Page 50 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“Yeah, I know.”

“So why are you laughing?”

Ophelia removes her hands, revealing a wide smile. Tears streak across her face, but they’re no longer tears of sadness.

“Murder is hilarious to you?”

“No, not at all.”

Her peculiar reaction only makes me more interested, wanting to invest more time in getting to know her. “I’m working for a fucking psychopath.”

“Ophelia,” I warn her, my tone dropping. “You cannot relay this information to your friends.”

“I’m standing in the male bathroom looking at a polaroid, like that is such a crime, while you’re out on the streets committing cold-blooded murder. And yet I’m the one being punished? How is that fair?”

“Firstly,” I say. “Cold-blooded murder is a step too far. I’m more sophisticated than that.”

“Right,” says Ophelia. “I forget there are different ways to kill someone.”

“There are.”

“So, what?” says Ophelia, folding her arms over her chest. “You fool the world by dressing up in a three-piece suit, looking like you’re heading to a nice restaurant? When actually, you’re heading home to slaughter the prisoner you have in your attic?”

“I don’t have an attic.”

“Vandalizing the streets and stealing bleach must get boring after a while. You can only ruin so many walls. Destroy so many faces. What about destroying lives?” Ophelia tips her head to one side. “Does that eventually feel mundane?” She works her jaw, looking away for a moment. “Killing people is unnecessary when death is already coming for us all.”

“Why not speed up the process? Kill those who are better off dead?” I stare deep into Ophelia’s eyes. “Not everyone deserves to live.”

Lines appear between Ophelia’s brows.

“How do you know about the Crows?”

“What?”

“The vandalizing and the bleach—those details are oddly specific,” I say, stepping away from the conference table. “Tell me.”

“Your tattoo.”

“You recognized the symbol. From where?”

“My mother,” says Ophelia. “She warned me to stay away from the Crows before she died. I’ve asked around, but people tell me the organization is safely buried in the past. They’re lying to my face.” Ophelia hitches her arms higher over her chest. “Are you going to do the same?”

“Which people told you this?”

“A family friend and an investigative journalist. But they’re lying. The Crows are still around. A strange car appeared in front of me this weekend. They dropped a note out of the window and drove off, directing me to a person called Mike Myers.”

“Who?”

“The investigative journalist. He basically charged me eighty bucks, all to give me a warning.”

“What kind of warning?”

“He told me to stop digging and stay away.” Ophelia breaks into laughter again, shaking her head. “But here I am, staring danger right in the face, not listening to the warnings.”

“You’re good at doing the opposite of what someone tells you to do.”

“Thanks,” she says.