sinking in, and her heart was racing.
Every synapse in her brain was firing, and she could barely think.
She shut her eyes tightly. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe, she demanded. A sharp inhale followed by a deeper one eased her panic by a fraction. It’s just a dream. Just a dream. This isn’t real life.
She took another steadying breath and opened her eyes.
A string of saliva was dangling at the edge of the tiger’s lips, slowly rocking back and forth with every exhale.
The smell of its earthy, hot pants were familiar.
She reminded herself that the tiger was there to protect her.
She could feel her heart rate slowing at this reminder. It was her protector.
A thick drop of spit fell, hitting Ophelia’s cheek and inched down the side of her neck.
She desperately wanted to reach up and wipe it away, but she couldn’t.
She was paralyzed for what felt like hours, but was probably only a couple of minutes.
The tiger purred after some time, and she felt the movement in her arms come back.
Looking down at her hand, she was relieved as she slowly bent her fingers.
She glanced back up at her protector, but it was gone.
Ophelia awoke suddenly and sat up straight, as if unwanted restraints were just removed from her body.
She was hot and gasping for air. She looked around the room for anything out of place.
Nothing. The windows were shut, and her door was closed.
Sweat coated her pajamas. She reached to wipe away the perspiration running down her neck.
It was not sweat. She rubbed the sticky, gelatinous residue between her fingers. Spit.
Bewildered, Ophelia ran to the hall bathroom and splashed her face with water.
Bent over the sink, she looked at herself in the mirror.
The muscles in her face were constricted, and her brows furrowed so far down they almost reached the top of her nose.
Touching her skin, she watched herself in the mirror.
That was the third time she’d seen the tiger in the past two months.
This time felt more real to her, similar to the morning of Delphine’s murder.
She wondered if there had been another murder.
Her sisters.
She immediately ran to her sisters’ room and gently opened the door. A rush of relief washed over her. They were sound asleep and safe in the early morning moonlight. Ophelia tiptoed to the other room and checked on Annie and Christine. They were also safely sleeping.
Unsure of what to do, she wandered back to the bathroom. Her reflection still revealed a frazzled version of her. Was there a connection to each protector’s vision? Or were they all separate? Her gut told her no.
She had only told Jade and Jolie about the attack in New York.
She hated that she hid it from her parents and Eva, but she didn’t want them to worry or, worse, show up at her apartment and haul her back to Louisiana.
Her social work background provided her with the knowledge to navigate a traumatic event.
After a week of hiding in her apartment, Ophelia began therapy, started carrying pepper spray, and enrolled in a year-long self-defense course.
She’d stopped volunteering at the community center, though.
She could barely stomach walking down that block and avoided it when possible.
A slap on her butt made Ophelia scream.
“Jesus, it’s just me,” said Jo as she pulled down her pajama shorts and sat on the toilet.
“You scared me!” Ophelia was out of breath again and nauseous. She bent over, placing her head between her shaking knees. Ophelia had never passed out before, but she felt as if she were on the verge.
“You hungover or still drunk?” asked Jolie.
“Probably both.” She breathed deeply. “I just had a super weird dream. Fuck. It felt so real,” she said, her voice muffled between her legs.
“Please don’t tell me about it. I hate hearing about people’s dreams,” said Jolie. “They are never as interesting as the person thinks.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t burden you with my boring dream,” Ophelia retorted. She stood upright, slowly, and wiped the excess water off her face with an embroidered hand towel. “What time is it?”
“Five a.m.” Jolie muscled her way to the sink and washed her hands. “Back to bed for me. For like another five hours. Night, boo,” said Jolie, yawning as she exited the bathroom.
Ophelia only nodded in response and weakly slunk back to her room to do the same.
Several hours later, Ophelia woke to a pounding headache and the sound of thick rain hitting the brick patio.
She didn’t want to get out of bed. She wanted to forget about her dream.
Banish it from her thoughts. Instead, she preferred to think about Mateo—about the way he grabbed her hips and pulled her into his chest, the way her breasts felt heavy and aching pressed against him, how his smooth skin, lined with tight muscles, felt under her hands.
Flashes of his broad shoulders, tattoos, and green eyes ran through her mind.
She was absolutely smitten or in heat…or both. Probably both.
Ophelia reached for her phone under her pillow. The screen showed an unread text.
Mateo: I enjoyed seeing you last night, Ophelia. And I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other soon.