Odette/Ophelia's POV
Kayros's grip on my hip and nape is tight—a painfully comforting anchor. His fresh, masculine musk, mixed with expensive cologne, makes my knees feel weak.
I'm not some inexperienced virgin. I've had my share of relationships. But the way he's kissing me…
It reminds me of someone. Someone I promised to forget years ago. Someone buried at the back of my mind, hidden beneath hundreds of memories and changing seasons.
My heart is beating too fast. Nostalgia—memories of my life as Odette Elizabeth—flash across my mind like a film.
A boy.
A boy who was abused, weak, vulnerable Odette's first salvation after she ran away at eighteen. Her first best friend. First love. First kiss. First sex… and first heartbreak.
My breathing trembles. My eyes sting. I part my lips, inviting Kayros to kiss me deeper.
The way our lips fit, our tongues match the rhythm, his warmth feels like a familiar poison I'd grown used to in my past life.
Shit. No. Why am I thinking of him? Of that soft pair of amber eyes that looked at me like I was worth saving. Worth risking everything for.
Yet… he vanished.
His parents said he left the country. His friends said he met someone better. My mentor said he joined the Special Forces.
I heard from everyone… except from the one person I needed to hear from most.
I cried. I screamed. I cursed him, yet begged for him… for years. Until I finally accepted the cold truth: I was just a charity case.
And now, years later, in this whole different world, the fictional character I used to love is a reality I can't escape—so I embraced it. He is kissing me, holding me, exactly the way that boy used to.
Kayros breaks the kiss slowly. Our chests brush. His glacier-like eyes, which first seemed lifeless and dead, now hold a spark I can't name—and can't look away from.
"You're kissing someone you claim to hate," I whisper, my voice shaking. His nose touches mine.
Kayros clenches his jaw. His fingers dig into my flesh, as if he's trying to make sense of his own actions when he has no idea what he's doing.
He inhales my scent, memorizing something he doesn't want to admit.
And then…
"You are not Ophelia."
My body stills.
No—it freezes.
How does he—?
No…
My breath hitches in my throat. Kayros's intense gaze makes me feel like my entire soul is laid bare.
Nerves kick in. My eyes flutter, my lips wobble.
"I—" Nothing else comes out.
Just three days. Two encounters. One kiss.
And he knows.
His voice lacks no conviction. His gaze pins me down as firmly as his hands on my hip and the back of my neck.
The air between us thickens with tension. My back is pressed against the cold window, my pulse beating a frantic rhythm against my neck.
What am I supposed to do? How is he so calm about this? More importantly, how can he even conceive that a different soul could exist in the same body?
"I am right," he confirms. His eyes sharpen. His fingers dig deeper into my neck, tilting my chin up to face him.
Danger. Rage. Ruthlessness. It's written all over his face.
It would be a lie to say I don't find his cold, merciless gaze terrifying.
It's been years since anyone has made me feel this naked. This exposed.
No. I won't let this happen.
This is an unexpected turn, but I'm not some weak, meek girl who'll just confess to being from another world.
A slow smile spreads across my face.
"You're right. I'm not Ophelia."
His eyes widen, unprepared for my bold admission. My hand slides from his neck to his jaw, stroking his sharp jawline. I mask every nerve under a smirk.
"The Ophelia you knew is dead. This is the new Ophelia."
I brush my thumb over his swollen lip. His eyes trace my face, dissecting every micro-expression.
"This new Ophelia will do whatever makes her happy… not what makes others happy," I whisper, low and amused.
Kayros grabs my wrist, spins me around, and pushes my chest flush against the window. A soft gasp escapes me.
"Don't play with me," he mutters, the dangerous tone sending shivers down my spine.
He's overwhelming me. Both physically and mentally. This man is not someone I can underestimate. Not even a little.
I laugh, looking over my shoulder.
"Oh my, my… You look so fucking hot like this."
His stoic expression falters at my unexpected comment. Before he can speak, I need to pivot. The more he questions, the more dangerous this becomes. I don't plan on being exposed yet.
"Wanna know why my Daddy took me to the gang meeting?" I grin mischievously.
"Daddy?" he asks, confused. "You're calling Raphael Blackwood… Daddy?" The disbelief in his voice is palpable.
I shrug casually. Of course it's odd—the most powerful neutral figure in the underworld isn't called 'Daddy' by his twenty-six-year-old daughter every day.
"You clearly aren't Ophelia," he mutters under his breath, pissed and annoyed.
"I'm not the old, cute, and obedient Ophelia," I correct him.
He pushes me harder against the glass, tightening his grip on my wrist. His warm breath tickles my neck dangerously.
"Do I look like a fool to you, huh?"
Okay.
This man is the exact persistent bastard he's written to be.
"You are not Ophelia. Not new. Not old…" His voice sends a fresh wave of chills through me. Terror and anxiety make my blood run cold.
He knows. He fucking knows, and he believes in the impossible.
"You're being ridiculous. How can I be a different person, Kayros?" I snap, letting genuine-sounding anger rise in my voice.
Kayros's eyes sharpen to predatory points, studying his prey.
I fight the urge to gulp. I force my breathing to stay even.
"You can lie all you want, you little fox," he growls low in my ear. My chest tightens.
"You had an opportunity to escape my wrath if you'd just accepted you aren't Ophelia Blackwood. You missed it. So don't blame me for what happens next."
Kayros lets go of my wrist.
He just… leaves.
He walks out of the tea room and closes the door behind him, letting his threat hang in the air like a death sentence.
I finally release the breath I didn't realize I was holding. My hands shake. My throat feels like it's been squeezed dry. Even in the sub-zero cold outside, I feel like I've just run five miles in the peak of summer.
My eyes drop to the driveway. Kayros's black Pagani is already there. In under five minutes, he's outside the mansion.
As if feeling my gaze, he stops and looks up.
I swear my knees almost give out.
A dark smirk plays on his lips. A dry, bloodthirsty hatred is plastered in his blue eyes—a silent promise of suffering.
For the first time in a very, very long time—in both of my lives—I feel something close to the fear I felt whenever my mother called me to her room after 8 p.m.
I don't know what expression I'm making, but he gives a small, mocking dip of his head, mouthing the words clearly:
"Welcome to the Underworld, sweetheart."
I should have just fucking TOLD HIM I'M NOT OPHELIA!!!!