Pure

Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

OPHELIA

Just turning up to school on Friday takes all my guts. All night, I relived the stream hitting Damien’s eyes, my memories mixing with nightmares where, instead of backing away, he lunged and took instant revenge.

The morning passes without any contact, and during my lunch break, I hide in the old bike sheds. Part of the roof collapsed under winter snow, and the school has tarpaulined the structure until the scheduled repair this coming summer holidays.

There’s detritus left behind by others. Spent nangs, empty RTD bottles. But I’ve never bumped into someone else during the day. Probably a warning sign I shouldn’t be here either, but the peaceful solitude keeps drawing me back.

A peace that’s long gone when I enter third-period music class.

Damien sits halfway to the back, and his scent reaches me when I’m still three desks away, sandalwood with a hint of spice.

I continue forward like my heart didn’t just kick in my chest, aiming for the very last row. But his lanky frame spills into the aisle, legs sprawling so I slow, picking my steps.

Steel fingers latch around my wrist. “Sit your arse down.”

The tone makes me shiver, even though he speaks too quietly for other students to hear over their pre-lesson chatter.

I slide into the seat beside him, nearest the window, his slouched posture meaning our heads are level. The whites of his eyes look raw, irritated. The surrounding skin red and puffy.

But I crush my sympathy. He and Chelsea are in the wrong here. I don’t owe him anything, least of all an apology.

I fix my attention on the whiteboard, ignoring him, and the fifty-minute lesson stretches into eternity.

Then he nudges me. “Given my offer any more thought?”

His voice is gravel on silk and heat rushes to my face. The same voice repeats last night’s words in my ear. Anything I want and you can’t refuse. A pulse throbs low in my belly as I shake my head.

“That’s very disappointing, Phee.”

“Don’t call me that.” The rebuke escapes before I can catch it, jaw aching from the tension.

His tone retains the same gruffly teasing lilt. “Sure thing, Snowflake.” He leans closer, breath hot and faintly minty against my neck. “Or would you prefer Casper, my friendly little ghost.”

“You could try using my name.”

“Too tragic.” He clicks his tongue. “I’ll just pick one to suit myself. Maybe I’ll think on it over the weekend while you reconsider my proposal… and whether you want me as a friend or an enemy.”

My stomach performs a slow forward roll, but I keep my voice light. “Is that an enemy for life or just for the next few weeks until you’re excluded again, and move to the next school?”

“There isn’t a next school, so you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. And you’re very glib, considering I’ve got your fingerprints on an illegal weapon.” He taps his finger on the desk. “I could turn it over to police.”

“Go ahead.” I don’t even take a beat. “I wiped my prints.”

“Liar.”

My hands fist with the effort of keeping my expression steady.

“But I’m rather impressed you called my bluff. There’s a lot more to you than just a pretty face, Ophelia Boehm. If you wanted my attention, you have it.” He faces forward and the tension in my shoulders dissolves. “But don’t send me to hospital again, okay?”

My startled gaze fixes on his reddened eyes. “You went to hospital?”

“No, but I told Chelsea I did.” His breath curls along my cheek, sweet and warm, and he taps my collarbone with his knuckle. “You’re the only one I’ve promised honesty.”

The admission twists something inside my chest.

“If you want to stay safe, don’t crash my support group again. How’d you even know I’d be there?”

“Because I’ve been parked outside your home morning and night since Monday.”

A wire unspools in my spine, live and sparking. Damien isn’t sat outside Chelsea’s house, watching for her to leave so he can follow. A thought I should probably make note of for the true-crime podcast of my impending murder.

His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Gotta say, your social life leaves something to be desired.”

The observation makes my cheeks heat worse than his stalking confession.

I don’t have a social life. Always different, ever since Chelsea’s targeting became personal, I’ve become a pariah.

Before I respond, Van der Valk walks into class, humming under his breath as he sets his briefcase near the piano. “Ophelia, could I see you in my office?”

A chorus of ‘oohs’ follow me into the cramped space.

“Today’s a practice exam for the class, but you did so well last time, I hoped you might help Damien instead. It’ll earn you a tutoring credit and with your existing results, it could bump you to NCEA level 4.”

The suggestion has Damien’s fingerprints all over it. I should refuse but hesitate.

Damien’s admission about following me proves he’s being honest. If I want to find out if he’s planning something awful with Chelsea, I could just… ask?

Dumb. It’s a dumb idea.

But we’re in class. He’s not going to hurt me with teachers a scream away.

“Okay,” I agree. “For just this lesson. I don’t want to fall behind.”

He beams. “Of course. I’ve booked you into music room three.”

The smallest of the practice rooms. I force a smile, take the course notes, and lead Damien into the private space.

The sound is different in here, smoothed by the acoustic panels. A half-size keyboard sits unplugged on the small table, and I shove it farther back to give us room, taking the seat nearest the door for an easier escape.

Almost immediately, his phone buzzes and I shoot him a dirty look.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding the least bit apologetic. He chuckles as he reads the message.

The question slips out like a compulsion. “What’s made you so happy?”

“Left evidence I didn’t mean to at a crime scene, but a mate just fixed it all for me, better than I could’ve hoped. Sometimes having a rich dad really pays.”

He delivers the confession with the casual pride of an artist displaying their latest canvas. “Christ, you really have no filter, do you?”

“Honesty, remember? If you’ve changed your mind since last night, you’ll have to ask me to lie.” He darts in, breath hot and heavy in my ear. “Tempted yet?”

I swallow, his damned scent flooding my mouth. “By a criminal?”

“By a fit rich guy.” His voice turns lilting, playful. “And the same label applies to you after yesterday. Just agree to my terms and we can get you those expensive new glasses.”

“Every minute spent in your company makes me happier I’m legally blind.”

I spread the course outline on the desk, barely enough room under it for our two chairs. When Damien shifts position, his shoulder touches mine, warming my skin through my blouse.

“Why the pepper spray?”

Spit dries in my mouth and I fidget, biting the inside of my cheek.

But this is the opening I want.

“For Chelsea,” I say. “She’s bullied me all year, and I finally got fed-up enough to do something about it.”

The weight of his gaze rakes across my face, then he relaxes, stretching his legs and lacing fingers behind his head. “What’s her deal?”

“You’re the one in league with her. You tell me.”

“In league?” He snorts. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Your proposition last night. I’m not stupid. You ganged up on me Monday, and now you’re planning something worse.”

“I’m sorry.” A laugh of disbelief. “What?”

I fold my arms, shrinking away from him. This was a foolish idea and of course it’s not going to work.

His right hand tightens on the back of my chair. “For the record, I never thought you were stupid. But if you think Chelsea is pulling my strings, you’re insane.”

“Whatever.”

“Why does she hate you?” Damien’s leg stretches in front of mine as he turns. With his hand still gripping my chair, the door has never looked so far away. “Tell me.”

“Her boyfriend groped me at a party over summer.”

“Ophelia! You cheating slag.”

“It wasn’t—” I shake my head, and he laughs knowingly.

“Right. So, you didn’t throw yourself at him.”

“He spiked my drink.” My volume rises with every word. “And I passed out.”

“Spiked it with what?” He sounds angry. “Drugs?”

“Alcohol. It interacted with my meds.” My voice cracks, Damien looming further into my personal space the same way Craig’s memory expands in my brain.

It’s been ages but tears still prickle my nose. I hate reawakening these old memories, feeling the same thickness in my throat, the tremors.

Bad enough Craig still fondles me in my sleep.

“He took advantage.” The statement doesn’t come anywhere near encompassing the horror. The same horror that jolts me awake from my deepest nightmares.

Before my attempt, the terrifying dreams had become constant, the sensations so real sometimes I’d wake in the morning and fancy I could see bruises. Between the flatness of my existing depression and my fractured sleep, emptying the bottle of pills down my throat felt like the only answer.

I try again, fumbling for the right words. “When I came to, his hands were under my clothes and I couldn’t…” I falter, face burning red and raw like sunburn. “My words were all slurred. My arms were all uncoordinated. I couldn’t get him off me.”

“What a greasy inadequate little shit.” Damien’s easy acceptance loosens the muscles in my chest. “But you still let him touch you.”

“He assaulted me!”

“Bet Chelsea doesn’t see it like that.”

My lungs burn, dots in my eyes. “Well, congratulations for hanging out with a rape apologist. Good for you.”

“Did you lay a complaint?”

“And be questioned like this? No fucking thank you.”

“Yet you would’ve reported me for an accident over some glasses.” Damien huffs out a breath like he’s disappointed. “Is he still around?”

I shake my head. “He left a few months afterward.”

“Probably pushed his luck one too many times.”

“Maybe.” I hadn’t spent much time thinking about why, just thankful I wouldn’t bump into him around the corridors. “But I don’t really know. After that, we didn’t really move in the same circles.”

“So Chelsea hates you for getting date raped?”

I flinch from the word. “It didn’t get that far. When she opened the door, he stopped.”

The memory floods back, harsh light searing my eyes. Turning the world white as my relief morphs into shame.

Chelsea already resented me for the attention my disability brought. Teachers rearranging seats, getting special equipment, extra tutelage, like I wouldn’t have swapped in a second.

A tear blinks from my eye and I swipe it away, sniffing back more. But they swell too fast, more trickling down my face while Damien observes with the same blank stare as last night.

“Sociopath,” I mutter.

A tiny frown line mars his forehead. “Yeah… I am.”

That rampant honesty again. Far more confronting than little white lies, and this…? This unexpected admission feels like Damien gave me a tiny gift. Something I’ll unwrap in full, later.

Needing distraction, I shuffle pages. The confession hurt but the aftermath is cleansing. Each breath comes easier, head light with oxygen. “Have you looked through…”

Damien reaches under the table and plugs in the keyboard, playing some opening chords.

“We’re meant to cover your coursework.”

“Eight months’ worth in”—he checks his phone—“twenty-four minutes?” His hands flow through three minor changes. “Good luck with that.”

It’s hard to argue. “You like to play?”

“I like to dabble. Side effect of the perennially bored.”

He runs through another progression, then a rustic baritone erupts from his throat, loud enough to vibrate the walls and make my insides tremble. The tune is ‘Killer Queen,’ but he alters the lyrics into nonsense soup, referencing ice and snow and windy moors where the ancient peat dents underfoot.

Not that my senses care. My eardrums embrace his gruff tones, vibrating like a softly worded threat, each measured note deep, dark, foreboding, echoing across my skin.

“Ice cold queen…”

He rips his hands off the keys and kicks out the plug. Ending as suddenly as he began.

“You’re writing me a song?”

“Coercing you into bed didn’t work, so I’m trying to charm you.”

His tone is flat. An icy tendril flutters across my shoulder blades, perversely fascinated by this boy who’s as alien to me as I appear to others. His personality unbound from the chains of forever trying to fit in.

Maybe he feels that obscene pull—or feeds off it. Damien leans closer, his fingertips glancing off my hair. “Tell me his name.”

His face is close enough my breath bounces off his skin, warm puffs against my lips. He’s angled away from the light; the darkness of his hair matched by his shadowed eyes.

A fingertip trails along my cheekbone, last week’s bruise nearly healed, and my breathing quickens. A pull in my chest draws me closer, like a rope dragging me towards a cliff edge.

Dark. Intoxicating. I’m locked in his attention.

“Tell me his name and I’ll make sure he pays. I’ll make sure he never assaults another girl at a party.”

The shape forms on my lips, wanting to obey.

It would be so easy. Just two words. Three syllables.

I blink and, in that microsecond, Craig’s face twists in agony, the right person finally paying for his crime. Vengeance sweet and hot on my tongue.

Until the bill comes due.

I jerk away.

“Thanks, but I draw the line at one crime a week.”

Damien gives one last, unholy stare, then chuckles, his mask fitting back into place. He grabs his phone and disconnects, ignoring me while he taps out messages, checks his socials, takes a selfie for a new post.

Five minutes before the bell, he yawns, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt pulls free of his belt.

“Thanks for the tutoring.” His tone is mocking. “It was a real lifesaver.”

I tap the pages level on the desk and slide them over.

Damien remains slouching low in his seat, shirt untucked, idly rubbing his stomach.

The fabric lifts higher, the blurry ridges and shadows of darkly tanned abs showing under the white cotton.

I tilt my head, seeking the null point in my vision where the nystagmus stills for a clearer view.

“Are you sure you won’t accept my earlier offer?” His voice is full of the same smug satisfaction as last night.

My gaze snaps to his face, caught out, then I abruptly stand, and the distance turns his eyes into dark smudges.

“Which? Sex slave or Craig’s murder?” I joke, fighting not to blush.

Damien’s body tenses into that of a hungry predator, clueing me into my mistake.

I freeze.

Then the bell shrieks and I launch myself through the doorway and into the flow of students, pushing forward, bumping them, stumbling, tripping over their moving feet in my eagerness to escape.

Maybe he didn’t notice.

But Damien’s low laugh carries above the stampede. A promise of retribution for a name I never meant to say out loud.