Page 49 of The Ruthless Rivalry

“Looks like the rain’s dragged all the worms out of hiding.”

Chapter 11

Bishop

“You could have just asked for some privacy instead of making a big show of leaving,” Ophelia says with a breathy laugh, convinced it’s sultry, but it only makes her sound incompetent.

“You came willingly,” I remind her, my tone cutting, watching her falter. The waves of the water continue to crash in, powerful and unrelenting.

She flinches under my sharp words but tries to cover it by discreetly reaching to touch me. I shrug her off, barely registering her presence. Unlike Prescott, who always stood talland unwavering, a monument of strength and resilience in the midst of my storm.

That was what pissed me off most about her. Prescott never backed down, never folded—no matter how much I pushed her. And here I was, trying to get rid of her, but she just…stayed. In Altair. In my thoughts. I couldn’t shake her, no matter how hard I tried. Then Cam actually had the audacity to suggest Sly sleep with her to extract information faster. Was I hearing this right? Had my friends completely lost their minds, or had I lost mine for calling out how ridiculous it was?

Let Sly fuckmylittle troublemaker? No fucking way.

The thought of anyone else touching her, of her beingwithsomeone else—it twisted something in my gut I couldn’t ignore. I hated that she was still here, still a damn problem. But I hated that I couldn’t stop thinking about her even more.

Ophelia’s face contorts into a pout. “You’re always so cold, Bishop. Let me warm you up,” she suggests, her teeth grazing her bottom lip. “This is our usual place…”

I scoff, the sound biting against the relentless crashing of the waves. “Our usual place? Don’t kid yourself, Ophelia. There’s nous. We fuck because I need release, and because you obey.” Part of me needed her to follow, to be predictable. But now, I’m starting to wonder if even that’s enough to keep me interested anymore.

Her little stunt today—it got under my skin, sure. But it wasn’t like my troublemaker. With Ophelia, that kind of resistance, that stubbornness, only pissed me off. It was irritating. But with Prescott? There was something different about it, something…more. I don’t even know why it’s bothering me. It shouldn’t.

Ophelia’s act of rebellion pushed me in the opposite direction, like flipping a coin and landing on the side I didn’t want. But with Prescott, that little spark of resistance, that pushback—it’s like flipping the coin and finding something I didn’t expect, thechallenge, the unpredictability, something I didn’t even realize I was craving.

Ophelia’s eyes widen, hurt flashing across her features before she masks it with a coy smile. “You don’t mean that. Remember all those nights we spent here? The passion, the—”

“Convenience,” I cut her off, my voice as crisp as the night’s breeze.

“You’re not making any sense,” she says, already reaching for the button on my pants. “It’s just stress, I can take care of that.”

She forcefully frees my cock from its confines. I feel Ophelia drop to her knees, but I’m too consumed by my own selfish desires to stop her. I really was a heartless asshole. Her mouth wraps around me, compliant. Obedient.Boring.

“That’s right,” Ophelia coos seductively, encouraging me as she takes me into her mouth again, and I let myself drift away, lost in the pleasure. My mind wanders elsewhere as she continues to please me.

Asshole. That’s what Prescott liked to remind me I was. Fuck, she was so goddamn annoying. Her eyes—those honey-colored flames—pierce my brain with that stubborn, unrelenting defiance. She never backs down. No matter how much I want her to quit, she doesn’t. Her gaze burns into me, a challenge I can’t escape.

Fuck. I needed her gone.

Ophelia’s touch becomes background noise as my thoughts spiral, consumed by Prescott. That fiery, unyielding stare. The tight set of her jaw, the way she stands her ground like she’s daring me to break her. It should make me hate her more, but instead it fuckingsparkssomething in me, something I can’t control. It’s infuriating. And yet, it’s fuckingintoxicating.

“Bishop,” Ophelia moans, pulling away for a second. “You like that, baby?”

I grunt in response, pushing her head back down. She complies eagerly, mistaking my roughness for agreement. If only she knew the tempest raging in my mind.

Prescott. Always Prescott. Her refusal to bend, to break, to give in to my demands. It’s maddening. And now, with the possibility of Sly getting his hands on her… The thought makes my blood boil.

“Fuck,” I growl, my hips jerking involuntarily.

Ophelia makes a pleased sound, mistaking my reaction for enjoyment of her efforts. But it’s Prescott I’m seeing, Prescott I’m imagining submitting to me.

My hands tangle in Ophelia’s hair, gripping tighter as the fantasy takes hold. In my mind, it’s Prescott’s defiant eyes looking up at me. The image is so vivid, so intoxicating, that I have to bite back a moan.

“Harder,” I command, my voice rough with need.

Ophelia obliges, her enthusiasm growing. But it’s not enough. It’s nother.

I close my eyes, letting the illusion overtake me completely. It’s Prescott’s lips wrapped around me, Prescott’s throat constricting as she takes me deeper. I imagine her eyes watering, but still blazing with that indomitable spirit. Even in submission, I know she’ll be a force to be reckoned with.

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