Chapter 353: Chapter 353: I watched her give herself those scars
"What gave you those scars, Ophelia?" Cyrus asked, a small frown pulling between his brows. His eyes had already checked twice, calm but sharp, like he was making sure he wasn’t seeing wrong. Those lines on her hands—thin, fresh, already healing—were not dirt. They were scars.
Ophelia’s hand paused mid-air. The spoon hovered. She looked down at her own fingers like they belonged to someone else, then let out a tiny, nervous giggle that sounded like it wanted to run and hide. "Oh, don’t worry about it, it’s nothing," she said, eyes skittering away.
Cyrus didn’t buy it. He didn’t even blink. He had that steady way of looking that made lies feel heavy.
Before he could speak again, a voice came from the doorway—low, unhappy. Valen, who had been standing behind the wall this whole time, stepped into view at the entrance but still didn’t cross the line. "Nothing?" he repeated, disbelief written clear on his face.
Ophelia’s head snapped up. Her eyes went wide. "Valen—"
"It is something," Valen said, tone tight with a hint of irritation. Not at her. At the fact of it. "I watched her give herself those scars. I told her not to."
Ophelia gasped and slapped a hand over his mouth even though he was too far for her to actually touch. "Shh, shh! Don’t say anything. You’ll ruin the surprise." She looked like someone who had planned a happy little secret and forgot the part where secrets sometimes hurt.
Valen’s shoulders dropped. His mouth pressed flat. He looked disappointed, yes, but more than that—he looked like a man who hated seeing her in pain and was trying not to argue in front of other people.
Cyrus looked at Ophelia again. He didn’t rush. He studied her the way he studies a simmer, like he was reading small signs in the surface. Glimora, tucked in Ophelia’s arms, peeked between their faces with bright, nosy eyes, tail flicking, ready to pick a side and start tiny chaos if needed.
"Fine," Cyrus said at last, voice soft but certain. "Since you don’t want to tell me, at least let me heal you properly."
Ophelia shook her head so fast her hair brushed her cheeks. "No, no, no. Isabella said I should learn to be strong." Her chin lifted a little, even as her cheeks flushed. "Healing me means I am weak. I am not weak. I am strong."
Valen sighed again, deeper this time. He rubbed the back of his neck like he had said these words a hundred times and they still wouldn’t stick. "I’ve been telling her for so long," he said to Cyrus, then to Ophelia, then to the air. "Getting help doesn’t mean you’re weak. I don’t know what to do anymore with her."
Cyrus’s gaze moved between the two of them. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t amused. He was careful. "Ophelia," he said, "are you sure you don’t want me to heal you?" He paused, letting the words settle, not pushing, just telling the truth. "If this is how you think, you know Isabella won’t be happy."
That landed. Ophelia’s breath hitched. She looked down at her hands again. The little white lines were pale against her skin, already closing. They stung in the exact way pride stings—quiet, honest, a little stupid.
She didn’t answer. She reached for the spoon instead—the one that held a small gleam of coconut buttermilk—and held it there, inches from her mouth. She stared at it for a while, like the surface could tell her what to do. The sweet smell came up to meet her—warm, soft, a tiny kiss of honey, a tiny breath of salt. The steam touched her nose. Her shoulders softened.
She looked up at Cyrus and said, "Yes. I’m sure." Her tone went flat and final. Not rude. Just done. The kind of voice people use when they’ve already argued in their head and won.
Cyrus said nothing more. He nodded once. Understanding. Respecting her choice even if he didn’t like the cost.
Valen looked at the floor, then at her hands, then at the ceiling like it might have answers. He let out a sigh that sounded like defeat and care mixed together. He still didn’t cross the threshold. Kian’s rules were loud even when Kian wasn’t in the room.
Ophelia finally slid the spoon into her mouth.
The world narrowed to taste.
Her eyes widened the instant it hit her tongue. Joy hit even faster. The buttermilk was cool and silky, like a soft river. Sweet, yes, but not heavy. The honey lifted the coconut instead of crushing it. The tiny grain of salt made everything glow. It tasted like sunshine after rain, like the first smile after a long day. It tasted like comfort learned by heart.
Glimora perked up hard, ears up like arrows, eyes locked on Ophelia’s face as if waiting for a verdict she could bite someone over.
"Wow," Ophelia breathed, the word tiny and real. She swallowed and looked at Cyrus like he had just pulled a star down and stirred it into a bowl. "This is so good, Cyrus. Isabella would love it. It is perfect. It is so sweet—so, so sweet."
Cyrus’s mouth curved. He wasn’t the kind to grin because of praises (except they came from Isabella), but the curve deepened enough to show how pleased he was. Color warmed his cheeks. He tried to hide it by looking down at the pot, but the blush still sat there, pretty and honest. In his mind, he saw Isabella tasting it, saw her eyes go bright, heard her praise—Good. You did well. The picture made something inside him go soft and steady.
"Do you think she will?" he asked, and his voice was quieter than before, like he didn’t want to hope too loudly in case the hope got shy and ran.
"I think she will," Ophelia said at once. Then she shook her head and corrected herself with more certainty.