Page 74 of Shadows in Bloom

Sleepovers spent being her doll as she brushed and braided my hair…

—I’m not paying attention when a hand thrusts seemingly out of nowhere from my left, grabbing me by the arm, and I’m all but thrown into what smells like a janitor’s closet a split second before my world plummets into black with the click of the door being shut.

There’s a distinct snick of a lock being slid into place, and just as my gasp goes to turn into a yell, there’s the rattle of a chain, immediately followed by the buzzing of a lightbulb sparking to life and a hand slamming over my mouth.

My books tumble to the floor with a thud and light smack.

Eyes wide and unblinking, they lock with the glittering dark brown orbs boring back at me.

A whimper throttles up my throat, suppressed by my clenched teeth.

Ophelia arches a perfectly sculpted brow, as if silently daring me to try something, and it’s only then that I realize just how still I am. Frozen in place, with my arms hanging lifelessly at my sides.

I’m free to move…

And I didn’t even try.

“Why don’t I ever get to be the snake?” I hear eight-year-old me asking in the back of my head.

“Because, you’re the cute and quiet one.”

The ghost of my giggled protests as a lanky, far less uptight Ophelia tackled me to the grass thrashes around my skull—the image of her wrapping herself around my limbs, slithering under my arm, and licking my cheek flashing once more across my mind’s eye. Followed by flashes of more memories I’d shoved back for years?—

Stop!

In the closet, my cheeks blaze, nostrils flaring, and I lift my hands to shove her off me. But she’s too quick.

Not removing the hand from my mouth, she uses the other to wrap around my wrist at the same time she pushes forward, forcing me to stumble back. My free hand slides just enough down her shoulder for her to manage to trap my arm between our bodies, pinning me to a narrow free space of wall. So narrow, my shoulders brush shelves on either side.

I try to bring my knee up, but it only brings her closer when she has to all but lean her entire figure against mine to keep me immobile.

I tense, a sharp inhale expanding my ribcage, pushing my chest out. If it weren’t for my arm squeezed between us, our breasts would be pressed flush together. It’s already bad enough that she’s got her thigh digging into my pelvis.

Much to my horror, my neck tingles with goosebumps, my core tightening. Frustrated tears bite at the back of my eyes, and I have to swallow against a surge of bile rushing up my throat.

Ophelia narrows her eyes, searching mine.

And I suddenly feel very, very exposed. In a way I’ve never felt before. Not even the last time we were this close…

Squeezing my eyes shut, I fight a shudder. A drop of sweat trickles down my temple, and my glasses are about halfway down my nose at this point, making the face inches from mine look softer around the edges, but no less captivating.

Behind my lids, an image of her in class takes shape. That haughty upturn of her nose when slips into know-it-all lecture-mode. The long, smooth creamy column of her neck, branching out into the narrow, rounded shoulders. The starched flats of her Peter Pan collared shirt buttoned right up to the base of her throat. The sharp, yet soft-looking lines of her jaw, accentuated by the rigid, confident way she carries herself.

How someone could look so severe, yet delicate at the same time…

Well, it’s something only Ophelia St. Maud can pull off. She wields grace and beauty like a weapon. Always has.

There’s a harsh sigh, and a moment later, with a gentleness that belies her muttered, irritable, “For fuck’s sake” and the disdained purse of her lips I see when my eyes fly open, she uses two fingers to nudge my glasses back into place.

Everything inside me grows still.

I don’t even so much as breathe.

It’s not until I get a flash of teeth when she bites her full bottom lip that I realize where I’m staring.

My gaze snaps up to her heated one, and I blink, my face growing as hot as the water I used to try and scrub the black off my hand earlier.

A rueful sort of wistfulness flickers back at me. “Don’t scream, okay? I just want to talk.” Her words are stilted, if not a little raspier than usual. Like she’s choking something back.

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