Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DAMIEN
The camera feed glows on my screen, Ophelia’s sleeping form a grainy ghost in the darkness of her room. My car window is cracked an inch, letting in the cool night air, but it does nothing to settle the restless crawling under my skin.
A sensation that lodged there when I glimpsed the expression on Ophelia’s face today, standing with my arm around Chelsea’s waist.
Not envy. Not jealousy.
Devastation.
Even though I’ve explained things. Even though I told her exactly how things stand with my dad. Now she’s seven hours late for our appointment and counting.
I zoom in on the steady rise and fall of the bedclothes. I could leave now and send her a detailed list of punishments, let her worries fester over the weekend.
Or I can sneak inside and wake her. Claim everything she owes right now.
Bryan left twenty minutes after sharing a nighttime drink with Ophelia, his headlights pointed the opposite direction from where I’m parked. He’s out… but he could return at any time.
If I’m gonna do it tonight, it needs to be done now.
Pocketing my phone, I stride towards her house, shoulders back, chest out, chin high. My duplicate key slips into the lock with a whispered click, and I creep up the carpeted stairs.
Her bedroom door is closed, and I press my ear against the smooth wood.
Silence. Not even the rustle of movement.
My left palm rests flat, and my right hand slowly turns the doorknob. One. Two. Three. And I push inside.
She’s buried beneath the blankets, just like the phone showed me, only half her face visible. I cross to her bedside, looming, waiting for the instinctive moment when her sleeping brain registers danger.
Nothing.
I blow a gentle stream of air across her ear, then trace my knuckle along the curve of her cheekbone. Moonlight transforms her skin into something otherworldly; a statue carved from pewter.
My shoe knocks against something hard, her glasses, and I tuck them in my jacket pocket for later.
“Hey.” I keep my voice low. “Wake up.”
Not even a flutter of those pale lashes.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, making it dip, and grab her shoulder through the covers. Give her a shake.
A small sound escapes her, barely a mumble, consonants slurred together. Her head rolls, but her eyes stay closed.
“Stop faking.” But my forehead wrinkles. Her breathing remains steady, rhythmic.
Too deep.
I jam my fingers against the pulse in her neck. Steady, strong. Is it slow? I time against mine but the comparison means nothing. Adrenaline thunders through my bloodstream, making everything race.
“Ophelia.” Sharper now. I yank back the covers and cup her face, tilting it towards me. Her eyelids crack open, revealing unfocused slivers of pale blue.
“Mm… wha…”
“What did you take?”
No coherent response. I flick on the lights and scan the floor, the dresser, dropping to my knees to peer beneath the bed, yanking away her pillow.
No pill bottles. No tablets.
That doesn’t mean they’re not somewhere.
“Did you take something? Ophelia”—I snap my fingers—“look at me!”
Her eyes open wider this time, blinking slowly, and a frown creases her forehead. “Damien…?”
“How many pills?”
“I didn’t…” She trails off, and her eyes slide closed again.
I gasp like the air’s thinning, hands full of pins and needles. My limbs shake as I pull her upright, into my arms, her body limp and heavy against my chest.
“Stay with me. Come on, stay awake.” But she doesn’t. Her head lolls against my shoulder, breath warm and slow against my neck, and I’m struck by how small she is. How fragile.
The world pulses in and out in waves.
I’m halfway downstairs, her limp body jostling with every step, back muscles straining.
Outside, the cold air like a slap. The click of her seatbelt. Windows down. Foot flat on the pedal, streetlights streaking into amber ribbons.
All while my demands repeat in a loop. The threats. The coercion. Shoving Chelsea in her face just to get a reaction.
I pushed and pushed and what if she chose now just to thwart me? It’s in character. One of her core motivations is spite.
The car judders over train tracks.
“Where are we?”
Ophelia’s voice is rough with sleep, and I nearly swerve into a parked car. “Jesus Christ.”
“What’s happening? What did you do?”
I wrestle the wheel straight, then pull to the side of the road. The engine idles, vibrating through my bones, as she blinks heavy-lidded at me. Her hair’s a tangled mess of white silk, strands catching on her lips, impatiently brushed from her eyelashes.
“Damien?” She straightens, eyes clearing more by the second. “Why am I in your car? What time—”
She flinches as I reach past her, into the glove box, dropping a water bottle in her lap. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”
She empties half the bottle and stifles a burp against the back of her hand.
“What did you take?”
Her eyes are wide, guileless as she frowns. “Take? I had a few glasses of wine, what’s the problem?”
Alcohol? I almost snap how she should know better with her meds, then clamp my tongue. She’s not taking them any longer. It’s nothing like it was with Craig.
My stomach unwinds, muscle by muscle, though the tension in my shoulders remains coiled tight. Her slow reaction still seems extreme. “Did you take anything else?”
“No. What?” She pushes herself fully upright, then pinches the bridge of her nose, wincing. “I just don’t drink often, that’s all.”
“What was in the—”
Shit. I almost said the drink that Bryan bought you, and how would I explain knowing that?
“I saw two empty mugs by the sink. What were they for?”
“Cocoa.” She rubs her cuff across her forehead, shivering. I close the windows and bump up the heating, snagging a rug from the backseat for her lap. “He brings me one every night. Do you have my glasses?” With every sentence she sounds more like herself. “I can’t see a thing.”
I hand them across, staring while she adjusts them, cataloguing the colour in her cheeks, the steady rhythm of her breathing.
“You scared the shit out of me.” The admission escapes without thought.
“Try being kidnapped at midnight.” The spark in her voice convinces me she’s okay more than anything else.
“You stood me up for seven hours. How did you think I’d react?”
She faces me, eyes inscrutable behind the dark glasses, then gives a soft snort. “I thought you’d probably break into my house and abduct me.”
Her gaze remains on the side of my face, assessing, calculating, and I wonder who she sees. The guy who carried her from her room in a panic, or the one who fucked her throat and made her lick his cum off the filthy concrete.
Maybe both.
The drive’s quicker at night and we soon reach home, the headlights catching the automatic gates as they swing open, metal groaning. Beyond them, the silver patina of weathered timber stretches storeys into the air.
I pull into the garage, the door rolling shut behind us with a mechanical hum. When I park, Ophelia hugs herself and peers along the row of vehicles, my father’s collection, voice a touch high. “Is anyone else here?”
“Just us.” I kill the engine and circle to her door, opening it before she can. “Come on. I’m making coffee.”
“I don’t want—”
“I don’t care what you want.” I pull her from the car, steadying her when she stumbles. “You’re going to drink caffeine and talk until I’m sure you won’t slip into an alcoholic coma the second I look away.”
The kitchen is larger than her house, all marble counters and appliances gleaming under the pendant lights. There’s activated charcoal in the medicine cabinet, but I no longer think it’s needed.
With Ophelia perched on a stool, I set about making coffee, movements sharp and efficient. The machine hisses and gurgles, filling the silence.
“I didn’t try to hurt myself.” Her voice is quiet. “Tonight, I mean. I just… fell asleep.”
“Okay.”
She accepts the mug I shove into her hands, wrapping her fingers around its warmth. “Mum used to say I could sleep through an earthquake.”
I frown at her continuing justification, distant alarm bells sounding. But with every sip, I’m more certain she’s okay for now… any further questions can wait until tomorrow, when I’m sure she’s lucid. Instead, I focus on the growing animation in her face.
“Where were you, this afternoon?”
“Nowhere. At home.” Her eyes flick to mine over the rim of her mug. “I was upset.”
“Why?”
She’s silent for a long moment, steam curling between us. When she does answer, it’s in a flat whisper. “You know why.”
I dislike that I hurt her, but Ophelia’s sulky glower still makes satisfaction hum beneath my skin. The way she bristles, jaw tense, lips pouted, it fills me, pulse beating more-more-more.
“Come on.” I round the island and take the empty mug from her, setting it on the counter. “You can sleep in my room.”
I guide her through the maze of hallways, past closed doors and empty rooms and the basement entrance. My bedroom is on the second floor, larger than it needs to be, dominated by a king bed that’s never held anyone but me.
Ophelia stops in the doorway, fiddling with her glasses again, a wasted exercise if she’s seeking insight. The room is filled with expensive furniture I didn’t choose.
“Nice,” she says flatly, then collapses onto the large mattress, the oversize sleep shirt riding up her pale thighs before I cover her with the duvet. She’s out again within minutes, breaths becoming slow and even, the frown line between her brows softening.
I should leave. Go downstairs, pour myself something stronger than coffee and process whatever the fuck just happened.
Instead, I lie down beside her.
The mattress dips under my weight, and I turn side-on, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Hours pass. The sky outside shifts from black to grey, and still I watch, memorising the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her lashes, the small sounds she makes in her sleep.
Something is wrong.
My reaction should have been driven by the fear I wouldn’t get to watch her die; an experience that might never present itself again.
It shouldn’t feel like my chest is being carved open with a dull blade, already grieving for this girl with her white hair, broken eyes, and stubborn, infuriating defiance.
But it does.
Enough that my breath hitches, sharp and painful in the quiet room.
Enough that I stretch out my hand and bump it against hers. Enjoying her touch while she’s still alive.