Page 88 of Breaking Ophelia
He doesn’t. That’s not how this game works.
I sit there, unmoving, the lamp casting my shadow big and stupid on the wall. He pretends to read his papers, but his eyes are always on me.
Valence enters at some point, ghosting behind the chair, his hands folded like a funeral director. Abelard’s with him, holding a folder and a little device that looks like a cattle prod.
My father gestures. “Leave us. I didn’t say you could bear witness to how I punish my son.”
They don’t move.
He sighs, deep, disappointed. “I’m not going to kill the boy. He will obey.”
Valence clears his throat. “We could—reset him. Start from the beginning.”
Abelard nods, his grin slicing a line across his face. “We have means. Stronger means than we used on Brandon.”
I don’t flinch. The ‘methods’ they used on Brandon killed him. But my father had always said my brother was the weaker of the two of us and sometimes a shepherd needed to thin the heard to strengthen the flock. I know they’ll use drugs, isolation, pain, whatever. The real threat is that it would work.
My father stands, smoothing his tie. “No. Let him stew. Let him see what he has to lose.”
He leans in, eyes level with mine. “If you don’t finish this, you will always be hunted. The girl will be collateral. You understand?”
“Perfectly.”
He freezes, just a beat. Then something cold and perfect in his eyes—pride, maybe, or relief.
“Get him up,” he says. “You have two weeks, Caius. If you do not complete the ritual, you will become a wanted man and we won’t stop until you are wiped from this earth.”
The guards grab me, hands rough, and pull me to my feet. I don’t stumble. I don’t wipe my face. I just turn for the door, shoving past Valence and Abelard. Neither of them speaks, but their eyes track me.
No one follows me out as the door shuts behind me, the low murmur of voices coming under the cracks. In the hall, I let the weight drop. My whole body hums, every cell running on pure spite.
I start walking and keep walking, already dialing for a cab to come pick me up and take me home to her.
Past the taxidermy. Past the eyes in the walls. Past the medieval weapons that will never be used.
At the end of the corridor, out of sight, I let myself stop. One hand to the wall, catching my breath.
And then, for the first time in years, I let myself smile.
Not a big one. Not a happy one.
A real one.
A promise.
They think they broke me.
They have no idea just how well my father trained me to be untouchable.
They also forgot that I have contacts of my own.
Ones who escaped this very hellhole that I’m being confined to.
Chapter 19: Ophelia
Idon’tsayanythingwhile I clean him up. His jaw is split at the corner, a bubble of blood bright on the line where someone hit him. I press the wet cloth to it—harder than I mean to, but he doesn’t even blink. It’s always like this with him: he can’t let anyone know it hurts, not even me. Especially not me.
He sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, his whole body a map of old violence and new.
