Chapter 8 Caius #2
She spits on the floor, missing my shoe by an inch. “Make me.”
I wipe the saliva with my heel, then lean in, pressing my forehead to hers. The contact is hot, electric, a pulse I want to chase to the end.
“I could,” I whisper, “but where’s the fun in that?”
She’s breathing hard now, lips parted, skin flushed under the white of her uniform. I watch her throat work, the desperate swallow as she tries to banish the fear.
“I hate you,” she says.
“Not as much as you wish you did,” I answer.
I let her go, but not before tracing my thumb down her cheek, leaving a mark even if it doesn’t bruise.
She stands there, body rigid, jaw locked, as I turn and walk away.
The echo of her hate follows me down the hall, a sweet, raw music I can’t get out of my head.
The quad is a homeage to the founders. There’s a bench beneath the shadow of a dead tree. I plant myself there, not to wait, but to claim the spot as mine.
She shows up late, as if the extra minutes will dilute the threat. She doesn’t scan for me. She knows exactly where I’ll be.
Ophelia stalks toward me, boots thudding hard, jaw locked. She wears the anger like a suit of armor, but it looks even better on her than the white. For a second, I just watch—let her come closer, let the world watch too.
When she’s within reach, I grab her by the wrist and yank her down onto the bench beside me. Not gentle. Not a negotiation. She lands with a hiss, teeth bared.
“You’re early,” she bites out.
I ignore it. I keep my hand locked around her wrist. Her pulse is frantic, a wild animal in a cage of bone.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” she says, lower now, her voice meant only for me.
I lean in, crowding her against the back of the bench. My thigh presses hers into the metal slats. I want the whole fucking campus to see it: mine, mine, mine.
“You keep saying that,” I say, “but you’re still here.”
She tries to wrench her arm free. I don’t let go. Instead, I slide my fingers up her forearm, tracing the path her blood takes, feeling the tremor beneath her skin.
“Let go,” she says.
“No.”
“You’re sick.”
I bring my face close, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her hazel irises. “I could show you sick,” I whisper. “But then I’d have to drag you to the hospital when you collapse.”
Her eyes flare, then narrow. “Try it.”
So I do.
I stand, yanking her to her feet by the wrist. She resists, but I’m stronger.
I pivot, slamming her against the trunk of the dead tree, my body pinning hers, her bag trapped between us.
All around, students freeze. A few phones lift, ready to catch the carnage.
I stare each one down until the screens lower, until they’re staring with open mouths.
“You want a show?” I say, loud enough for the bystanders. “You want to see what happens when you refuse to obey?”
She glares up at me, but her chest heaves, and the flush on her cheeks is more than rage.
I tilt her chin up with two fingers. She tries to bite me, just like I knew she would. Her teeth graze my hand, sharp and satisfying. I let her draw blood before I grip her jaw tight and force her mouth open.
Then I kiss her.
Hard.
Not a kiss, really—an invasion. I drive my tongue into her, teeth smashing against teeth, blood smearing our lips. She fights, nails digging for my face, but I trap her hands behind her back with one of mine and squeeze until she whimpers.
She tastes like heaven and hell, like old fear and new defiance. I drink it down, forcing her to take all of me. Her body sags for a second, then rallies; she fights back, tongue warring with mine, hips twisting to try and break free. I clamp her harder, until she has no choice but to accept.
When I feel her knees buckle, I let up—just a fraction—enough for her to breathe, enough for her to get a lungful of my scent.
I break the kiss, lips wet and stinging.
She’s panting. Her lips are bruised, blood on her teeth, her hair a wreck.
She looks perfect.
I lean in, forehead pressed to hers, and say, “Next time, I’ll fuck you in front of everyone.”
She gasps, and her pupils blow wide, dark and desperate. She hates me, but her body is learning. She’ll crave this even as she tries to kill me.
I ease my grip, let her hands free. She slaps me, hard. The sound echoes, draws a ripple from the crowd. I don’t react. I take the hit and smile.
“Fucking DICK,” she hisses, but her voice cracks.
I wipe the blood from my lip with the back of my hand, then wipe it on her collar.
“Did you eat?”
She staggers back, clutching her bag to her chest, trembling in every limb.
She touches her mouth, fingers coming away red.
“No, fuck face, I didn’t eat. And maybe I won’t, just because you told me too.
Maybe I’ll let myself wither away and fucking rot, all so I can escape the disgusting sack of skin that is YOU. ”
A hush falls. No one moves. No one intervenes.
She stands there, shaking, hating me. Hating herself more.
“Go to the kitchen and eat, Ophelia. Or when you come to my room tonight, I will make you eat until you vomit, and then I will make you eat that, too. Don’t fucking test me.”
Her eyes narrow and she huffs before turning and scurrying back inside.
She will eat.
Because the alternative is humiliation and she’s a prideful little wench.
“See you tonight, little vixen.” I half yell, half sing, which earns me a frustrated scream as she yanks the door open and slips inside.