21. Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Ophelia

" D o you have Cheetos?" I raise my arms so he can see my fingers wiggling from behind the couch. I don't particularly like the orange snacks but my new favorite hobby is to make Jarrett crazy. I may be getting a fuckload of orgasms from him but I haven't given up on driving him crazy. Besides, on some level, he's still the enemy until he proves me differently.

"Fuck off."

He can't see my smirk but I'm sure he can feel it.

"Well, that's not nice." It's just so easy to get him fired up.

"What's not nice is orange powder sticking to my white sofa." Yet, here he is, drinking proper English tea—whatever the fuck that means—all fucking day long.

"A little color wouldn't hurt you." This time I mumble my words because I'm not kidding. This place doesn't even look lived in. It's like a museum piece where all that's missing is the plastic covering his furniture, rugs, and seats. Easy bet, he didn't decorate his place. Probably hired an expensive private decorator and gave her carte blanche. Fucking literally.

"Again, fuck off." The boiling noise of the kettle—which has become as familiar as his orgasms—sounds behind me, making me smile because…of course he's making tea. Again.

"I hear a lot of ‘fucking' but no delivering." Fuck, my smart mouth will get me in trouble. No doubts about that.

"Tea time is sacred, my bratty little Kitten, and you're not getting any rewards until I'm done." Just as he finishes his phrase, I get a message on a secure server from Opie and thoughts of Jarrett and his magical dick fly out the window.

0p13: Got it.

I don't respond, I never do, but this information is crucial and I feel the immediate need to share it with Jarrett.

"We have the number for that guy you were talking about this morning." I'm calling out to Jarrett just as he rounds the couch and sits on a raggedy chair that looks like it's half a century old. Definitely seen better days, too. What I don't understand is…why? The entire space is pristine white with gray accents and this piece of furniture seems to be the only one that has a story. And I don't miss the fact that of all the other places he could sit and peacefully drink his tea, he chooses the one that's out of place.

Interesting .

"Right. Now, from that name and number, you should get his address, and if Opie is as good as you've said all damn day, she should also find his favorite food and pet peeve."

I roll my eyes at his comment. Every time I tell him we've got the means and the talent to bring The Firm to its knees, he reminds me that he'd been following and watching me for months and she never picked up on it.

I mean, he's not wrong, but also, fuck him and the high horse he trotted in on.

"You know this means we're going after your father too, right?" I look up from my screen to catch the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, like my words cause him physical pain.

"He's not that important in the grand scheme of things, Ophelia. You should concentrate on the big fish and let the guppies live in peace."

I don't answer, just stare as he avoids my gaze by any means necessary. Right now, he seems fascinated by the inside of his tea cup.

"You should look at me when you say bullshit like that." On the surface, I sound calm and collected, but even I can hear the rage trembling beneath it and I have no doubts he hears it too. "Jarrett."

At the harsher tone of my voice, he slowly raises his gaze to mine and what I see there almost scares me. I suppose it has something to do with the sanctity of family. Problem is, I have no idea what that means, considering I was raised by a broken shell of a woman and her monster of a husband. Sue me if I'm having a hard time sympathizing.

"I'm not giving up my father, Ophelia. If you find him, good on your team, but you won't get my help in killing him." I've witnessed the many faces of Jarrett Vale—wrangled his last name between two blowjobs—since I've known him. This, however, is the first time he's used such a harsh and cruel tone aimed at me.

"Understood." I pause to make sure he's listening, our gazes locked in some kind of mind war. "But, let's be clear, you chased me. You came after me. You decided not to kill me. My plan has never changed. You get that, right?"

The square line of his jaw is working overtime, and if he continues grinding his molars like that he's going to end up with dentures sooner rather than later. As slow as an old sloth, Jarrett brings the cup to his mouth, his eyes locked on mine, and takes a sip. To be honest, it's more like a slurp, its sole purpose to drive me insane.

"Oh, Kitten, I get a lot of things. In fact, I get all the things when I want them."

I blink at his words, the way his eyes darken and his body goes taut, like he's ready to pounce, tells me we may have changed the topic of conversation.

But I am not getting distracted by his dick.

"Well, I can tell you what you're not getting." I bring my hand to my pussy and squeeze around my panties with a saccharine smile. Who am I kidding?

His body twitches like he's about to jump my bones when his phone rings. It's only because I'm watching his every move that I notice the way his face goes blank and his emotional armor locks into place.

I'd bet half my fortune I know exactly who that is on the phone.

"Hey, Dad."

Bingo. Guess I know him a lot better than I thought.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I close the computer and don't even pretend I'm not eavesdropping. In fact, I make it a point for him to know I'm listening carefully.

"Yeah, I saw them both last. Didn't realize they had a job."

I hold back a snort, barely, because it was me. I was the job and they most definitely had me.

With a hand over my mouth, I wink at his withering glare trying really fucking hard to make me bend to his will. Yeah, good luck with that, buddy.

"Nah, our paths crossed, that's it. I figured if they were in Miami, they were looking for a hot shag." He pauses, then pinches the bridge of his nose. "Really? And what did they say?" When he looks up at the ceiling, brows drawn together, I'm guessing he's praying or whatever to give him strength. "She's my target, not theirs." There's a pause and I can hear his father's tone through the phone speaker. "Yeah, I don't bloody care what you said. I had it under control."

By "it" I'm guessing he means me. I've been reduced to it.

"Right. Well, I do have her. But here's the thing. I want to keep her. Train her then keep her as my pet." All humor leaves my brain, replaced in an instant by unbridled rage. Except, I don't want his father to know I'm here so I grit my teeth and pretend I'm sinking them into his arm. Hard.

As if he can feel me wishing death upon him, he turns back to face me and flinches. It's slight, but it's there.

Own me, my ass.

"It's my literal job. I have her under control." As if he's afraid I'll go nuclear, he brings his index finger to his lips and shushes me like a five-year-old about to have a tantrum. I mean, he's not wrong. Who the fuck do these people think they are? "You can call off your hounds. I have her, she's subdued, and I can bring her to you soon."

Sitting back down on the couch, I cross my legs and place my palms on my knees. I look relaxed but inside, I'm anything but relaxed. In fact, I'm fucking fuming. I know he's playing a part, I know this, but the language, the codes they use are so fucking degrading and humiliating that it makes me want vengeance for all the women who have had to be abused in this way. Mostly for my mother.

"Okay, understood." Jarrett hangs up the phone, no goodbyes or "I love you Daddy-O" for him.

"You think you own me?" I raise a brow just as I finish my question, curious how he's going to present this shit to me. There is no world where a man working for a sex trafficking ring could possibly believe he owns me. Not happening.

"Yeah, Kitten. I own you. I own your pussy and your arse. I own your mouth and your tits." I'm so shocked by his words that I don't even notice him moving until his mouth is just barely touching mine. "I own your orgasms." His lips crash to mine, his tongue barreling between them without asking for entry.

We kiss for what seems like a lifetime. It's hot and intimate, like his entire body is speaking to mine. It feels like…home. Which is really fucking strange since I've never really felt like I belonged anywhere. Until now. Must be his magical dick, I'll get over it.

"And, Kitten?" He trails a path of soft kisses right up my jaw until he reaches my ear, then tells me exactly what he thinks. "I own your heart, even if you're not ready to admit it."

I did not swoon. That would be ridiculous. Plus, my heart is a dead organ thanks to daddy dearest. But my sex drive is alive and kicking.

"And do I own anything in this scenario?"

"Silly Kitten." With agility only found in top-notch athletes, Jarrett lifts me up and over his shoulder before he rises to his full height. "You own every inch, nook, and cranny of me. I gave you my soul up in that cabin. What you choose to do with it, that's on you." Then, this motherfucker who has decided to leave the ball of romantic declarations in my camp, slaps my ass right beneath the hem of his shirt. The sting does exactly what he plans.

It makes me wetter than a waterfall at spring time. Still, what would be the fun in fully submitting to him? So I kick my legs out and punch the hard cheeks of his ass all the while loving this neanderthal side of him. Sue me, I love a man who takes charge. As long as we're on the same page.

"Time to pack your bags, pretty kitty. We're going to Dallas."