Page 55 of Breaking Ophelia
For a long moment, nothing moves. The air is a living thing, every atom thrumming before Valence makes her way down, producing a smaller, thinner knife.
Why the need for two knives, I’ll never understand, but these people weren’t right in the head, so maybe this one needed to be clean, who the fuck knows.
Then, in a voice just for me, just as Abelard takes the thin blade, Ophelia says, “You’re not going to win.”
I grin, blood running down my wrist, and squeeze her hand tighter.
“I already have.”
The torches snap in the wind. The moon climbs higher. All the predators in the yard, every witness in the bleachers, every ghost in the stone, holds its breath, waiting for the next move.
This is tradition. This is madness. This is the moment before the world goes red.
And I am ready to take what’s mine.
I wonder if she knows how pretty she is knowing she’s about to be ruined.
Abelard moves between us. The dagger is in his hand, shining in the low moonlight. The handle is white, inscribed with something I can’t read. He studies me with eyes gone flat, stripped of human context.
“Palma,” he says, Latin curling off his tongue. He grabs my wrist and slices my palm deeper, just above the first cut. He squeezes, milking the wound so blood drips down, dark and syrupy, trailing over my skin to the stone. “It is time to make you one of the Marked.”
He steps to Ophelia. Her hand is still slick with her own blood, but he ignores it, instead taking my ruined hand and pressing it to the center of her chest—right over her heart. The fabric stains instantly, crimson soaking the white in a starburst. My hand is almost as big as her whole chest, and I feel the ragged pace of her heartbeat, how it jumps and stutters at my touch.
The blood stains her sternum, her breast. My handprint is a brand, a brand-ownership, either in this life, or the next.
Abelard holds my wrist there, pinning her in place, and begins the chant.
“Sanguis in sanguine. Linea in linea. Fortitudo in progenie. Dominium in perpetuum.”
Blood into blood. Line unto line. Strength through progeny. Dominion eternal.
He’s squeezing my hand so hard I can feel the bones grind, but I don’t pull away. I’ve never wanted to belong to another as badly as I want to belong to this little vixen in front of me.
But to belong to her, and her to me, we must get through this night, we must follow tradition.
Ophelia looks at me, eyes wide. There’s a tremor at the corner of her mouth, like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, letting me bleed for her.
The Board is watching. Their gaze is hungry, waiting for the smallest sign that she’ll break. The Funders are impassive, but I know they’re betting on the outcome. The Vicious Kings look bored, but even they can’t ignore the violence in the air.
Abelard finishes the chant, then steps back, releasing my wrist.
I don’t move. My hand is still on her chest. I press it in, just a little, to feel her heart hammer beneath the skin.
She doesn’t flinch.
“Remove your hand, Mr. Montgomery,” Abelard says, tone cool.
I do, slow. My palm leaves a perfect red imprint above her heart, the blood already drying at the edges.
Ophelia shudders, just once. Then she straightens, eyes snapping to mine, and I know in that instant: she will never forgive me for this, and I will never let her forget it.
This night, this Hunt, this place, all pave the way for our prosperity. She may hate me, but she will come to love me.
The ritual is almost complete. Abelard gives a subtle nod, and everyone takes their seats on the platform, leaving just the two of us standing, facing each other. One face hardened, one resolved.
A hush rolls over the crowd.
Then, from the steps of the amphitheater, a figure emerges in a black robe. No face, just shadow under the cowl. They raise an ancient horn to their lips—a thing carved from bone, banded in iron, older than anything else here.
