Page 79 of Breaking Ophelia

She laughs, sharp and bright. “You’re a psycho.”

I shrug. “Takes one to know one.”

We sit there, the sun creeping up the wall, painting us in white and gold.

She doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

She’s not afraid of me.

And I’m not afraid of her.

Maybe that’s why it works.

The clock on the wall ticks, slow and loud.

She opens her eyes, meets mine, and doesn’t look away.

“Tell me something true,” she says.

I do.

“I liked it.”

She smiles, a real one this time.

“So did I,” she says.

We stare at each other, two people, each trying to see who will look away first.

Neither of us does.

She stretches, slow and deliberate, and for a second I forget the night, the blood, the way her body buckled under my hands. For a second, I see her as just a girl. Not prey, not target, but a thing that wants to be touched.

She clears her throat, staring down at the empty tray.

“So,” she says, “have you ever actually had a girlfriend? Or is this just your thing? Collecting bodies, breaking them, moving on.”

I smile, no teeth. “No girlfriends.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Not even one?”

“No.” I reach for the coffee cup, but she holds it tighter, forcing our hands to meet over the rim. Her grip is strong, stubborn, bones grinding against mine.

“Why not?” she asks.

I shrug. “Didn’t see the point. Fuck buddies, sure. But nothing worth keeping.”

She stares at our hands, then lets go, her fingers trailing down my wrist before dropping away.

“So you’re a commitment-phobe,” she says. “I should’ve guessed.”

“No.” I stand beckoning her to follow me down the hall to the kitchen before I wash the plate and cup. “Just didn’t care about anyone. Not until now.”

She snorts, but there’s a flush high on her cheekbones. “You mean not until the Board forced you to.”

I let the water run, hands under the tap. “Doesn’t matter how it happened. You’re here.”