Page 25 of Breaking Ophelia
But will I be compliant?
A grin spreads over my lips as I step out into the empty hallway.
No… I don’t think I will be. Caius will earn every inch I give.
Chapter 6: Caius
She’swearingthewhitelike a virgin out for slaughter. The fabric’s starched so hard that her nipples could cut a throat, and she keeps her chin tipped just high enough to dare anyone to stare.
But I do.
Directly at the little piercing poking out of either side of her left nip.
Fucking hell.
Today, I sit across the way from her, at a table that gives me line of sight. From here, I can see the little tremor in her hand as she traces the pen across the chart. Westpoint bloodlines mapped in tidy rows, name after name after name, until she gets to me. And her. She’s meticulous, I’ll give her that. Each line straight, each annotation crisp. She has no business doing clerical work—her brain is built for sabotage, not compliance—but they want me to give her duties.
Duties befitting of a wife.
I’d say knowing your heritage is necessary, but the truth was, I didn’t want to do anything but watch her. Any other task required a more hands on effort in her training, but not this.
Her hair’s up today, pinned so tight I can see the fine white line of a scar behind her ear. Her shoes are new, white, but she’s already scuffed them raw at the toes, as if to remind the world she was never meant for polish.
I count her breaths. I count the times she flexes her thigh, fighting the urge to stand, to run. She’s a fighter, but she’s biding her time. I’m hard, watching her resist.
She looks up. Finds me. Holds the stare for three full seconds before her eyes drop to the page.
The edge of my mouth twitches.
There’s a shuffle behind me. I clock it as Colton before he’s even in my peripheral. He never tries to surprise me, just slides into the space beside me, the chair creaking under the shift.
“Long game with your little slave project?” he chuckles, leaning back, his hands drumming on the table obnoxiously. He keeps his eyes on her, clicking his tongue.
I don’t look away. “The Board can fuck themselves with their rules.”
He grins. “You say that, but you always follow them. How many hours has she been at that table? Did you even let her piss yet?”
“Lunch break was at noon. She skipped it.” I clench my jaw, watching the way she tucks the pen behind her ear and kneads the tendon in her hand, trying to work out the cramp. “She’s stubborn. Makes it more fun.”
Colton’s reflection smirks. “You could make her do anything. Anything. And you pick paperwork?”
“I’m savoring it,” I say, the word thick on my tongue. “She thinks if she waits long enough, I’ll lose interest.”
“And will you?”
I bare my teeth. “No.”
We watch together, the two of us. There’s a rhythm to this, one that the Board likes to pretend they invented, but I know better. The only rules that matter are the ones you can enforce. Every flick of her wrist, every bite of her lip, every second she refuses to wilt is another ounce of leverage for me. The longer she resists, the sweeter she’ll taste when I finally take her.
Colton leans back, folding his arms. “You going to break her before the Hunt, or let the old men see you play by their script?”
“She’s mine already,” I say. “The rest is theater.”
He hums, satisfied, then stands. “You should get some air before you bust a seam, boss. She’ll be here for a while.”
He slips away, presumably to go piss off one of the others.
I fix my gaze back on her. She’s re-inking the pen, holding the bottle like it might bite. A drop splatters on her sleeve, and she curses under her breath, then scrubs it away with the edge of her palm. The little things—the defiance, the failure to be perfect, the refusal to look small—are why I can’t get her out of my fucking head.
