Page 35 of Breaking Ophelia
I leave the classroom at a lazy stalk, ignoring Cabot’s attempts at a farewell. The corridor is a cattle run of kids in pressed uniforms, each pretending they’re not inbred descendants of the same six founding families. They part for me without thinking. They always do.
Ophelia is halfway down, stopping at the water fountain. I watch her from the end of the hall, arms folded, letting the other students create a buffer around her.
I wait.
She bends, hitting the button and taking long, grateful sips.
The heat in my veins triples as I close the distance. No rush. No noise. Just a steady walk.
I’m coming, and you won’t outrun me.
She senses it too late. When she stands, I’m already there.
She backs up, shoulders hitting cold metal. Her eyes flick up, and I see it—fear, then anger, then the desperate calculation of what she could get away with before someone noticed.
I cage her in, palms flat against the wall on either side of her head. Our bodies don’t touch, but the space between is just a formality.
“Miss me?” I say.
She snorts, rolling her eyes, but the sound is forced. “Like herpes.”
I laugh. “Good. You never really get rid of it.”
She tries to slip sideways, but I block her with a shift of my hip. Her body tenses; she won’t fight, not yet, but she wants to. I can feel it.
There are eyes on us. A girl in a plaid skirt, a boy with braces—both glance our way, then away. No one will step in. They know this has nothing to do with him. They know who wins.
I lower my head, mouth near her ear. She shudders, just enough for me to notice.
“Are you going to eat?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she hunches her shoulders, tilting her chin so she won’t have to meet my gaze. It’s a challenge and a plea at once.
I slide my hand down, brushing her arm, then lower, fingers grazing her side. I can feel the heat through her jacket. She’s burning up.
“I said, are you going to eat?” I repeat, voice pitched low enough that only she can hear.
She bites out, “None of your business.”
I trace the inside of her elbow, slow, drawing a line from bone to wrist. Her breath stutters, then picks up. Her hands clutch the edge of her bag. She thinks about swinging it at me—I see the thought bloom and wither in real time.
I press in, just enough to let her know I could take more.
“You’re shaking,” I say.
She grits her teeth. “You’re crowding me.”
I bring my lips closer, so close I could bite the lobe of her ear if I wanted. “I like the smell of fear.”
She tries to twist away, but I use my knee to pin her against the wall. Her hips slam into mine, and for a split second, we are fused—two animals, one challenge.
I grind my thigh between her legs, slow, calculated. “I like this, too.”
She slaps my hand away. “You’re disgusting.”
I grin. “Oh baby girl, you’ve seen nothing yet. But keep provoking me.”
Around us, the hall thins. Kids shuffle by, some glancing, most pretending not to see. I make sure to hold her gaze for them, let them all know that this is a warning:she is mine. I’ll break every bone in the first idiot who tries to claim her.
