Page 117 of Auctioned

Not yet.

I stay seated. Fold my hands on my lap.

And watch her.

23

OPHELIA

What pulls me out of my sleep isn’t the fact that I’m well-rested.

I’m nowhere near energized or alive.

Exhausted is what I am.

Heavy limbs. Heavier eyelids.

My shoulder blade.

The area over it burns, or more like tingles. A constant hum running along my back.

That’s why I woke up in the dead of night. On this couch, I think. It definitely isn’t James’s bed. Or the one in the cell. Thank God for that.

I can’t remember how I got here, what this constant pressure on my back is, or why my shoulder blade doesn’t move freely.

Why I have a pad on it.

Then they hit me, the flashbacks.

James fucking me. James hunting me down. Terrorizing me. Comforting me.

Owning me.

Branding me.

And I thanked him for it. The words were just there, on my tongue. Couldn’t take them back if I wanted to.

I don’t.

My new reality is better than I could’ve ever imagined.

We could have that all the time. We could be a couple. Two broken people who make sense together.

Being a part of his life is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

Being his.

He might have secrets. He’s also cruel, psychotic, and unpredictable.

But he was made for me. I was made for him.

Every desire I’ve had that I couldn’t name, it’s him.

“Pet.”

This isn’tSonnet, nor is itOpheliaorproperty.

Pet.

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