Page 10 of Breaking Ophelia
“You taking the job a bit seriously, aren’t you?” His voice is dry, the kind that always sounds like it’s making a joke even when it isn’t.
I don’t answer. I can feel him behind me, just outside the reach of my elbow, his attention focused on the spot where my gaze burns holes through glass.
“I mean, I’m the stalker of our little group. I thought we had that established.” He flicks a speck of dust off the iron banister and tucks his hands into his pockets, shoulders slouched, relaxed. All a lie.
Still, I keep my eyes on Ophelia. She’s making notes now, tongue caught at the corner of her mouth, every line on her face etched with intent. I catalog every movement, even the ones that shouldn’t matter. The flex of her thigh as she shifts in her seat. The barest tremor in her left hand as she writes.
Colton watches me watching her. “You wanna talk about it?”
“Fuck off,” I say, steady and low. If I turn, he’ll see something I don’t want to admit. I grind my molars until I taste copper.
He leans closer, breath barely disturbing the air near my ear. “Never seen you so fixated on a mark before. Especially one like her.”
He says it soft, but the dig is sharp enough to draw blood. He knows what she is—a nothing, a piece of driftwood on the edge of our sea. Even less. A memo. A bill, paid in advance by a loser father.
“Did she bewitch you, or did they up the stakes for this year’s Hunt?” He laughs, no warmth. “Because you look like you wanna fuck her or kill her, and I honestly can’t decide which would disappoint your old man more.”
I turn slow, just enough that he can see the muscle in my jaw working. “You don’t want to know what would disappoint my old man. And you don’t want to make me repeat myself.”
He doesn’t flinch. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
He nudges my arm with his, friendly on the surface, but I feel the challenge in his bones. Colton hates chaos, but he loves the edge before chaos happens. He likes to see what will break first. He wants to see it in me.
Ophelia licks her finger to turn a page. The movement is stupid, childish. I hate her for it. I hate the heat that crawls up my neck and the way my vision narrows to her hands, her mouth, the perfect spot on her throat where a pulse thuds desperate beneath the skin.
Colton watches my pupils contract, then flicks his gaze back to her. “She’s not even that pretty.”
“That’s not the point.” The words are out before I can stop them.
“So what is?” He folds his arms on the rail, mirroring me, matching my stance. “You gonna claim her at the Hunt, or you gonna eat her alive first?”
I clench my fists. The knuckles go white, then numb. “Don’t fucking start, Colton.”
He shrugs, but it’s a weapon, not an apology. “Just saying. You’re acting like she’s yours already.”
He’s not wrong, and that’s the problem. I want to carve my name into every inch of her. I want to see her break, and then I want to see what’s left.
“She’s not even worth it,” Colton says, but his eyes never leave her. “You know that, right?”
I let the silence hang. If I break it, I’ll break more than that. Below, Ophelia gathers her books. She stands, and for a second, our eyes meet—through the haze of distance, through the latticework of iron and stone. I see the glimmer of recognition, the first spark of fear.
Colton says nothing, just watches the moment stretch, then snap.
When she’s gone, he finally says, “You’re fucked.”
He’s right.
But so is she.
When the library empties, the real work begins. The night guard sweeps once, twice, never bothering with the upper galleries. Colton sprawls on the bench opposite me, chin tipped back, arms folded loose across his chest. He watches me more than the room.
I track Ophelia through the glass windows, following her down the path outside. She moves like she knows she’s watched, even when she’s alone. I memorize the pace of her steps, the angle of her elbows, the way her left heel drags on the landing. Each flaw is a story. Each flaw is leverage.
I close my eyes. The air tastes like candle wax and old leather. I try to bury the fantasy ripping through me as she disappears from view, but it burrows deeper. Instead, I let it out.
She’s on her knees, forehead pressed to the marble, breathing hard through her teeth. My hand in her hair, twisted until her scalp pulls tight. I force her chin up, make her look me in the eye. There’s a question there:Will you break me, or will I break you?
She spits blood on the floor, defiance etched in the curve of her lip. I smile, because I know the sound she’ll make when she finally gives in. I crave it, the moment of collapse, the taste of surrender that’s part hate, part need.
