Should she apologize for manhandling him? No, no way. Earlier, he had clasped her wrist. What he’d started, she’d finished. She would express regret after he did, and not a moment sooner. The fact that he wasn’t chastising her for getting snagged by an alevala without the required permission was the first point in his favor.
“Harpy,” he snapped. “I asked you a question. You will answer.”
And there went his point. “I saw the death of an almost galactic treasure, the goddess of lusts.”
He thought for a moment, nodded. “One of my more difficult blessing tasks.”
Difficult? Hardly. “You slayed her so easily.” Like a supervillain gathering inventory for a body parts store. I’ll take this organ and that limb.
“Yes, but I had to chase her for weeks, while being attacked by legions of lovers willing to do anything to please her.”
Oh, to have a stable of playthings, all her own.
No! Bad Ophelia. No messing around with pleasure. “How could you hurt an unarmed opponent like that? I mean, I get that she was evil incarnate and all, and that you had to end her for your task or whatever, but you showed no mercy.”
His brow wrinkled, as if the question perplexed him. “Why would I show mercy to an obstacle in the way of my victory?”
Good point. “Did you have to turn her into confetti, though?”
The wrinkles deepened, as if he’d grown more perplexed. “And give her an opportunity to revive?” He flashed away, only to return seconds later wearing a shirt. “Enough of your queries, harpy. Answer mine. Why are you aware right now?”
Uh... “Why are you?”
He ran his tongue over straight, white teeth. “What’s your name?”
“Ophelia.” No harm in telling him that much.
“The rest,” he commanded, his biceps flexing beneath the material. Which she hardly even noticed, thank you.
“I’m Ophelia...Falconcrest,” she admitted with gritted teeth. “And don’t you dare mention the TV show by the same name. I’ll only want to binge it again, and there’s no time.”
She scrutinized his face for any change of expression. Had he pegged her as General Nissa’s sister? Yes? No? Would he care when—if—he did? He gave nothing away, yet her nerve endings pinged with aggression, as if he emitted a low-level charge of something.
“What is your father?” he asked.
Okay, that one hit her like a punch, and she flinched. “Why does my father matter?” No way she would share that little gem. Males forgot her personal boundaries the second they heard the word nymph.
“My reasons aren’t your concern. Only the act of responding to my words.”
Did Halo believe her current cognizance stemmed from her father’s origins? “You should read my file,” she quipped, refusing to give in.
He popped his jaw. “Stay put. If you leave, I’ll hunt you, and I will find you. You won’t enjoy what happens then. That, I promise you.” His threat lingered, chilling the air as he disappeared.
Shivers racked her, born of fury and not arousal. Not even a little. Where had he gone? And when would he return? Wait. Why did it matter? When the big, scary bad man ordered you to stay put, you bolted at the first opportunity. Of course she was bailing right this second.
Ophelia hustled to the door. Only, she stopped short with her hand on the knob. Hold up. She knew the dangers of acting on emotion—the key to any disaster. Cold, hard logic would be a better guide with a better destination. So. She would take a sec and think this through.
The Astra had lived a long time. He comprehended things she’d probably never heard of. If anyone could figure out and fix whatever had happened, it was Halo. Did she really wish to make an enemy of him right from the start?
So far, he hadn’t attempted to harm her. And he wouldn’t. All Astra obeyed Roc and Taliyah, and Taliyah considered her soldiers off-limits. Ophelia was one of those soldiers. Ergo, Ophelia was 100 percent safe in Halo’s presence. For the sake of the realm, she could table what he’d done to Succubia. And his curtness with Ophelia herself.
Okay. Yes. She would “stay put” for five minutes. If he took longer than that, she’d bail. Her time was precious, too, or whatever.
Resigned but unable to just be, Ophelia wandered about the chamber. In her tiny bunkroom, she had enough space for a bed and a nightstand. But she made up for the lack with the handmade comforters she’d stolen and a wealth of awards Vivi had given her. World’s Second-Best Friend. Most Amazing Almost Kill. Recognition for Miraculous Selective Hearing. Most Wrecks in a Week. Most Disasters in a Month.
Ophelia peeked inside the dresser drawers. Plain black shirts, perfectly folded. Black underwear, also perfectly folded. Socks. Black. Folded. I’m sensing a theme.
Feeling petty, she reopened the underwear drawer, looked left, then right, then knocked over a stack. Ohhh. Hold up. What soft material. How decadent it felt against her skin.