Page 60 of Breaking Ophelia
Bending, I grab a rock and hurl it at him, but it falls short. He doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, hands still in pockets, as if this is all a joke, as if he’s not the reason I’m freezing and bleeding and barely alive.
I try to get up, but my knees won’t work. I crawl, dragging myself over the top of the hill, down the far side where the light is faint and the cold is somehow even deeper.
I make it five feet before I collapse.
For a long time, I lie there, face pressed to the dirt, cheek numb, watching the world turn pale with morning before I force myself to sit, finding him in the exact spot he was before.
I think of my mother, of the way she would braid my hair in the kitchen, her hands so gentle I barely felt the pull. I think of the day my father told me I had to come to Westpoint, to pay off his debt to men who would agree not to hurt him, only me. I think of all the times I tried to be good, to fit in, to play their games.
I think of Caius.
His hands on my throat, his mouth at my ear, the way he made me feel alive even as he tried to destroy me.
We stare at each other across the black water, neither moving. I try to measure his mood, but it’s impossible—his face is pure blank, not a twitch, not a tell. I want to believe he’s tired, or annoyed, or even afraid, but I know better. He’s in his element now, the game played out exactly the way he wanted.
I lick the blood from my lip, try to straighten my spine. I will not be the first to look away.
He takes a step. Another. The ground crunches under his boots, and I count each pace like a death sentence. By the time he’s close enough for me to see the twitch at the corner of his mouth, my fists are balled so tight my knuckles are white.
“You run pretty good for a dead girl,” he says, voice low, soft enough to disappear in the space between us.
I don’t answer. I just breathe. In, out, chest tight with all the things I’ll never say.
He moves closer and closer until he’s towering above me. His eyes drift down, linger at the exposed skin of my throat, the pulse hammering just beneath the surface. My hair is down, a curtain to hide behind, but I shove it back anyway. I want him to see. I want him to know what he’s done to me.
He reaches out, slow, like I’m a wild animal about to bolt. His hand finds my shoulder, and I flinch so hard it feels like I’ll break in half.
“Don’t,” I say, voice raw.
He lets go instantly. He backs up, just a hair, but the absence of his touch is worse than the pressure. I want to scream at him to try again. I want to run. I want to shatter him with my bare hands.
Instead, I just stay there, locked in place, my body a war zone of yes and no.
He watches me, the corners of his mouth twisting in something that’s almost regret.
“You can go if you want,” he says. “No one’s going to stop you.”
I almost believe him.
But there’s a catch in his voice, a hook buried deep. I want to ask him what he means, but I know he’d just say the same thing, over and over, until I start to believe it.
I look past him, at the trees, the hill, the broken trail of petals and blood leading all the way back to the amphitheater.
There’s nowhere to go.
There never was.
I breathe, slow and careful. I unclench my fists, flex my fingers until I can feel them again. My jaw loosens. My eyes sting, but I won’t give him that.
“Why me?” I say. The words drop between us like rocks.
He blinks, just once. “Because you never gave up.”
I laugh. It’s a sharp, ugly sound, but it feels good. “You’re fucking obsessed.”
He smiles, teeth bright in the dark. “Yeah. That’s the point. I am utterly obsessed with you Ophelia Morrow and while I am going to claim you, once the hard part is over, I will worship every bruise, cut and mark you bore to get to this point.”
He’s so close I can see the flecks of silver in his eyes, the way the moon hits the scar at his jaw. I want to reach up and touch it, see if it’s real. I want to claw it open, see what’s underneath.
