Page 62 of Breaking Ophelia
But only if we do it together.
My hands stop trembling.
My heart does not.
He brushes the hair from my face, tucks it behind my ear, so gentle it makes me want to scream. I need the anger, the violence, the bitterness because without it, I’m coming undone.
"You did good," he says.
I spit in his face. I am a war zone of conflicting feelings, knowing that it doesn’t end with a kiss, knowing it doesn’t end like this. No… it has to end the same way it started, with an animalistic fuck befitting of a God Son.
He laughs, wiping it away with the back of his hand.
"You’re beautiful when you’re angry," he says.
"I fucking hate you."
He lifts me, arms under my shoulders, and for a moment I want to bite his neck, to feel his pulse break under my teeth.
Instead, I let him carry me.
Just for a minute.
Just until I can feel my hands again.
As the world fades, I think of the next time. Of what I’ll do to him when I get the chance.
I’ll cut him open.
I’ll make him bleed.
I’ll make him love me, if it’s the last thing I do.
The cold finally gives up. The pain fades.
“Rest for a moment, little vixen. Then… I will claim you and it’ll all be over.”
Chapter 14: Caius
Shefallsasleepagainstmy chest with blood on her lips and dirt pressed into the backs of her thighs. It’s not a peaceful sleep, but when she finally gives in to it, her whole body slackens. She’s heavy in my arms, but that’s why I lift heavy and train hard.
My girl deserves to be thrown across the room like a ragdoll if that’s what she wants.
We’re under the black-boned arch of the oldest tree in the woods, the one that’s been here since before any of us. The roots are bigger than her arms, curling up from the dirt to cradle us both like the skeleton of a giant. I let her sleep. I want her tosleep. I want to believe she dreams about running, or flying, or something to do with me.
But she probably dreams about the Hunt. The ritual. Of being turned inside out because of a sin she never committed.
The first glow of dawn leaks into the sky, cold and blue. I watch it filter through the raw-finger branches, painting streaks across her face. She’s all bruises and cuts and streaks of mud, her white dress nothing but strips now, plastered to her body in places and hanging off her shoulders in others. There’s a poppy petal stuck in the sweat at her collarbone.
She’s perfect.
I could look at her forever.
She shivers and turns into my chest, her nose against my sternum, hair stuck to her cheeks. I could crush her with one hand. Instead, I trace the line of her jaw with my thumb, finding the places where the skin is softest, where the bones make perfect sense. I follow the blue thread of vein up the side of her neck. Her pulse is slow, barely there.
The forest is still. The Feral Boys are watching from the edge, pretending not to. Julian’s silhouette flickers in and out of the shadow, a cigarette burning tiny holes in the dark. Rhett’s somewhere upwind, Colton behind the next tree. Who the fuck knows where Bam is, asshole is always doing what he wants anyway.
They’re waiting for me to finish the job.
