Chapter 7 Ophelia #2
“You should be afraid,” he says, so soft I almost miss it.
“I’m not.”
He laughs, but it’s not amusement. It’s something meaner. “Liar.”
He grabs my chin, thumb digging into my jaw, and tilts my face up. The urge to bite him is so strong I almost do it. But I let him look, let him see the hate in my eyes.
“You’re marked for me now,” he says, voice dropping. “Nothing you do will ever wash that out. You understand?”
I breathe through my nose, fists so tight I feel the nails cutting skin. I hate him. I hate the heat he brings to my face, the way my body remembers his touch even as my mind screams no.
I’m not going to beg. I’m not going to cry.
“You don’t own me,” I say, steady as I can.
He lets go of my chin but doesn’t step back. “I can do whatever the fuck I want to you. You know that, right?”
I don’t answer. He’s right, and we both know it.
He tips his head, considering, then says, “Today’s lesson is cooking. I’ll see you in the kitchen in five. Gunna get some clothes on.”
He turns and walks away, back muscles flexing with every step.
Julian leans in, voice tinged with laughter. “Told you he bites.”
I clench my jaw and shout after Caius. “Fuck you. I’m not your wife.”
He stops and steps backwards, his scent wrapping around me—something dark and bitter, like coffee left to burn on the stove. He walks back to me, stopping just inside my space.
“You don’t get to refuse,” he says. “You signed your life over the second your father sold you to the Board.”
A hot flash of shame climbs my neck. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.
He leans down, breath warm on my ear. “You didn’t think I’d just let you skate by, did you? You’re mine now, Ophelia. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. I want to scream, to punch him, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I keep my voice steady. “You had your fun last night. What’s the point now?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs my wrist—hard, fingers bruising—and pulls me toward the counter.
“Lesson one,” he says, “you cook for me. Start with the eggs.”
He points at a carton, a pan, a slab of bacon. The kitchen is all stainless steel and exposed flame.
I glare at the eggs like they personally offended me. I’ve cooked before, a thousand times, but now every movement feels like a performance.
Caius doesn’t let go of my wrist. He stands behind me, body pressed into my back, his hand caging mine as I crack the first egg.
It shatters wrong, shell in the yolk, egg whites slimy and cold on my fingers.
“Pathetic,” he murmurs, lips grazing my earlobe.
I want to ram the shell in his eye.
Instead, I dig out the fragments, fingers shaking, and throw the mess in the trash.
He tightens his grip.
“Don’t fuck up again,” he says. “Or I’ll break your hands and make you eat it off the floor.”
The threat is empty, but the others all laugh. I feel their attention, crawling over my skin.
I try again. This time, the egg breaks clean. I let the sizzle fill the silence.
He runs a hand down my arm, slow, almost gentle. “Good girl.”
I freeze. The praise is poison. I hate how much it affects me, the way my heart skips at the sound.
He makes me do the bacon, the toast, even pour his coffee. All the while, he hovers behind me, so close I can feel the heat of his body. Every time I try to move away, he presses closer.
“You like this,” he whispers, just for me. “Being owned.”
I almost drop the pan. My face burns. “In your dreams.”
He laughs. “Every night.”
I plate the food, shove it at him, and cross my arms. “Eat it. Choke on it, for all I care.”
He takes a bite, chews slow, never looking away from me.
The other boys dish up and dig in, watching us like it’s the best show they’ve ever seen. The girl has mysteriously disappeared.
After a few bites, Caius wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then stands.
He walks over, reaches out, and smears a bit of egg on my cheek.
I slap his hand away, but he’s faster. He grabs my chin, forces me to hold still.
“You look better with a mess on you,” he says.
My breathing is ragged. My hands ball into fists. I stare up at him, hating how much taller, stronger he is. Hating how much I want him to keep touching me.
He sees it. The fucker always sees it.
He pulls me close. Not a hug, not a kiss—just a claim. His hand in my hair, his other hand cupping my jaw. He leans in, and for a second, I think he’s going to bite me, or worse.
Instead, he whispers, “You’re going to come to my room tonight. You’re going to kneel, just like in the dining room, and you’re going to beg.”
I bite him. Hard, just above his collarbone.
He jerks, but doesn’t let go. Instead, he grins, eyes bright with hunger.
“There she is,” he says. “My little animal.”
He shoves me away, just hard enough to make me stumble.
Behind him, the boys cheer.
Rhett yells, “Bet you can’t make her crawl!”
Colton, “Ten bucks she knees you in the balls first!”
I glare at them all, then at Caius.
“I’m not your fucking pet,” I spit.
He laughs. “You’re whatever I say you are. That’s how this works.”
I back up to the door, keeping my eyes on him. “Enjoy your eggs. Next time, I’ll add poison.”
He blows me a kiss. “Looking forward to it.”
I slam the door on the way out, the sound echoing down the stone hall.
As soon as I’m out of sight, I stop and lean against the wall, chest heaving.
I stare at my hands. They’re shaking. Not with fear. With rage. With something darker, something that feels too much like want.
I slide down to the floor, knees tucked to my chest.
I won’t kneel. I sure as fuck won’t crawl.
But I might bend.
God, I hate him.
I hate how good it feels to fight.
And I know—know—I’ll go to his room tonight, just to prove I can stand it.
Just to prove I can outlast the wolf.