Page 64 of Breaking Ophelia
I don’t answer. I can’t.
I brush the poppy petal from her skin, let it drop into the mud.
“This next part,” I say, “I’m sorry. It’s not for you. Or for me. It’s just the way it has to be.”
She closes her eyes. A tear slips down her cheek, vanishes into the mess.
I wipe it away with my thumb.
The rules are simple. Claim the girl. Do it before sunrise. Do it in a place where everyone can see. Make it entertaining, or it doesn’t count. If she cries, bonus points. If she fights, better.
But I don’t want her to cry. I don’t want her to fight for the sake of fighting. Don’t get me wrong, I love it rough, but not like this. Not anymore. I just want to keep her here, like this, in the silence.
The sky goes lighter.
The Feral Boys move closer, shadows taking shape in the early blue.
I grip her face in both hands, tilt it up, and look her in the eye.
“I wish it was different,” I say. “But I can’t let you go.”
She nods, slow. There’s no fight left in her. Just surrender, pure and bitter.
I lean in, touch my forehead to hers, and breathe her in.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods again, even slower.
I set my jaw, gather her in my arms, and stand. The blood on her legs soaks into my jeans, and I hold her tight, not for her safety but for mine.
At the edge of the clearing, the rest of the Boys are waiting. They make a loose half-circle, arms crossed, faces unreadable.
I ignore them. I stand her up against the base of the ancient tree and push her back against it, my hands holding her together.
I look at the sky, the bare streak of sun, and know there’s no more time.
I brace myself.
I hold her tighter.
And I prepare to ruin her the way tradition demands.
I brace her against the tree, her body limp but not yielding, and for a second I wonder if I’m actually going to be able to do it. Then I see her eyes—open, cloudy, unfocused, but locked on mine—and every ounce of doubt burns away.
She’s watching me. Even now, she has a sliver of hope that whatever comes next, I won’t destroy her. I won’t destroy whatever the fuck this is that’s building between us.
Behind me, the Feral Boys come closer and fan out. Julian stands closest, arms folded, eyes hollow with anticipation. Bam is flicking his knife, leaning against a small tree. Colton and Rhett hang further back, but they don’t look away. No one does.
I grab both her wrists and pin them above her head, pressing them into the V of two thick roots. Her pulse thunders under my fingers, fast and scared.
She thrashes, legs kicking, but she doesn’t get a hit in. I lean over, lips brushing her jaw, her ear, the tangled hair at her temple.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “It’s just you and me.”
She snarls, her lips splitting a line in her face. The effort is enough to make me smile.
I crush her wrists harder. She gasps, and the sound stokes every part of me.
