Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DAMIEN
The clock creeps past four-fifteen on Wednesday afternoon, and there’s no sign of Ophelia. I shift in the driver’s seat, impatient, and still raw from my admissions yesterday.
I never meant to share about my mother, only wanting to find out about Ophelia, find out her secrets. But the more I tried to hold back, the more my mouth kept blurting things out.
It’s a far cry from the hours I spent with Chelsea last night. It was our second visit to the clothing boutique, and she tried on dress after dress, chattering the whole time, before finally selecting an outfit for my dad’s party.
Throughout the ordeal, I occasionally grunted in agreement or nodded, but I don’t remember speaking a word.
As a final insult, she didn’t even invite me inside when I drove her home. No chance for snooping. No introduction to her father.
Just thinking about it now, an echo of irritation returns.
I’ll need Chelsea docile when I parade her on Saturday night, but my fingers itch every time I’m with her. Wanting to check my phone for messages, to watch the camera feed for another snippet of insight into my girl.
I check the screen now, just the sight of Ophelia’s room soothing.
She’s grown into an addiction; the more I have, the more I want.
The senior ball seemed long enough away when I first proposed it, now the weeks we have left feel like no time at all. I shiver and turn up the car heat, though it’s a balmy spring day.
Say you’ve changed your mind. Extend it.
My lips press together. If anything, I should bring the date forward. Get it over with before I…
Before I what? Get attached?
Sweat beads at my hairline and I shut off the air-con and roll down the window. What the hell’s wrong with me?
Ophelia rounds the corner, one hand trailing the fence for guidance, each step slow and deliberate. Her head tilts to catch sounds, pausing when other pedestrians pass too close.
I lean across, pushing the passenger door open. “Over here.” She gets into the seat and slams the door. “Why don’t you use a cane?”
“Hello to you, too. And I do use one. You’ve seen me.”
“Not at school.”
“Because it’s populated with bullying cunts.” She leaves such a long pause that I frown at her. “Why do you want to know? Do you need another reason to ignore me in the corridor?”
I tilt my head. There’s strain beneath her flippant tone like she’s genuinely upset.
“How does making yourself more vulnerable help with your bullies?” I pull into the road, setting the GPS voice low so it won’t interrupt our conversation and let the silence build.
Finally, she sighs. “Because Chelsea’s pack used to run past and kick the tip, and those waist-high bruises hurt when you don’t know they’re coming. It’s just easier.”
“But they trip you, anyway.”
Her lips curl at the edges like I’ve said something funny. “Not this past week, they don’t.”
Traffic builds as we reach the city centre, and I wind through the congestion, choosing a carpark building just a few doors down from the optometrist’s office. Back at street level, I hold Ophelia’s hand on my upper arm, warning her about approaching obstacles.
It’s fulfilling, being both her biggest threat and her protector.
We arrive at the optometrist appointment early, and I pace the waiting room, clicking my fingers until she’s called into the examination room.
Then I throw myself into a seat, doomscrolling, then watching as the receptionist packs her bag and shuts down her computer, giving me a vague smile as she leaves.
“Damien?”
Rothschild stands in the doorway, gesturing me inside. I take the seat next to Ophelia’s, instantly reaching for her hand.
“I was just explaining to Miss Boehm the options available. Tinted lenses for the photophobia, image stabilisation, which should reduce the blur from nystagmus.”
My eyes stay fixed on Ophelia’s face while he expands on the assistive technology, zooming, magnifying, text-to-speech for signs and labels. Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly.
“That sounds—” Her voice cracks, and she swallows, shaking her head. “That sounds amazing.”
“It’s been life changing for many of my clients.” Rothschild’s warmth appears genuine, and I have a flicker of irritation at how easily he makes her smile. “The process requires several fittings and—”
“How long?” I interrupt.
They both turn my way, Rothschild saying, “I’m sorry?”
“What’s the timeline before they’re ready?”
“Ah.” He glances at his computer, clicking through several screens. “Given the complexity, I’d allow four to six weeks for—”
“That’s too long. How much for a rush job? Say, tomorrow?”
“No, that’s impossible. The calibration alone will—”
“Friday, then.”
Ophelia shifts in her seat and Rothschild’s frown deepens. “If I accelerate the order with our manufacturer, we could have it done Friday, but you’re looking at two to three times the price for that expediency. And I can’t guarantee the quality will—”
“Price doesn’t matter.” I squeeze her hand harder. “I want my girl to be able to see me, doc.”
“Then, I’ll grab a few more measurements and submit the specifications tonight. You’ll need to pay the entire bill in advance.”
I flash my card. “No problem.”
Forty minutes later, we leave the office with another appointment for Friday afternoon. The moment we’re out of earshot, Ophelia mutters, “I don’t understand you.”
“You don’t need to.” I put my arm around her shoulder. “Just accept that from now on, I’ll provide everything you need.”
I drive her home, stopping a few houses short of her address. When she doesn’t immediately get out, I say, “We’re here.”
“I know.”
Her fingers lie on the doorhandle for a second, then she reverses course and climbs across the centre console until she’s straddling my lap, facing me.
My hands automatically steady her hips, holding her in place. “What’re you doing?”
The question comes out rougher than I intend, and my body responds to her weight, the pressure of her thighs bracketing mine. But she doesn’t reach for my belt buckle or lean in for a kiss—the moves I expect.
Instead, her hands hover a few millimetres from my face.
“Seeing you,” she says simply.
Her fingertips land on my forehead first, their touch careful as she traces the breadth of it, following my hairline. Gentle pressure, like she’s reading braille, and my scalp tightens, every nerve ending aware of her exploring fingers.
“Ophelia…”
“Shh.” She moves along to my temples with the same circling care, then slides along my cheekbones. Each centimetre of skin soon buzzes under her soft touch, mapping the outline of my eyes, tracing the bunched muscles of my clenched jaw, hands fisted at my sides, so I won’t disturb her exploration.
This feels a hundred times more intimate than sex, more invasive, and my throat constricts as my cock strains at my trousers. But an instinct deeper than arousal holds me in place, barely breathing while she memorises the contours of my face.
“You have a bump on your nose.” Pressure near the bridge. “Right here.”
“Fell off a swing set when I was little.”
Her fingertips pause, then follow the slope to my nostrils, barely grazing the sensitive skin there, each touch more deliberate. When she presses lightly against my lips, I nearly bite them. The impulse surges, hot and violent, wanting to turn this tender moment into something I control.
But then she’d recoil and flee, leaving me with an incomplete memory.
So I force myself still, jaw aching as she traces the bow of my upper lip, the fuller curve of my lower. Her thumb stops in the centre but doesn’t press inside, just rests there with my breath heating her skin.
“You have a beautiful mouth. The way it curves like you’re about to say something cruel.”
“How do you know when I’m about to speak?”
“I can feel it in the muscles.” Her thumb presses into the corner of my mouth where it wants to curl into a smirk. “Right here, it’s tensing.”
She moves to my ears, thumb pad rasping against the lobes, her fingertip resting in the hollow behind where my pulse beats.
“Fast.”
“And hard. You’re sitting on my lap.”
My impulses war between letting her finish and grabbing her, holding her down while I fuck her, anything to return the balance where I take what I want and she endures.
But this tension is a far cry from the usual friction. It has a fullness that makes my eyes sting.
“Finished?” My voice comes out strangled.
“Almost.” Her fingers return to my face, tracing the arch of my eyebrows now, finding the tiny scar above my left eye, barely visible, barely noticeable. “What’s this from?”
“My father.” Her movements still. I should’ve kept quiet, but it’s too late now. “Back when I was five. He pushed me and my head hit the counter.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I was a miserable little shit, always getting into trouble.” I force out a laugh. “Much like now.”
“No child deserves that.” Her thumb brushes over the scar again, so gentle it hurts. “Nobody does.”
I can’t respond and stay silent while she finishes mapping my face and withdraws her hands. Her lips briefly press against mine, soft, chaste almost, nothing like when I’ve devoured hers, full of need.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my mouth. “For today.”
Then she climbs off my lap with far less grace than she mounted it, fumbling with the door.
The touch of her fingers stays with me as she reaches the footpath and walks along to her house. I rub it away, engine still running, staring at nothing.
My face tingles where her fingers mapped it. My lips still feel the ghost of that final, tender kiss. And in my chest, where the emptiness should be, there’s just fullness. Warmth.
My fingers grip the steering wheel hard enough to hurt.
I put the car in gear, hands shaking slightly, and pull away from the curb. In the rearview mirror is a final glimpse of white hair before she disappears inside her back door.