Page 45 of Breaking Ophelia
“You need therapy,” she says.
I close the gap, so close that I can see the downy hairs on her cheek, the tiny freckles spreading in random patterns over her skin.
“I need you,” I say.
She doesn’t look at me and it infuriates me. Doesn’t she understand I’d kill every fucking person in this room if it meant no one would even look at her wrong ever again?
“You don’t let anyone touch you,” I grind out. “Not unless it’s me.”
She laughs, harsh, but her voice is steady. “Is this your version of being a possessive asshole?”
I reach out, thumb wiping a line down her chin. “If he touches you again, I’ll break his fingers.”
She grabs my wrist. Her grip is tight, almost painful. “Maybe you should start with yours.”
We stare at each other, locked.
I lean in, close enough that our foreheads nearly touch. “I’m not like him,” I say.
She smiles, ugly and real. “You’re worse.”
And she’s right.
Anyone who was in my spot would understand that there are no rules when it comes to protecting her.
You break bones.
You break rules.
You break them all, for her.
“Let’s go.”
She tries to twist out of my grip, but I’m already calling the cook and telling them to bring dinner up to her room. And this time I will sit and watch her eat. She still looks like she’s withering away and I hate the pang in my chest at the thought of my girl suffering, even if it’s by her own hand.
“No. Leave me alone.”
“Nah, I don’t think I will. Walk or I’ll drag you, makes no difference to me.”
I don’t let go of her wrist. Not in the hallway, not on the stairs, not when the second-years flinch away from us like we’re radioactive.
She tries to yank free at the first landing. I squeeze harder, and she grits her teeth, not a sound. The whole school is a fishbowl now, faces pressed to every window, the rumors already burning through the ducts.
Word will get back to The Board but I don’t give a fuck.
By the time we reach her room, her pulse is a jackhammer. I can feel it in the bone of her wrist, the fine tremble in her fingers, the heat that rolls off her skin in waves.
I don’t say a word. I shove her through the door, kick it shut behind us.
She gasps as I walk her backwards, never breaking eye contact, until her spine hits the wall. She braces for a blow that never comes.
Instead, I drop her wrist, and tear at the buttons of her blouse. The fabric gives with a sound like teeth breaking. Buttons bounce across the tile.
She fights me for a second, hands at my shoulders, nails digging. I don’t stop. I want the pain, want it to linger under my collarbone for days.
I push the blouse off her shoulders, drag her skirt up over her hips. She’s shaking, but she’s not scared. She’s vibrating with need.
Her hands fist in my shirt. I lean in, bite the side of her neck, hard enough to bruise. She moans, and I feel her pulse stutter, then ramp up.
