Page 70 of Breaking Ophelia
The suite at the end of the hall is exactly as it was last time. Made bed, clean, clinical, almost. The lights are low, the carpet thick enough to swallow the sound of footsteps.
Caius doesn’t even set me down on the bed. He kicks the door shut with his foot, the force rattling the hinges, and heads straight for the bathroom. The light is cool, blinding, and for a second I can’t see anything but a bloom of white behind my eyelids until he dims it, making it more manageable.
He deposits me on the marble counter, cold biting through the thin wet cotton of my ruined dress. His hands linger a moment too long, gripping my waist before he finally lets go. The door clicks behind us, locking with a soft snick.
He stands back, breathing hard, surveying his work. My thighs are shredded, knees purpled and slick. There’s the handprint on my chest, blood dried in the grooves. My hair is a mat of twigs and sweat. His own body is a violent work of art—scratches across his arms, a bite mark at his jaw, black eye already blooming on the left side.
No idea where he got that, but I smile.Hopefully it was me.
For a second, we just stare at each other. Me, trying not to shiver, him trying not to smile.
Then he leans over, voice low and even. “You good?”
I want to cry, to kiss him, to claw his eyes out for asking, but the words stick to the roof of my mouth. Instead, I swallow, hard, and nod.
He nods back, and then—just for a split second—his hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my lip, wiping away a streak of red.
He doesn’t say another word. He just turns to the oversized jaccuzi bathtub, flicks the tap on, and lets the roar of water fill the silence.
I watch him in the mirror. He’s methodical, peeling off his t-shirt, careful not to brush any surface with his bloody hands. There’s a first aid kit on the counter, a stack of white towels folded into perfect squares, and a bottle of something expensive next to the sink.
I should be planning. I should be plotting. But all I can do is watch the way his body moves, how nothing about him is accidental, how every twitch is calculated down to the angle of his jaw and the arch of his brow.
The room steams up fast. My skin goes clammy, the sweat from the Hunt mixing with the sickly-sweet tang of lavender from the bottle he dumps in the tub.
He turns back to me, eyes soft, and says, “Let’s get you clean.”
I almost laugh.
I almost scream.
Instead, I sit very still, back pressed to the mirror, and wait for him to make the next move.
He checks the temperature with his hand, once, twice, then turns and surveys me like a project that’s gotten out of control. The steam curls over the edge of the tub, and the smell relaxes me.
“Come here,” he says, voice soft but absolute.
I stare at the pattern of veins on the back of my hand, count them to five, then slide off the counter. My knees almost buckle, but he’s there before I hit the tile, catching my ribs with one arm and steadying me on my feet.
Up close, the damage is obvious. There’s a line of dried blood down my shin, a constellation of bruises blossoming on my thigh, a chunk of bark still embedded in the cut just above my knee. My hair is a nest, stiff with sweat and resin. I smell like something that’s already been buried.
He sighs, and tugs at the shoulder of my dress. It rips with no resistance, what’s left of the seam going in a single, brutal line from my collarbone to my navel. His hands are careful, almost reverent, as he peels the fabric away from my chest, inch by inch, checking for new wounds underneath.
The scrutiny makes me want to fold in on myself, hide behind my hands, but I force them to stay at my sides, fingers curlinghard enough to dig moons into my palms. I won’t give him the satisfaction of flinching.
He crouches to slide the dress down my legs. His fingers brush my calves, feather-light where they hover above the worst of the scrapes. I feel his gaze crawl up my body, lingering on the torn skin at my hips, the gooseflesh at my arms, the spatter of blood across my stomach.
“Damn, baby girl. You look like you’ve seen better days,” he smirks.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Thanks to you, dick wad.”
He chuckles. “Fair.”
I step over the dress, plant my feet on the bath mat, and brace for the next move. He hooks his thumbs under the band of my underwear, shredded as it is, the elastic held, hesitates, and then pulls them down slow, careful not to catch on any scrapes. The intimacy of it makes my ears ring.
He helps me into the tub, steadying my elbows as I climb over the edge. The water is hot, hotter than I’m ready for, and I jerk back, hissing.
He holds me until the convulsion passes. “Easy.”
