Page 30 of Breaking Ophelia
The other three are there. Rhett sprawled on the couch, Colton perched on the back of it like a crow, Bam in the far corner, one arm draped around a girl I recognize from the main hall. They all look up at me, and the room shifts. Not a threat, exactly—just a reminder that every eye here is hungry.
And then there’s Caius.
“Sit,” he says, with a nod to the island in the center of the kitchen. He sounds bored, but the way he’s watching me says he’s anything but.
I don’t obey. I stay standing, hands tucked in my jacket pocket to hide the shaking.
“What the fuck do you want, Caius?”
He looks at Julian. “Told you. Zero fear.”
Julian chuckles. The other boys just watch.
Caius walks toward me. No shirt, no shoes, nothing to soften the impact of him. I try to keep my eyes above the waist, but it’s impossible. His abs are perfect, cut so deep they might as well be sculpted.
His body is cut with the kind of muscle that only happens when you hate yourself enough to make every gym session a punishment. There’s a bruise on his rib, dark and blooming, and a set of half-moon scratches down his shoulder blade that could only have come from someone’s nails.
I know mine when I see them.
Obviously fucking me in my sleep wasn’t enough.
His eyes go to my face, then slowly down my body, lingering on my nipples, my stomach my thighs, then back to my face.
He smirks. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I don’t answer. I walk up to him, fists balled tight, and stare him dead in the eye.
He doesn’t flinch.
Behind me, Julian whistles. “Careful, O. He bites.”
“Don’t call me that, fuck face.”
Caius wipes the towel over his hair, then tosses it aside. He leans in, crowding my space, the heat from his skin an assault.
“You ready for your next lesson?” he asks, voice low and private.
I want to punch him, but I want answers more.
“What the fuck did you do to me?” I say, every word forced through clenched teeth.
He shrugs, a ripple over the planes of his chest. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re a coward,” I say, even though my pulse is sprinting in my neck. “Couldn’t even fuck me awake.”
Someone behind me drops something before laughing and slapping someone else on the back. “I knew it! I knew he couldn’t wait! $50, Colt, pay up motherfucker.”
Caius’ mouth twitches. “Didn’t want you fighting me. This time.”
The implication hangs in the air:There will be a next time.
He steps closer, until our chests are almost touching. I can smell the soap on his skin, the mint of his toothpaste, the dizzy masculine he seems to exude. He doesn’t blink.
“You should be afraid,” he says, so soft I almost miss it.
“I’m not.”
He laughs, but it’s not amusement. It’s something meaner. “Liar.”
