Chapter 13 Ophelia #2
"Come down," he says, almost coaxing. "You’re done. Let me help you."
"Fuck you."
He smiles. "Oh, you will, it's just how, that's up to you."
Bending, I grab a rock and hurl it at him, but it falls short. He doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, hands still in pockets, as if this is all a joke, as if he’s not the reason I’m freezing and bleeding and barely alive.
I try to get up, but my knees won’t work. I crawl, dragging myself over the top of the hill, down the far side where the light is faint and the cold is somehow even deeper.
I make it five feet before I collapse.
For a long time, I lie there, face pressed to the dirt, cheek numb, watching the world turn pale with morning before I force myself to sit, finding him in the exact spot he was before.
I think of my mother, of the way she would braid my hair in the kitchen, her hands so gentle I barely felt the pull.
I think of the day my father told me I had to come to Westpoint, to pay off his debt to men who would agree not to hurt him, only me.
I think of all the times I tried to be good, to fit in, to play their games.
I think of Caius.
His hands on my throat, his mouth at my ear, the way he made me feel alive even as he tried to destroy me.
We stare at each other across the black water, neither moving.
I try to measure his mood, but it’s impossible—his face is pure blank, not a twitch, not a tell.
I want to believe he’s tired, or annoyed, or even afraid, but I know better.
He’s in his element now, the game played out exactly the way he wanted.
I lick the blood from my lip, try to straighten my spine. I will not be the first to look away.
He takes a step. Another. The ground crunches under his boots, and I count each pace like a death sentence. By the time he’s close enough for me to see the twitch at the corner of his mouth, my fists are balled so tight my knuckles are white.
“You run pretty good for a dead girl,” he says, voice low, soft enough to disappear in the space between us.
I don’t answer. I just breathe. In, out, chest tight with all the things I’ll never say.
He moves closer and closer until he’s towering above me. His eyes drift down, linger at the exposed skin of my throat, the pulse hammering just beneath the surface. My hair is down, a curtain to hide behind, but I shove it back anyway. I want him to see. I want him to know what he’s done to me.
He reaches out, slow, like I’m a wild animal about to bolt. His hand finds my shoulder, and I flinch so hard it feels like I’ll break in half.
“Don’t,” I say, voice raw.
He lets go instantly. He backs up, just a hair, but the absence of his touch is worse than the pressure. I want to scream at him to try again. I want to run. I want to shatter him with my bare hands.
Instead, I just stay there, locked in place, my body a war zone of yes and no.
He watches me, the corners of his mouth twisting in something that’s almost regret.
“You can go if you want,” he says. “No one’s going to stop you.”
I almost believe him.
But there’s a catch in his voice, a hook buried deep. I want to ask him what he means, but I know he’d just say the same thing, over and over, until I start to believe it.
I look past him, at the trees, the hill, the broken trail of petals and blood leading all the way back to the amphitheater.
There’s nowhere to go.
There never was.
I breathe, slow and careful. I unclench my fists, flex my fingers until I can feel them again. My jaw loosens. My eyes sting, but I won’t give him that.
“Why me?” I say. The words drop between us like rocks.
He blinks, just once. “Because you never gave up.”
I laugh. It’s a sharp, ugly sound, but it feels good. “You’re fucking obsessed.”
He smiles, teeth bright in the dark. “Yeah. That’s the point. I am utterly obsessed with you Ophelia Morrow and while I am going to claim you, once the hard part is over, I will worship every bruise, cut and mark you bore to get to this point.”
He’s so close I can see the flecks of silver in his eyes, the way the moon hits the scar at his jaw. I want to reach up and touch it, see if it’s real. I want to claw it open, see what’s underneath.
I don’t move. Neither does he.
The tension builds, electric and choking, until it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
I remember the first time he touched me, the weight of his hand on my throat, the way he whispered my name like a promise and a threat. I remember the way my body betrayed me, the way my pulse leapt at every word.
It’s the same now. The same hunger, the same fear.
I realize, with a sick twist of relief, that I don’t have to choose between them.
My breath clouds between us, white in the cold. I look up at him, daring him to try again.
“Do it,” I say. My voice is steady. “Finish it.”
He doesn’t ask what I mean. He knows.
He grabs my jaw, fingers digging in until the bone aches. He holds me there, gaze locked on mine, not blinking, not breathing.
“Say it,” he says.
“Fuck you,” I spit. “You already won.”
He shakes his head, a tiny, almost invisible movement. “Not unless you give up.”
I laugh again, softer this time. “You’re never going to break me.”
He leans in, his mouth at my ear. “I don’t want to break you, O. I want you to break yourself. Tell me that you’re mine and all this can be over.”
I shiver, and not from the cold.
He’s right. I can feel it happening, the slow unspooling of every reason I ever told myself not to want this. He pulls me to my feet, my body heavily leaning against his. Somewhere, out there, I hear footsteps and know the Feral Boys have come to watch the claiming.
To ensure I followed the rules.
That Caius followed the rules.
I push into him, lips against his, teeth clashing, blood mixing with spit and heat and rage. He kisses back, harder, his hand at my throat, not choking, just holding me steady.
We’re both shaking now, both ruined and raw and alive in a way I never knew existed.
I don’t know how long we stand there, tangled up in hate and need. I don’t care.
When we finally break apart, I’m still shaking, but it’s a good kind.
He smiles, softer this time. “You want to run again?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
He brushes my hair from my face, gentle for once.
“Then stay,” he says.
I do.
We stand there, under the broken moon, neither prey nor predator. Just two monsters learning how to feed the beast inside.
For the first time, I think maybe I can.
Maybe we both can.
But only if we do it together.
My hands stop trembling.
My heart does not.
He brushes the hair from my face, tucks it behind my ear, so gentle it makes me want to scream. I need the anger, the violence, the bitterness because without it, I’m coming undone.
"You did good," he says.
I spit in his face. I am a war zone of conflicting feelings, knowing that it doesn’t end with a kiss, knowing it doesn’t end like this. No… it has to end the same way it started, with an animalistic fuck befitting of a God Son.
He laughs, wiping it away with the back of his hand.
"You’re beautiful when you’re angry," he says.
"I fucking hate you."
He lifts me, arms under my shoulders, and for a moment I want to bite his neck, to feel his pulse break under my teeth.
Instead, I let him carry me.
Just for a minute.
Just until I can feel my hands again.
As the world fades, I think of the next time. Of what I’ll do to him when I get the chance.
I’ll cut him open.
I’ll make him bleed.
I’ll make him love me, if it’s the last thing I do.
The cold finally gives up. The pain fades.
“Rest for a moment, little vixen. Then… I will claim you and it’ll all be over.”