Page 38 of Breaking Ophelia
A hand clamps onto my upper arm, hard enough to pop the muscle. I try to twist but he’s already behind me, breath in my ear, voice pitched for just me. “You’re late.”
I bite back a snarl. “Fuck off.”
He laughs, the sound low and hungry. The hand on my arm tugs, pulling me through the press of bodies. Heads turn—first in confusion, then in recognition, then in sick, delighted awe. The corridor narrows, and still he doesn’t let go. Every time I slow, his grip tightens, and every step is a new bruise blooming beneath my sleeve.
He’s dressed different tonight. Instead of the usual black suit, Caius wears a white tee, dark jeans, no shoes. The shirt stretches over his chest, the neck torn open just enough to show the blue-black stain of an old bite on his collarbone. His hair iswet, slicked back, and the drops run down his temples in slow, measured lines.
We climb the stairs two at a time. At the landing, he stops so suddenly I nearly eat the banister. “Wait.” His tone is final.
He checks the hallway, peering down both ends like a cop on a raid. He looks at me—really looks—and I see the gears turn behind his eyes.
Then he opens the door and shoves me through.
His room is… not what I expected.
No filth, no disorder. The carpet is vacuumed into geometric stripes, the bed so crisply made I could bounce a quarter off the cover. Everything is navy or burgundy or polished wood. On the wall above the desk, there’s a framed photo of a man who must be his father, the resemblance uncanny.
A single lamp is on, light pooling in a perfect oval over the desk. Next to it, a stack of books arranged by size and color. I blink, thrown off by the total control. He steps in after me, closes the door, then leans against it, arms folded, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“Sit.”
I stay standing. “Why did you want me here?”
He looks at me like he’s already bored, but I know the patience is a trick. “Did you eat dinner?”
I don’t want to answer, but I do. “Yes.”
He moves so fast I barely register the shift—one second at the door, the next he’s in my face, so close I feel the heat radiate off him. He smells like aftershave and something more dangerous. His hand goes to my throat, not tight, just a warning. The other hovers at my jaw, thumb grazing my lip.
“Good girl,” he says.
I want to break his thumb, but I’m too stunned by the gentleness. My pulse hammers against his palm. He’s not even squeezing.
He lets go, backs away just enough to make me chase the air. “Kneel.”
The word lands like a slap.
I square my shoulders. “No.”
His lips twitch. “A brat. How fitting.”
He moves behind me, hands on my shoulders, forcing me down. I lock my knees, but his weight is impossible. He drops me like a sack of flour, and I catch myself with my hands, palms burning. The carpet is rough under my knees, the fibers biting my skin.
He steps in front of me, towering over me.
“Look up.”
I don’t, at first. He waits. The silence stretches until it hurts. Then I do, and the look in his eyes is pure victory.
He unzips his jeans, slow. The sound is loud in the room. He fishes himself out, and it’s insane how fast he goes from zero to fully hard.Of course it’s big. Why would I expect anything else?
I look at the wall behind him, anywhere but his cock, but he grabs my hair and forces my face forward.
“Suck it.”
“No.”
His grip on my hair tightens, and for a second I think he’ll pull it out by the roots. “You can do it on your knees or on your back. Pick.”
