Page 31 of Breaking Ophelia
He grabs my chin, thumb digging into my jaw, and tilts my face up. The urge to bite him is so strong I almost do it. But I let him look, let him see the hate in my eyes.
“You’re marked for me now,” he says, voice dropping. “Nothing you do will ever wash that out. You understand?”
I breathe through my nose, fists so tight I feel the nails cutting skin. I hate him. I hate the heat he brings to my face, the way my body remembers his touch even as my mind screams no.
I’m not going to beg. I’m not going to cry.
“You don’t own me,” I say, steady as I can.
He lets go of my chin but doesn’t step back. “I can do whatever the fuck I want to you. You know that, right?”
I don’t answer. He’s right, and we both know it.
He tips his head, considering, then says, “Today’s lesson is cooking. I’ll see you in the kitchen in five. Gunna get some clothes on.”
He turns and walks away, back muscles flexing with every step.
Julian leans in, voice tinged with laughter. “Told you he bites.”
I clench my jaw and shout after Caius. “Fuck you. I’m not your wife.”
He stops and steps backwards, his scent wrapping around me—something dark and bitter, like coffee left to burn on the stove. He walks back to me, stopping just inside my space.
“You don’t get to refuse,” he says. “You signed your life over the second your father sold you to the Board.”
A hot flash of shame climbs my neck. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.
He leans down, breath warm on my ear. “You didn’t think I’d just let you skate by, did you? You’re mine now, Ophelia. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. I want to scream, to punch him, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I keep my voice steady. “You had your fun last night. What’s the point now?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs my wrist—hard, fingers bruising—and pulls me toward the counter.
“Lesson one,” he says, “you cook for me. Start with the eggs.”
He points at a carton, a pan, a slab of bacon. The kitchen is all stainless steel and exposed flame.
I glare at the eggs like they personally offended me. I’ve cooked before, a thousand times, but now every movement feels like a performance.
Caius doesn’t let go of my wrist. He stands behind me, body pressed into my back, his hand caging mine as I crack the first egg.
It shatters wrong, shell in the yolk, egg whites slimy and cold on my fingers.
“Pathetic,” he murmurs, lips grazing my earlobe.
I want to ram the shell in his eye.
Instead, I dig out the fragments, fingers shaking, and throw the mess in the trash.
He tightens his grip.
“Don’t fuck up again,” he says. “Or I’ll break your hands and make you eat it off the floor.”
The threat is empty, but the others all laugh. I feel their attention, crawling over my skin.
I try again. This time, the egg breaks clean. I let the sizzle fill the silence.
