Page 37 of Breaking Ophelia
She glares up at me, but her chest heaves, and the flush on her cheeks is more than rage.
I tilt her chin up with two fingers. She tries to bite me, just like I knew she would. Her teeth graze my hand, sharp and satisfying.I let her draw blood before I grip her jaw tight and force her mouth open.
Then I kiss her.
Hard.
Not a kiss, really—an invasion. I drive my tongue into her, teeth smashing against teeth, blood smearing our lips. She fights, nails digging for my face, but I trap her hands behind her back with one of mine and squeeze until she whimpers.
She tastes like heaven and hell, like old fear and new defiance. I drink it down, forcing her to take all of me. Her body sags for a second, then rallies; she fights back, tongue warring with mine, hips twisting to try and break free. I clamp her harder, until she has no choice but to accept.
When I feel her knees buckle, I let up—just a fraction—enough for her to breathe, enough for her to get a lungful of my scent.
I break the kiss, lips wet and stinging.
She’s panting. Her lips are bruised, blood on her teeth, her hair a wreck.
She looks perfect.
I lean in, forehead pressed to hers, and say, “Next time, I’ll fuck you in front of everyone.”
She gasps, and her pupils blow wide, dark and desperate. She hates me, but her body is learning. She’ll crave this even as she tries to kill me.
I ease my grip, let her hands free. She slaps me, hard. The sound echoes, draws a ripple from the crowd. I don’t react. I take the hit and smile.
“Fucking DICK,” she hisses, but her voice cracks.
I wipe the blood from my lip with the back of my hand, then wipe it on her collar.
“Did you eat?”
She staggers back, clutching her bag to her chest, trembling in every limb. She touches her mouth, fingers coming away red. “No, fuck face, I didn’t eat. And maybe I won’t, just because you told me too. Maybe I’ll let myself wither away and fucking rot, all so I can escape the disgusting sack of skin that is YOU.”
A hush falls. No one moves. No one intervenes.
She stands there, shaking, hating me. Hating herself more.
“Go to the kitchen and eat, Ophelia. Or when you come to my room tonight, I will make you eat until you vomit, and then I will make you eat that, too. Don’t fucking test me.”
Her eyes narrow and she huffs before turning and scurrying back inside.
She will eat.
Because the alternative is humiliation and she’s a prideful little wench.
“See you tonight, little vixen.” I half yell, half sing, which earns me a frustrated scream as she yanks the door open and slips inside.
Chapter 9: Ophelia
ThedoortotheFeral Boys’ wing is ajar. It’s seven and they’re already partying. I hesitate, one hand splayed against the scarred wood, listening. It sounds like the entire Academy is inside—bodies crashing, girls shrieking, the wet slap of meat and power on display. If I walk in, every head will turn. If I walk away, I lose. If I hesitate one second longer, the ghosts of the ancestors will rise from their fucking crypts and drag me in themselves.
I go.
Inside, the air is all sweat, weed smoke, and the sweet, rot-sugar stench of Red Bull cocktails spilled onto tile. There’s a crowd in the foyer, shoulder to shoulder, limbs threaded together inways that seem almost anatomical. I squeeze past a couple dry-humping against a radiator. She’s wearing a skirt, no underwear, and he’s grinding so hard I see the slick between her cheeks. I keep my eyes up, forward.
Some of the faces I recognize, most I don’t. The girls are sharp, birdlike, movements quick and wild even when they’re laughing. The guys are macho, every one of them smelling blood and waiting for an excuse to taste it. Somewhere in the back, glass shatters. No one cares.
I look for him. I have to. He’s the only thing in here more dangerous than the crowd.
