“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?”
