Page 73 of Breaking Ophelia
He pulls the covers back, then sits on the edge, waiting.
“Get in,” he says, voice careful.
I hesitate. He clocks it, then sighs and pulls me down next to him. He tucks me under the covers, which are heavy and warm, and lies on top of the blankets, arms folded behind his head.
He doesn’t touch me, but the heat of him is there, radiating through the cotton.
I stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.
He rolls onto his side, props himself up on one elbow.
“You can sleep,” he says. “You’re safe.”
The word rings in my ears, a foreign language.
I laugh, a shaky, wrecked sound. “Am I?”
He shrugs. “From everyone else, yeah.”
I want to say something clever, something to take the edge off the kindness, but my jaw is locked and my eyes are burning.
I turn my back to him, bury my face in the pillow, and force myself to breathe.
He shifts, just a little, and I feel his hand on my hair, slow and steady, stroking from crown to nape.
The rhythm is soothing. Hypnotic.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says, voice so quiet I almost miss it.
But I do.
I’m terrified. Not just of him, but of what happens if I let myself believe this could be real. That someone might actually care if I hurt, or if I bleed, or if I break.
I listen to his breathing, slow and regular. I can feel the pull of sleep, trying to drag me under.
But I don’t give in. Not right away.
I hold on, just a few more seconds, to the last piece of myself that isn’t his.
Then I drift.
This time, I don’t dream about running.
I dream about hands that know how to hurt, but choose not to.
I dream about warmth.
About being wanted.
And when I wake, I know I’m still alive.
And that’s enough.
Chapter 16: Caius
Iwakebeforesunrise,the way I always do when my body is running too hot for sleep. The room is dark, but I don’t fumble. I don’t make noise. Every step is muscle memory, a sequence I’ve rehearsed so many times my feet could walk these halls without the rest of me attached.
Before I leave, I check onmygirl.
