Page 36 of Breaking Ophelia
I want her to see what it means to be prey. I want her to know, bone deep, that she’s already lost.
I ease my grip, but only to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger on her jaw, thumb pressing under her chin, forcing her to look at me.
“You’re going to meet me in the quad after your last class and we are going for a little walk out to the fountain. After that, we will walk to my dorm together, where you will kneel,” I tell her. “Or I’ll find you. And if I find you, you won’t like what happens.”
She spits on the floor, missing my shoe by an inch. “Make me.”
I wipe the saliva with my heel, then lean in, pressing my forehead to hers. The contact is hot, electric, a pulse I want to chase to the end.
“I could,” I whisper, “but where’s the fun in that?”
She’s breathing hard now, lips parted, skin flushed under the white of her uniform. I watch her throat work, the desperate swallow as she tries to banish the fear.
“I hate you,” she says.
“Not as much as you wish you did,” I answer.
I let her go, but not before tracing my thumb down her cheek, leaving a mark even if it doesn’t bruise.
She stands there, body rigid, jaw locked, as I turn and walk away.
The echo of her hate follows me down the hall, a sweet, raw music I can’t get out of my head.
The quad is a homeage to the founders. There’s a bench beneath the shadow of a dead tree. I plant myself there, not to wait, but to claim the spot as mine.
She shows up late, as if the extra minutes will dilute the threat. She doesn’t scan for me. She knows exactly where I’ll be.
Ophelia stalks toward me, boots thudding hard, jaw locked. She wears the anger like a suit of armor, but it looks even better on her than the white. For a second, I just watch—let her come closer, let the world watch too.
When she’s within reach, I grab her by the wrist and yank her down onto the bench beside me. Not gentle. Not a negotiation. She lands with a hiss, teeth bared.
“You’re early,” she bites out.
I ignore it. I keep my hand locked around her wrist. Her pulse is frantic, a wild animal in a cage of bone.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” she says, lower now, her voice meant only for me.
I lean in, crowding her against the back of the bench. My thigh presses hers into the metal slats. I want the whole fucking campus to see it:mine, mine, mine.
“You keep saying that,” I say, “but you’re still here.”
She tries to wrench her arm free. I don’t let go. Instead, I slide my fingers up her forearm, tracing the path her blood takes, feeling the tremor beneath her skin.
“Let go,” she says.
“No.”
“You’re sick.”
I bring my face close, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her hazel irises. “I could show you sick,” I whisper. “But then I’d have to drag you to the hospital when you collapse.”
Her eyes flare, then narrow. “Try it.”
So I do.
I stand, yanking her to her feet by the wrist. She resists, but I’m stronger. I pivot, slamming her against the trunk of the dead tree, my body pinning hers, her bag trapped between us. All around, students freeze. A few phones lift, ready to catch the carnage. I stare each one down until the screens lower, until they’re staring with open mouths.
“You want a show?” I say, loud enough for the bystanders. “You want to see what happens when you refuse to obey?”
