Page 72 of Breaking Ophelia
He leaves, the door swinging shut behind him.
I stare at the ceiling, watching the steam curl into ghosts, and wonder what kind of monster teaches himself to be tender.
And what kind of girl starts to want it.
I try to sink under the water, let the lavender burn the insides of my nose, but I can’t keep my head down long enough to drown out the thoughts. I count to ten, surface, then count again. By the time I make it to twenty, my skin is raw and pruny and the steam has given me a nosebleed.
Wiping it away, I work on washing my hair, gently, slowly, getting out all the debris, dirt and twigs.
The bathroom door swings open. Caius re-enters, eyes flicking to my face, then away before kneeling and helping me finish rinsing my hair.
“Ready?” he says.
I want to say no. I want to say,Fuck off and let me die here. Instead I nod, and he fishes me out of the tub, strong arms under my armpits, like I’m a sack of flour instead of a person.The water sluices off me, trickling down my legs, and I hate how vulnerable I am, shivering and exposed, breathless from just standing upright.
He wraps me in a towel, thick and expensive, one of those ones that can absorb a whole pond. He rubs me down, quick and rough, but never careless. His hands are always one step ahead of the pain, avoiding bruises and cuts.
He dries my hair with the same towel, then roots through a drawer and comes up with a wide-toothed comb. He starts at the ends, works his way up, gentle as a mother cat with her kittens.
“Sit,” he says, nodding at the toilet lid.
I do, knees knocking together.
He kneels in front of me, pulls a tube of antibiotic cream from the kit, and starts dabbing at the worst of the cuts. When he gets to my shoulder, the one with the split that’s still leaking, he hesitates.
“This will hurt.”
I grit my teeth, brace my hands on my knees. “Do it.”
He spreads the ointment, presses gauze over the wound, and tapes it with perfect, practiced efficiency. I can’t help it—a sound escapes, half yelp, half growl. He pauses, waits for me to get it together.
The burn in my arm triggers a memory—eight years old, sitting on my bed, knee skinned from eating shit on the playground. My father stands in the doorway, tie loosened, eyes bored, watching me dig out the gravel with my own fingernails. I look up, searching for a flicker of sympathy, but he just sighs and walks away, muttering about having more important things to do.
I come back to myself, blinking against the white glare.
Caius’s eyes are on my face, watching for the crack. His fingers slow on the tape.
“You okay?” he says, and for once, it’s not a test.
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat closes, the words clinging to the memory.
He tugs the towel higher, tucks it under my armpits, then leans in and lifts my chin with his thumb.
“You’re not a fucking prize,” he says. “You’re not a debt, either. Not to me.”
I blink. Tears are welling up, hot and fast, and I want to kill him for seeing it.
He doesn’t mock, doesn’t look away. Just sits there, hand on my face, like he has all the time in the world.
Then he stands, shakes the excess water from his hands, and tosses me a t-shirt. It’s black, probably his, big enough to cover me to the knees.
“Put this on,” he says. “It’ll hurt less than the towel.”
I slip the shirt over my head. The fabric is soft, smells like his cologne. I expect him to leer, to make a comment, but instead he just waits while I clumsily dress myself, hair dripping down the back.
He watches, but it doesn’t feel like a threat. More like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he looks away.
He gestures for me to follow. I do, limping a little on the bandaged knee. We move through the dim suite, past the darkened closet, to the monster of a bed at the room’s center.
