Page 93 of Breaking Ophelia

Am I out of my Goddamn mind? I must be.

But then I look at the way his hand never leaves the wheel, the way his eyes never leave the road, the way he talks to me like I’m more than a trophy or a debt.

And I decide to believe him.

Because the alternative is nothing at all.

The sky gets darker as we drive, sun dipping behind clouds heavy with rain. There’s a chill in the air, but the truck is warm, the seats worn soft by years of use.

Caius reaches across the console and takes my hand. Just holds it, fingers laced with mine, tight enough to hurt.

Chapter 20: Caius

Thelastofthedaylight cuts sharp over the lake. We park behind a wall of pines, needles slick from freezing spray, wind coming off the water so hard it makes the truck rock. The house is just visible through the trees—a one story rancher, timber trim on the outside, but the walls are all concrete, glass, and steel, no neighbors, no mail, nothing but the view of a half-frozen beach and the blue water beyond.

Ophelia doesn’t say a word until we reach the gate.

It’s not a nice gate. Wrought-iron, knife-tip points, a keypad that doesn’t accept codes but skin. I press my thumb, wait for the dead click, and pull the truck in. She doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the house like it might bite.

“This yours?”

“Mhmm.”

The drive up is gravel, long enough for a helicopter to land. Everything here is overkill. The whole place is off-grid, paid for in cash and crypto, title buried three shell companies deep. No cameras, but the motion sensors will text me if anything larger than a raccoon gets within two hundred feet. There’s a fence around the property and a second one buried under the beach sand, electrified for anyone who isn’t keyed into the system, because even though one might call me paranoid, they’d never call me ill-prepared. Especially coming from the family that I do.

I cut the engine. For a minute, the only sound is the wind screaming through the trees and her breath, rapid, shaky, fogging the window.

“Come on,” I say.

She looks at me. Her eyes are gold in the cold light, wide as I’ve ever seen them. She doesn’t ask where we are. She just follows.

The air outside cuts straight to the bone. She hunches into my jacket, pulling it tight around her, her hair still smelling faintly like lavender, which makes me want to pin her to the hood and fuck her stupid, but I don’t.

I unlock the front door. It opens into a foyer full of dead echoes and glass. No family photos, no art, no color. Just steel, concrete, slate. I throw the bags down, reset the alarm, and lead her to theliving room. The windows here go floor to ceiling, the only view a slice of the lake and a sky smeared with light gray clouds.

She stands at the threshold, arms locked tight around her waist.

“Sit,” I say.

She ignores me, so I drag her to the couch, force her down.

She’s still for a long time. The sun slips lower, paints her in colors, and I just watch. Wait. She doesn’t move, doesn’t talk, doesn’t even blink.

Then, after what feels like an hour: “Is this it?”

She says it quiet, but the words are loaded. I don’t pretend not to understand.

I sit next to her, elbows on my knees. The space between us could swallow the room.

“This is the safe house,” I say.

She doesn’t laugh, but her mouth twitches. “It doesn’t look safe.”

“It’s the only place nobody will look. Nobody knows about it.”

She shifts, fingers digging into the meat of her arm. “Not even your dad?”

“Not even God, if there is one.”