Page 71 of Breaking Ophelia
“Jesus,” I gasp. “You trying to cook me alive?”
He doesn’t answer, just settles me into the water, then kneels on the tile beside the tub. His knees creak, the sound almost humanizing. I sink until the heat buries my shins, my thighs, my hips. Every scratch and cut burns, but it’s a good burn, the kind that tells me I’m not dead yet.
He leans over, fishhooks a washcloth out of the cabinet, and plunges it into the bath. The white cloth drips as he wrings it out and starts dabbing at my arms.
The first touch makes me flinch, just a little. He notices but pretends not to.
“Lavender, huh?” I say, trying to make the word sound like an accusation instead of a gasp.
His cheeks go weirdly pink, which is almost enough to make me laugh. “I got it for you,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Noticed you liked it that night...”
My heart does something ugly in my chest, flips over like a hooked fish. I want to mock him, but the heat and the shame and the exhaustion flatten the urge.
“Stalker,” I rasp.
He shrugs. “I prefer attentive.”
The next ten minutes pass in silence, except for the tiny sounds of cloth dragging over skin and the occasional hiss when he hitsa raw patch. He works slow, cleaning each wound with the same precision he’d use to clean a knife or load a gun. The contrast makes me dizzy.
He doesn’t touch my face until the very end, and when he does, his thumb is so gentle it barely registers. He wipes the dried blood from my lip, traces the bruise blooming along my cheekbone, then moves to the back of my neck, careful of the place where his own hand left a ring of purple.
I close my eyes, let the steam soften the edges of the world.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, finally. The question is supposed to sound cold, but it comes out small.
He stops, cloth hovering above my collarbone.
“What?”
“This. You win. You’re supposed to be gloating. Or—” I swallow, “—or fucking me. Or whatever.”
He dips the cloth again, wrings it out, and presses it to the inside of my palm, where the cut from the ritual still oozes if I flex my hand. “The Board said I couldn’t damage you further. That includes infection.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He grins, teeth white and sharp. “You shouldn’t, it’s not why. But it’s also not a lie.”
He goes back to work, cleaning the rest of my arm, then moves to my legs. When he gets to my knees, he pulls a pair of tweezers from the first aid kit and flicks the bark from the wound in one quick movement.
I yelp, loud enough to bounce off the tiles.
He doesn’t apologize, just presses a clean cloth to the cut until it stops bleeding.
“You want to hate me so bad,” he says, refusing to look me in the eye, “but you like this.”
I want to scream that I don’t, that he’s wrong, but the part of me that tells the truth won’t let me.
He moves to my feet, lifts one out of the water, and cradles it in his hand while he cleans the blood from between my toes. The touch is so absurdly gentle that tears prick at my eyes, unbidden.
He sees it, of course.
“Pain’s good,” he says, “but sometimes you need something softer so you remember what you’re fighting for.”
I jerk my foot away, splash water all over the floor.
He just laughs, stands up, and tosses the washcloth in the sink.
“Stay in until you’re pink. Then yell if you want me to help you out.”
