“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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
OPHELIA
My eyes open slowly,the silence in the room different from normal. It’s like the walls are thicker, muffling all the incidental noise.
I’m not at home.
I drift back and forth between consciousness and sleep, lulled by a pleasant heat. It’s concentrated lower in my body; a delicious warmth centred between my thighs. My breath hitches as the sensation sharpens into pleasure and I gasp, hands fisting in the sheets as my back arches involuntarily.
The oversized sleep shirt is hiked up around my ribs, unbuttoned, and my legs are spread wide, pushed open by a pair of broad shoulders.
The ripple of pleasure isn’t my imagination or a dream, it’s Damien’s tongue. Hot, maddening, and far more talented than anything I’ve felt before, circling my swollen clit with deliberate strokes that leave me gasping.
“What are you…?” I shove myself upright.
But before I can work out what I’m protesting, a shudder ripples through me, and I collapse back on the mattress. His tongue dips lower, teasing at my entrance before retracing its languorous path, my legs spreading wider, giving him access.
“Shh.” His voice is low and rough when he lifts his head, eyes dark. “Go back to sleep.”
My hands find his hair, intending to push him away, but my fingers rebel, threading through his thick curls and holding him there instead. Twisting strands between my knuckles, guiding his mouth exactly where I need when his teasing becomes too much to bear.
My hips rock harder, chasing the friction.
The sensations grow sharper, more urgent, and his tongue works faster now, rougher against my sensitive flesh until the pleasure borders on pain and I’m writhing beneath him.
My thighs tremble as he adds his thumb into the mix, its rough pad pressing firmly where his mouth and tongue can’t reach, and a moan escapes me. A raw sound that echoes in the quiet room.
Memories from yesterday try to intervene and I push them away, invested only in this moment and the ever-building sensations.
I’m close, so close… just one more second…
He pulls away.
