Page 28 of Breaking Ophelia
Slowly, achingly, I pull out. I don’t want to. I want to live between her thighs, the only place that I truly feel at peace. At home. My cum leaks down her thigh, soaking the sheets. I wipe myself on her shirt, then tug it down to cover her up.
Maybe I got her pregnant. Wouldn’t that be something?
I stand, look at her one last time. She’s ruined, but beautiful. Marked.
I let myself out, relocking the door behind me.
Back in my room, I replay the footage on my phone. I watch the way her body took me, the way her spirit didn’t break even when her muscles did.
When she wakes and she comes to me for her next duties, I’ll make her remember.
Finally, as my cum dries inside her, she’ll understand what it means to be mine.
And I’ll do it again, and again, molding her to the shape of me so no one will ever feel right inside her again. I’ll fuck the bitterness, the anger, the defiance right out of her until she has nothing left but to kneel with those perfect lips around my cock and the sound of her sighs taking me to heaven.
My perfect girl.
Born to be mine.
I move the video file into a locked folder, and for the first time in years, I sleep through the night.
Chapter 7: Ophelia
There’satasteinmy mouth like old booze and bad breath.I drank way too much, fuck, my head.
I open my eyes to a ceiling I don’t remember falling asleep under, a wedge of sunlight creeping over my sheets. I try to move, but my body refuses—my limbs heavy and my head sunk deep, like someone bolted me to the mattress overnight. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. The air smells like bleach and sweat and something else I can’t place, thick and animal.
The first thing I notice is the pain.
It’s not sharp—nothing that dramatic. Just a slow, pulsing ache low in my stomach, a sore, bruised awareness between my legsthat makes me want to curl up and hide from myself. I shift under the covers, hoping to roll over and burrow deeper, but the movement uncorks the rest of the sensations: a stiffness in my jaw, a tremor in my thighs, the damp, sticky drag of my skin where it clings to the sheet.
For a second, I forget where I am.
Then I smell the rose, the one left on my desk yesterday, a sour floral note beneath the sweat, the aftertaste of last night’s over indulgence. My stomach flips.
I throw the covers off and stare at my own body like it belongs to someone else. The old shirt is rucked up high on my hips, a streak of something dark and dried along the hem. My thighs are smeared with white, crusted in a mess I didn’t make.
That motherfucker.
For a second I want to believe it’s a nightmare, that I drank myself so stupid I pissed myself in my sleep. But I know the truth before my brain admits it.
Caius.
His hands, his mouth, the weight of his body above mine. The memory lands in pieces—hard, sharp, and mean. His palm on my neck. The stubble on his jaw as it rasped over my cheek. The sound he made when he shoved himself inside me, slow and deep and uncaring whether I woke or not.
I don’t cry. I don’t even feel like crying.
In fact, some sick, twisted part of me isgladhe did this now. A warm up to the Hunt, if you will.
And yet, anger surges through me.
I’m gonna cut off his cock and hang it outside my window as a wind chime.
Instead, I sit up and grab the first thing within reach… a balled-up t-shirt from the floor and scrub the evidence off my thighs as best I can. The dried cum comes away in flakes, leaves my skin red and raw. I don’t stop until the skin burns.
When it’s done, I walk to the window and stare out at the yard below. The lawn is empty, dew glittering under the weak sun, the campus asleep. No one can see me up here, bare-legged and shaking, but I know the cameras are watching. They always are.
I flip them off. Both hands, just in case.
