Page 77 of Ophelia's Vampire

“No, I don’t think I will,” he says, and when his gaze lands on me, that challenge turns into a taunt, a silent victory held aloft as he takes in the roil of emotions in my expression.

It’s probably exactly what he wanted from this meeting. To use Ophelia to hurt me, to toy with me, to score some point in this twisted, tangled, centuries-long feud between us.

“I wouldn’t have expected such low behavior, even from you.” I spit the words at him, showing a bit of fang for good measure.

Philippe smiles, but there’s no warmth in it, no humor. Nothing but the depthless, age-old cruelty I’ve always known him to be capable of. The dying light of centuries past shines from his eyes like bonfires in a war camp, and the echoes of violence from throughout our shared history rattle in his words like a death knell.

“I’ve seen your darkness, brother. And you’ve seen mine. So tell me, why would you ever think I was above something like this?”

He’s right. I should have expected something like this. And maybe some part of me did.

What I didn’t expect was Ophelia’s willingness to partake in it. I didn’t expect her to think a trade like that would be worth it. I didn’t expect her to believe such a sacrifice wouldn’t have been worth more than this case by magnitudes of hundreds, thousands.

Have I made her feel that way? Have I made her feel like the gift of her blood means so little?

Or was it something she wanted, something she would have been glad to give him?

I finally drag myself away from Philippe and drop my hand from his throat. I turn to Ophelia and her eyes are wide, cheeks flushed, her hand still raised, though she drops it from myshoulder. Her gaze darts over my face, and she takes a few tentative steps back.

“We’re done here,” I say, barely able to choke the words out.

With a restraint I’m not sure how I still possess, I leave Philippe where he is and approach Ophelia. Placing a hand on the middle of her back, I steer her toward the door. I half-expect her to protest or pull away, but she goes without a word, and Philippe doesn’t offer any parting shots as we leave.

Serra waits for us just outside the office. She has her arms crossed over her chest and a steely look focused on Vincent, pinning him in place on the opposite side of the room.

I catch her eye and jerk my chin toward the elevator. Ophelia’s already headed that way, and with one last warning glare toward Vincent, the three of us step through the doors as soon as they open.

Sinking slowly back toward the earth, the air inside the elevator is nearly too thick to breathe. Ophelia stands as far away from me as she can, Serra between us, and not a single word is spoken as the seconds pass.

We reach the ground floor with a ding, and the doors slide open into a short, familiar hallway. Ophelia strides forward, heading for the back exit with Serra and I trailing behind, all of us more than ready to be away from this place.

It’s not until we step into the alley that Serra breaks the silence. She shoots a nervous glance to where Ophelia’s waiting a few yards away before turning back to me.

“You good?” Serra asks.

I give her a curt, jerky nod. “Yes. Everything here is handled. Thank you for your help tonight. With all of it. Do you need a ride back to—”

“Nah.” She shakes her head. “I’ll… find my own way.”

I’ll find my own way that doesn’t involve a vampire who’s got murder in his eyes, more like, but she gives me a small smile before she goes.

“Hope you’re alright, Ophelia. And nice to meet you, by the way. I’m Serra.”

“Nice to meet you, Serra,” Ophelia murmurs. “And thanks. I’m fine.”

I very much doubt that. With high color still staining her cheeks and a slight tremble in her limbs as she shifts from one foot to the other, I’d be willing to bet she’s not in much better shape than I am right now.

Serra leaves, and the tension that kicks back up between Ophelia and I feels liable to snap with the next word or breath or slightest movement.

“Come on,” I say gruffly. “We’re going home.”

I walk toward the end of the alleyway, careful not to touch her as I pass, though my hand flexes and aches as I brush by. I’m half-certain she won’t follow, that I’ll have to turn back, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her, but after a few silent seconds the sound of her heels hitting the pavement echoes behind me.

As soon as we settle into my car—parked just a block away—some of the coiled tension in me finally loosens. Not entirely, but enough for me to get a better breath into my lungs, enough to form words that don’t feel like gravel and broken glass in my throat.

If only I knew what to say.

Because, as I pull away from the curb, I can’t come up with a single damn thing.

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