Page 90 of Delirium
The man whimperedas we deposited him onto the chair, tying his hands behind and his legs to the chair, but he didn’t say a word. His fear-filled eyes fed the monster threatening to jump out and play, but I subdued it, because this wasn’t our show.
It was Ophelia’s. She waited just outside this room, choosing her toys specifically for this fucker who dared to come into our territory.
“What are you going to do to me?” he finally asked as Creed exited the room, his entire body trembling from fear.
We’d tightened a cloth just above his thigh wound, but it wouldn’t hold for much longer. I had no idea if Ophelia nicked the artery, but if I was being honest, I didn’t give a fuck. I would’ve killed him back there if I didn’t need him for questioning.
They fucked up the perfectly planned day for Ophelia and me, and this guy was going to pay for it. I had no doubt that the fourth one was already reporting back to his boss, telling him or her what had happened.
What bothered me even more was the fact that I had no idea if it was Belladonna who had sent them or someone else.
The doors pushed open, revealing Ophelia in her black pants, tight black shirt, revealing her small, round belly, strolling in like she owned the place. Hell, she might as well, because she owned me.
“I’m sorry,” the guy blabbered. “I didn’t mean to. They told me I had to—”
Her palm connected with his cheek, the slap on the skin echoing around us, bouncing off of the walls. As she lowered herself down to him, putting her face closer to his, her grin filled with insanity at full display, he paled even more, waiting for her to talk.
“Stop talking,” Ophelia clipped, pressing on the wound on his thigh.
His yelp was music to my ears.
“I will give you permission when you get to talk. Until then, just shut up,” she said coldly. My dick hardened at the sight of her, completely in her element. This was the Ophelia they all feared. This was the Baba Yaga they all talked about, and I felt proud, knowing she was mine and I was hers.
“Now,” she murmured, looking over the knives we kept next to the chair. “We can do this in two different ways.” She looked at him, picking up a small knife from the stand. “You can tell me everything I want to know and your death will be swift.”
The smile that spread over her face chilled me to the bone, but I kept myself in the same spot, unable to move my eyes away from her.
“Or you can do this the hard way, and the torture, darling… The torture is going to be delicious for me, but painful for you.”
“Please,” the guy whimpered. “I didn’t mean to. They’re going to kill me if I tell you anything.”
“I am going to kill you either way,” she said. “It’s up to you how you want to die.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”
She shrugged, coming closer to him. “So the hard way it is, then.”
The stench of fear in the air suffocated me, and the view of the trembling man in that chair awoke something vicious in me. It wanted to play with Ophelia, to help her, to show her that she wasn’t alone in this, that whoever came after her, after my family, would suffer. The excruciating pain I’d felt as we crawled over the grass, trying to hide from them, flashed through my muscles again, the memory now living in the back of my mind forever.
As Ophelia walked around the basement, building up the tension, looking at the man in question, I relaxed even more because I knew that look in her eyes—determination.
People called her crazy, unhinged even, insane enough to bring grown-ass men to their knees, but they were all wrong. Insanity wasn’t what fueled her, it wasn’t what pushed her to do these things.
It was the life that taught her you needed to be vicious if you wanted to survive. The people surrounding her taught her to hide who she truly was, to wear a mask, to cover her true feelings because they couldn’t understand. But when the rage was the only thing you knew, you learned how to use it for your own gain, and Ophelia was the best at it.
She wielded it like a weapon, like the knife she was holding now as she slowly approached the whimpering man. She used the rage they caused, the darkness they threw her into, and she turned it into something that all of them feared.
The tip of her blade glided over the man’s cheek, her eyes following every movement, in tune with the sharp object. His eyes widened, his chest shaking from her proximity.
“What’s your name?” Ophelia asked, purring, her voice like honey, hiding the anger brewing underneath her skin.
“W-why?”
“Because.” She chuckled, moving the blade away from him and looking down straight into his eyes. “I want to know whose name I’m supposed to write when I send your severed arm to your leader.”
“Please!” he cried out, his eyes seeking me in the corner where I stood. “Please don’t kill me.”
But I was the wrong person to ask for help. I was the wrong straw he wanted to pull. With leisurely steps, I walked toward them, placing my hand on Ophelia’s shoulder.
