What the fuck did any of it mean?
The strange symbols would have to wait. First, I set about the task of translating the language Grandpa Hunter used for the journal. Hours of frustration passed before I realized my failings were because he’d used more than one language across the hundreds of pages.
By the time I finished the coffee, I wondered if I should skip the translating and jump straight into decoding the mystical glyphs marked in ink. Supposing it wouldn’t hurt, I moved on. Time passed without notice, my stomach grumbled in protest, and a new sort of ache spawned behind my eyes as I referenced occult texts on runes.
It would take ages to dual-translate and untangle the web of scrawled nonsense. Because it was exactly that—nonsense.
There were things about my grandfather I was discovering, and I wasn’t particularly happy about it. Leave it to Hunter Ashcroft to write his mystery journal about an owl monster in a secret made-up language. Couldn’t he have just had an affair or a secret family like a normal grandfather?
Frustration, with undertones of grief and fear, tore through me. It was like climbing up a ladder only for a snake to spit venom in your eyes when you reached the top.
Undeterred by the dilemma of my family history, I worked straight through the daylight hours. As it often did, my mind hyper-focused on the act of reading, scribbling, jotting notes and little thoughts, and spinning in a frantic whirlwind until the swelling sickness in my body drop-kicked me out of my obsessive studying haze.
All the downstairs voices had vanished. The lights had dimmed.
My body was screaming at me for going—I couldn’t remember how long—without eating or drinking a single drop of water. My heart raced, and my head drummed a painful rhythm. I cursed under my breath, fighting dizziness as I returned books and shoved my research into my bag.
I hadn’t noticed the time passing. It was as if I had been dropped squarely at the end of the world with a terrifying vortex trying to gobble me up.
And I wasn’t any closer to the answers I needed.
17
My thumb grazed the slip of lace hidden in my coat pocket, and I savored the rush it sent through me. Though it didn’t ease my desire for Ophelia. It worsened it. More so now that I knew what she felt like bent over and taking my cock in her perfect, tight little pussy.
Reminders of the best orgasm of my life haunted me each time she was near. All my diligently built walls of self-restraint and discipline wavered in her presence. I was overwhelmed with impulses to touch her, feel her, fuck her, claim her, and, and,and… They were balancing on the edge of being savagely dismantled.
I no longer knew if I had the strength to deny my destruction.
Not if it came from her hands.
Ophelia sat at a lonely desk in the university library. A favorite spot of her grandfather’s back in the day. The image of her sitting there in Hunter’s shadow sent an aching wave of nostalgia through me. She was so much like the man who saved my life. Utterly brilliant with her studies and coursework, undaunted by the load of assignments dumped on her plate, she swiftly organized and scheduled her tasks before crushing them under the heel of her diligence.
She had been going to the library every day for the past week in her spare time. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that she’d found Hunter’s notebook, and she had promptly decided to figure itout. It occurred to me I should step in and stop her if only to save her the headache of learning the truth. But I couldn’t bring myself to step out of the shadows and snatch the book from her eager little fingers. Ophelia was so dedicated to unraveling the mystery of a man bearing importance to both our lives. Almost like a shared tether. It felt wrong to break it.
And I couldn’t resist stealing the chance to observe her when she was engrossed in studying. Reading and learning and digging out new information truly were her elements. It was utterly fascinating to watch her and the way her mind consumed the pages she flipped through. To see her puzzle through logic and find conclusions in nonsense.
She was brilliant.
Utterly brilliant.
Perhaps I had been too hasty in my conclusion. Ophelia was leaps and bounds beyond the average student, including the Ivy League masses of Kilbride. But she was still just a singular individual with too much on her plate. Ophelia needed a partner who would provide for her when her mind hyper-focused on tasks or other fixations.
I had failed her.
Ophelia hadn’t been eating enough. She was running herself aground in her own private pursuits, and I couldn’t stand to watch her fail to care for herself one more day. Not when I could do something for her, to care for her. After all, she belonged to me. She was my responsibility now.
Half of the library lights went out, signaling the late hour. They would lock the doors soon and close for the night. Ophelia blinked, showing off red-rimmed eyes, and a surprised expression.
I remained in her shadow as she returned books to where she found them and packed her belongings. Only when she flounced downstairs and aimed for the exit did I round the corner of a tall stack of shelves. My action was perfectly timed, and our shoulders bumped.
She stumbled, and I shot out an arm to steady her.
“Apologies—ah, Miss Ashcroft.” I straightened her out on her own two feet, biting down a smirk as she gazed at me with her large, luminous brown eyes. My heart skipped in the second that passed.
“Prof-professor. Why…” she cleared her throat, “why are you here so late?”
My gaze dripped down her figure. “I could ask you the same thing.”
