Chapter 16 Caius #2
We lapse back into silence. I watch her process. She’s good at that—taking raw facts, digesting them, making them into something useful. She was never meant for this world, but she adapts like a virus.
After a minute, she speaks again.
“What happened to the girl?”
I don’t want to answer, but I do.
“Drowned. She was supposed to make it to the finish line, but one of the Boys got too eager, held her under.”
She frowns, fingers tracing the rim of the cup. “Was it you?”
“No. Just watched from the sidelines.”
She nods, like that explains something.
“So now they do it one-on-one. So it can’t happen again.”
I tilt my head. “In theory. Technically accidents can still happen, but one-to-one with the rest watching improves the outcome.”
She stares at me, eyes narrowed. “But you wanted to.”
“What?”
“You wanted to break me. Maybe kill me, if it came to that.”
I look at her, really look, and see it: the understanding, the calculation, the way she’s already planning her next move.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Maybe.”
She smiles, just a flicker. “Thanks for the honesty, I guess.”
I shrug. “If you hadn’t have given in, it wouldn’t be me burying you. It would be one of the Protectors.”
She pulls the covers tighter, like that can protect her from the rest.
I watch the way her jaw sets, the way her eyes go hard.
“You’re not like the others,” she says, finally. “You want something real.”
I shake my head. “I want to win. That’s all.”
She leans forward, elbows on knees, and grins. “Then you better keep up.”
A smile splits my face when I realize I respect her.
She’s not prey anymore.
She’s a threat.
I stand, stretch, and crack my neck. The sound makes her flinch, but she covers it with a cough.
“Your dad,” she says. “He on the Board?”
I nod. “He is the main donor.”
She snorts. “Of course. Hence ‘God Son.’ You’re untouchable”
She leans back, head against the headboard, and closes her eyes. “So what now? I just… live here, waiting for you to decide when to fuck or kill me?”
I smile. “Not quite.”
“Then what?”
I let the silence stretch, savoring it.
“You make yourself useful,” I say. “Or you make it interesting.”
She laughs, sharp and bright. “You’re a psycho.”
I shrug. “Takes one to know one.”
We sit there, the sun creeping up the wall, painting us in white and gold.
She doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
She’s not afraid of me.
And I’m not afraid of her.
Maybe that’s why it works.
The clock on the wall ticks, slow and loud.
She opens her eyes, meets mine, and doesn’t look away.
“Tell me something true,” she says.
I do.
“I liked it.”
She smiles, a real one this time.
“So did I,” she says.
We stare at each other, two people, each trying to see who will look away first.
Neither of us does.
She stretches, slow and deliberate, and for a second I forget the night, the blood, the way her body buckled under my hands. For a second, I see her as just a girl. Not prey, not target, but a thing that wants to be touched.
She clears her throat, staring down at the empty tray.
“So,” she says, “have you ever actually had a girlfriend? Or is this just your thing? Collecting bodies, breaking them, moving on.”
I smile, no teeth. “No girlfriends.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Not even one?”
“No.” I reach for the coffee cup, but she holds it tighter, forcing our hands to meet over the rim. Her grip is strong, stubborn, bones grinding against mine.
“Why not?” she asks.
I shrug. “Didn’t see the point. Fuck buddies, sure. But nothing worth keeping.”
She stares at our hands, then lets go, her fingers trailing down my wrist before dropping away.
“So you’re a commitment-phobe,” she says. “I should’ve guessed.”
“No.” I stand beckoning her to follow me down the hall to the kitchen before I wash the plate and cup. “Just didn’t care about anyone. Not until now.”
She snorts, but there’s a flush high on her cheekbones. “You mean not until the Board forced you to.”
I let the water run, hands under the tap. “Doesn’t matter how it happened. You’re here.”
She doesn’t answer, just watches me before sitting at the bar, knees spread apart. The shirt rides up, flashing the bandage at her hip, the bruise painting the inside of her thigh. I wonder if she did it on purpose, if she wants me to see the evidence of my work.
I dry my hands and sit next to her, not close enough to touch, but close enough that our knees almost meet. She picks at the bandage, then drops her hand to the counter.
“What about you?” I ask.
She looks up, surprised. “What about me?”
“Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Lovers.” I say it like a list, like a menu.
She laughs, but the sound is empty. “One. A while ago. Didn’t work out.”
“Why not?”
She shrugs, but her shoulders go tight. “He didn’t like when I talked back. Said I was a bitch.” She picks at the corner of her shirt. “He was right, I guess.”
I reach for her wrist, just a brush of skin. She tenses, but doesn’t pull away.
“He hit you?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, but the way she traces the bruise on her arm tells me enough.
“Did you break him?” I say, half a smile.
She shakes her head. “I tried. He was bigger.”
“I’m bigger than him.”
She looks at me, eyes searching.
“Would you hit me?” she asks, soft.
I let the silence answer.
“No. I’d never.”
She nods, but I can see she doesn’t believe it. Not yet.
The light through the drapes is warm, lazy. The suite is sealed off from the world, insulated by thick glass and thick money. We could stay here forever and no one would know. No one would care.
She shifts, pulling the shirt lower, covering the marks.
“You’re not what I expected,” she says.
“What did you expect?”
“Monster. Sociopath. The usual.”
I grin. “I can be.”
She looks away. “I know.”
We sit like that, the space between us thick with everything we’re not saying. Her hands rest in her lap, palms open. Mine are on my knees, fists relaxed.
She leans forward, hair falling over her eyes.
“I’m not going to run,” she says.
“Good.”
She looks up, the gold in her eyes sparking.
“But I’m not going to break, either.”
I nod. “I wouldn’t want you if you did.”
She laughs, a real one this time.
We stay like that, just assessing each other’s motives.
I know what I want to do. I want to pull her onto my lap, pin her there, make her forget the last twenty-four hours. But I wait.
I want her to come to me.
She does.
Slow, careful, she shifts her bar stool closer until her thigh rests against mine.
She leans her head on my shoulder, breath warm through the cotton of my shirt.
For a minute, I let myself think it could last.
For a minute, I let her rest.
Then I turn, hand on her jaw, and kiss her.
She lets me.
And it’s softer than last time.
But only just.