Pure

Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

DAMIEN

Once Ophelia’s dried and back in my room, I leave her searching for something wearable from my drawers and join Dad in the kitchen. The sharp scent of alcohol hangs in the air.

“I didn’t realise you’d be home this weekend.”

“Obviously.” Dad’s hand trembles slightly as he pours a finger of scotch into a crystal tumbler. He downs it in one gulp, sets the empty glass on the counter with a dull thud, and immediately pours another. “Since when do you invite guests here?”

His gaze locks onto mine, piercing and sudden, his eyes boring into me with such intensity that my skin prickles.

The soft patter of footsteps breaks the tension. Dad’s attention shifts, and his lips curve into mocking amusement. “Damien’s music tutor, I take it?”

Ophelia stands in the doorway, her damp hair leaving dark patches on her shirt collar. Her fingers twist together, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“Ophelia.” She steps forward with an outstretched hand. “Yes, we’re in music together.”

I beckon and she runs to my side. My arm slips around her, pulling her warm body firm against my hip.

My father’s eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t be Priscilla’s daughter, would you?

” At her nod, his head tilts, considering.

“I remember her bringing you along to a party at the Weissberg’s house, years ago.

Babysitter cancelled. You were a strange little thing.

” His lips twitch, gaze raking over her. “But you’re beautiful now.”

“Dad!”

“What? I can’t tell a young woman she’s gorgeous?”

“Not when you’re older than her mother and I’ve got my arm around her.”

He pulls down his mouth, accentuating the deep lines there.

“I’ll just wait a fortnight then.” His eyes fix on Ophelia, calculating, hungry, then he jerks his chin at me.

“This one goes through girls in a few weeks, but you’re still welcome here after he’s done. I could show you my basement playroom.”

My throat squeezes, but before I can choke out a word, Ophelia frowns. “Is that where you broke your son’s arm? Hard pass.”

The veins at Dad’s temples visibly pulse.

“You’re drunk,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “I’ll drop Ophelia home and we can talk when I get back.”

His jaw tightens, then he gives a stiff nod. “I’ll be in my study, working out details for the Impaglia merger.”

The deliberate use of Chelsea’s surname makes me wince, and he strides from the room, heels clicking loudly on the Italian marble tiles.

Even after his footsteps fade and the distant door closes with a thud, my muscles remain locked in place. “I’m sorry you—”

Ophelia laughs, high-pitched, but it punctures the stifling atmosphere. “For real? With all the awful things you’ve done and never said a word about, you’re offering an apology for him?”

My eyes rest on her face, taking comfort from her defiance. A deep satisfaction fills me when I gaze down her legs, swimming in my discarded boxers. The fabric hangs loosely on her slender frame, almost reaching her knees.

“I couldn’t find anything else on short notice.”

“They’re perfect.” You’re perfect.

My fingers twitch at my sides. The need to escape my father’s house becomes overwhelming. I grab her hand and drag her towards the garage. “Come on.”

“You’re eager to get me home.”

“Fuck your far-too-easy-to-break-into home.” I wrench the Jaguar’s door open, bundling her inside. “I’ve got a better plan.”

Through the journey along the winding driveway, Ophelia sits quietly beside me, her borrowed boxers bunching beneath her as she draws her knees up to her chest, teeth nibbling at her thumbnail.

Instead of choosing the road down, I head higher into the hills, winding along deeper curves, steeper angles, until the two-lanes merge into a hard-packed dirt road.

Either side of us is open sky, the rugged tussock and clay of the expansive terrain so vast and uncomplicated after the claustrophobic perfection of my father’s mansion.

A final turn leads us into a pine forest, then a clearing right near the cliff edge; the wooden balustrade set a metre back its only safety net.

My knee bumps Ophelia’s thigh as I lean across and fumble in the glove box. “Used to come up here and smoke when things got too dire.”

Then my fingers land on the tin box I stashed during the small hours of the night, holding it up, triumphant.

“Now get in the back seat and take those clothes off. I wasn’t anywhere near finished when my father so rudely interrupted.”

“And what if I’m no longer in the mood?”

“Snowflake, if you don’t know the answer to that by now, you haven’t been paying attention.”

Ophelia shifts into the back but leaves her clothes in place, never granting me full compliance. I tug down the boxers, licking up the inside of her thighs, tasting salt and sweetness.

“It’s so hot the way you’re wearing my clothes, smelling of me.”

My fingers circle the small purple-blue bruises I left on her hips earlier, watching her skin shiver like my fingertips carry electric pulses. Sitting upright, I light the joint, the flame briefly illuminating the cramped space, its pungent aroma filling the car as I inhale deeply.

I spread her legs wider, ignoring the awkward angle as I blow the smoke inside her, watching her delicate flesh flush pink in response.

“Are you getting my vagina stoned?”

“Vagina,” I scoff, the word clinical in the intimate space. “No. But I thought your glistening wet cunt might appreciate it.”

I rest the joint in the tin’s lid, careful of the glowing ember, then lower my mouth to Ophelia’s centre, exploring her sweet entrance until the car gently rocks with her movements.

“No,” she protests, her palm striking my shoulder when I pull away just before her muscles begin to flutter. Her hands are fists against her forehead, chest rising in short, sharp pants that fog the windows. “Not again.”

The blunt’s gone cold, but I relight it, and crawl up her squirming body, exhaling into her mouth.

Her lips part beneath mine, tongue darting out to wet them as I withdraw. Her glasses feel like a barrier, and I remove them, placing her hands on the frames as I set them aside, ensuring she knows their location. I continue until the ember burns my lips, then pinch it out between damp fingertips.

“If you jerk off again and leave me hanging,” she says, her voice strained, “so help me, I will push you straight off that cliff.”

My laughter vibrates through her skin as my mouth explores her body. Sliding inside her feels like shedding an unwanted layer, being reborn into something new and whole.

Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her inner walls gripping me tightly. Pleasure floods my brain, drowning out everything but sensation. Her warmth, her softness, her scent.

Though her lips are swollen and raw, I can’t stop claiming them, each kiss marking her as mine with the metallic taste of blood and the lingering sweetness of smoke.

I groan against her collarbone, my spine protesting the awkward position, yet I can’t stop twisting to taste new parts of her, to stroke her skin, to tangle my fingers in her hair and tug gently.

Her body tightens around me, muscles pulsing, catching up with the releases I denied her. I claim her mouth, sucking at her tongue, holding every part of her I can reach when my own climax quickly follows.

I pulse inside her until I’m completely spent, our mingled scents heavy in the air.

It’s transcendent, yet somehow insufficient. I want to inhabit her completely, to see through her eyes, to exist in her skin, our minds and bodies fused into one being.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” I mutter into the curve of her neck, groaning when her hips shift. I’m already hard again, already moving within her until I force myself away, rolling off before immediately pulling her close, our sweat-slicked bodies cooling in the breeze.

Nothing about her ever goes according to plan, yet the chaos she brings resonates deep within me. My fingers trace the curve of her ankle, pinning her against the blanket with gentle pressure.

“We should get dressed,” I murmur, and immediately contradict myself, my leg twisting over hers. The warmth of her skin heats the blood in my veins.

But if I want this conversation, it has to be now. Time, which has always moved at a crawl, is suddenly speeding, and there’s a sharp drop ahead.

My body still pulses with reluctance but as my heartbeat settles, I move, fabric rustling as I adjust my clothes and press a kiss to her inner knee. “Grab your glasses and come look at the view.”

A dark noise rumbles from the back of her throat—half protest, half acquiescence—but she obeys, sliding into my oversize boxers and buttoning her shirt. Picking her careful way across ground where the wind has stripped away all but the most stubborn vegetation.

The warning plank forms a rest for my back, the wind rich with salt and seaweed from the crashing waves below, sharp pine from the nearby forest. I spread the rough wool of the backseat rug around her shoulders, feeling her gradually melt against me.

“Is Craig the reason you want to die?” Her body turns to stone beneath my arm, but I hold firm. “Because if he is, I found him. I could easily hurt him for you if you want.”

My whisper barely carries above the distant crash of waves.

“That’s the reason you told me his name, isn’t it?”

Ophelia huffs out a breath. “It was a Freudian slip.”

“But isn’t that betraying what you really want?” I nudge my hip into hers. “You’re making my point.”

She plucks at a dried stalk of grass, methodically dismantling it. The seedhead comes apart between her fingers, wind catching the tiny particles and spiralling them away. “Is having that on my conscience meant to make me want to live?”

“You tell me.”

My lips ache to press a line of kisses along the curve of her neck, but I resist. Anything physical will dilute my next words, turn them into another play in our sexual games, and it’s not that.

The urge comes from somewhere deeper.

“I don’t want to give you up after the dance. I want you to stay.”

The ocean’s roar, the rustling trees, they’re nothing against her silence. My head pounds at the lengthening pause, afraid even a breath would dissolve our fragile connection.

Then her fingers tangle into my hair, yanking my head back with surprising strength. “Prove it.”

“Is that permission? Because all I need is one word.”

Ophelia moves until the cold plastic of her glass frames nudge my face, lips a hair’s breadth from mine. “Not by doing something you want to do. Prove it by doing something that scares you.”

It’s nearly impossible to read her eyes behind those dark lenses. “Like what?”

Her gaze calmly rests on my face.

You know what.

“The Chelsea thing’s nearly done. I can finance you. A flat, better clothes. Whatever you need. Just a few—”

“And when you’re out fucking someone for your dad’s next big deal, what do I do? Just lie there and wait?”

She gives a harsh laugh, her knee knocking against mine as she stands.

“No, I don’t think so. Why would I commit my life to you when you won’t do the same for me?” Her arms fold tight, like armour. “I’ll see you after the dance, and you can watch. Just like you made me agree.”

I grab her ankle, holding her in place. “Please… just tell me why. Give me a chance to fix it.”

“Just.” She snorts, leaving such a long pause I’ve half given up by the time she resumes speaking. “Do you know what happened after my first attempt?”

I don’t know this script, haven’t any idea how someone normal would react. “You woke up with a hangover?”

“That too.” Her lips thin. “The last thought I remember from that night is worrying my mother would blame herself, and d’you know what she said when I survived?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Something haunted rests in the twist of her mouth, then it’s gone. “She didn’t fly back. She didn’t even call. I went to school the following Monday like usual, and no one followed up when I skipped my session with the school counsellor.”

She’s slipping away. I reach for her and she’s water. “You know I like you—”

“No.” Her ankle jerks free, the wind whipping her hair across her face. “I don’t know anything. All I have is your word for it, and from where I’m sitting, that’s not worth much.”

“When have I lied to you?”

“I don’t know.” The angrier she gets, the more clipped her voice. She folds her arms and turns away, voice muffling in the wind. “I know you say outrageous shit all the time to make it seem that way, but you could’ve been fooling me from day one and I don’t have enough experience of you to judge.”

“That’s not fair.”

“And I’m just meant to trust you?” She spins back, eyes narrowed, vicious. “A boy who got me stoned, so I’d answer his questions more freely?”

I spent my life being opaque; now I’m glass.

And it baffles me that Ophelia knows me well enough to anticipate every move yet still doubts me.

“Trust is meant to be hard.”

“Well, being alive is hard, too. Dealing with all this shit in my head. Every name everyone’s ever called me. All the messed-up things they’ve done.”

I feel the same panic as Friday. The moments when I thought I’d arrived too late.

“And those voices, telling you not to trust me, that I’m lying, that you shouldn’t want me.

Aren’t those the same voices saying you’re better off dead?

” Her mouth tightens a moment before her eyes drop. “Why are you listening to them at all?”

“Because you’re dating my enemy. Because no one ever lives up to their promises.”

“I’m not—” I cut myself off, pressing my knuckles hard against my mouth.

This issue won’t go away, and Ophelia’s right. If I don’t stand up to my father now, there will always be a next time. My mother showed me that.

“Okay.”

She recoils, and I realise I’m shouting.

Nothing is reined in like it should be. My whole world is spinning out of control.

In a softer tone. “Okay. Yes. If that’s what you need, then yes. I’ll break up with Chelsea and tell my dad.”

There’s a single beat of stunned silence, then I’m plunged into darkness, arm aching, shivering no defence against the bone-deep cold of the surrounding rock.

But the basement’s just physical pain and I’ve lived through it before. The fear might tighten my lungs, turn my lips cold, but if I can’t convince Ophelia, if I can’t keep her here, I’m terrified something far worse will hit me.

“I’ll do it today, after I drop you at home. Get it all sorted before Monday.” My words are as much a reassurance for me as for her, even when I’m gripping her hands tight, staring into her eyes. “We can start over with a fresh slate.”

Chelsea will be easy.

A few minutes on her doorstep. A few expressions of faux concern.

Then home. Then my father.

And I have no idea what that will involve at all.

I press a kiss on Ophelia’s lips, then stay close, inhaling her breath like my lungs won’t work on their own.