Page 63 of Breaking Ophelia
So is she, whether she knows it or not.
I want to stay like this, holding her, longer. I want to lie about why I need to. But there are rules. The Hunt has to end before the sun comes up. If I don’t claim her, it’s all void, and she will disappear, like the girl last year. I know the Board is watching, and I know her father will want to know it’s completed. Thathisdebt is paid. I know the Vicious Kings want the ceremony played out to the letter. The Funders are counting on this to ensure their businesses will merge with only the cream of the crop.
I don’t care about them, but I care about her.
The thought is overwhelming, startling in it’s intensity.
I stroke her cheek, run my fingers through the ragged mess of her hair. She stirs, lashes fluttering.
Behind me, footsteps. The snap of a branch. I don’t look up.
Julian’s voice, a warning pushes through his tone. “Cai.”
I don’t answer. I know what he wants.
He gets closer, crouches at the edge of the root-tangle, eyes flickering between me and the girl. “Sun’s up in ten minutes,” he says. “You wait, you lose her.”
I drag my eyes off her. “I know.”
“She’s out cold,” he points out. “You sure she’s up for this?”
“She’ll be fine.”
“She looks dead.”
“She’s alive.”
He gives me a look, sharp and amused. “You’re getting soft, Caius. Maybe you want her for more than just a Hunt-wife.”
I stare him down. “Jealous?”
“Fuck no. But the longer you wait, the more likely the Board sends in a cleaner. You want the Vicious Kings to dispose of her in the river? Let’s just get it over with.”
I squeeze her a little tighter, hating the way it feels. “Get lost.”
He stands, flicks the cigarette into the dirt, and vanishes without another word.
She stirs again, a whimper caught in her throat.
I bend my head, lips to her ear. “Ophelia.”
No response.
I slide my hand up her side, fingers finding the knob of her shoulder, the goosebumps that rise under my touch.
“Wake up,” I say, gentler than I mean to.
Her eyelids flutter. She licks her lips, tries to move, but her limbs are rubber.
“Don’t,” I say. “You’ll just hurt more.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “Is it over?”
I look at the sky. The horizon is white, streaked with red. “Almost.”
She tries to sit up, but I push her back down. “You have to wake up now, baby girl,” I say.
Her eyes focus on my face, and for a second I see something like confusion. Or hope. “You’re not going to hurt me?”
