Page 42 of Breaking Ophelia
He laughs, a sound that’s all teeth and no joy. “It’s better to get it over with. Submit to him and the Hunt will go easier on you. I tried to warn you.”
I glare at him. “About what?”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You’re Cai’s now.”
He says it with a finality that makes my skin crawl. Then he’s gone, replaced by Caius who clicks his tongue. “Ignore Jules. He’s an idiot. Come let’s go get some air.”
He guides me to the edge of the room, away from the sudden influx of screaming girls on the dance floor swaying their hips to some 00’s song. The wall is cool against my back, grounding.
He leans in, foreheads touching. “They want you broken before the Hunt. They’ll do whatever it takes. Don’t let them.”
I try to laugh, but the sound dies in my throat. “You’re doing a hell of a job yourself.”
He shakes his head, slow. “That’s not breaking. That’s making you strong enough to survive them.”
I want to believe him, but my brain is mush and my body is still on fire.
He kisses me again, this time gentle. When he pulls back, his eyes search mine for something. Maybe hope, maybe defiance, maybe just a sign that I’m still in there somewhere.
He smiles, faint. “The Boys are about to have some fun, we can watch, or we can go outside and have a drink.”
I’m not afraid.
I’m something else.
I’m… determined. To win. To conquer. To hold onto everything I am, no matter what happens to me before and during the Hunt.
Caius grabs my hand. “Let’s go. Rhett’s getting naked and you’re not allowed to see anyone else naked,” he says, and I follow, because I have no other option.
As we leave, I catch Rhett’s voice, loud and amused. “What? You don’t want her to see that mine’s bigger, eh, Cai?”
Caius just laughs and drags me out into the dark.
For the first time, I wonder what would happen if I let him win. If I let his dark soul consume mine.
Would it feel like falling in love?
Or would it just feel like falling?
Chapter 10: Caius
Theairisrawand wet, the kind of morning that latches to your skin and drags you down to hell. Because that’s what this place is.
Hell.
The only good thing about a day like this is that it’s perfect for hunting. I wait across the quad, perched on the edge of a granite planter, cigarette burning slow between my fingers. The first classes of the day don’t start for another forty minutes, but already the Westpoint animals are on parade: girls in crisp whites, eyes hollow from last night’s party; boys in sport coats, voices rough with hangovers and amphetamines.
I watch the entry to the humanities wing. A steady trickle of bodies. Then she’s there—little ghost, hair pulled tight, uniform pressed so hard it looks like she’s wearing paper. She carries that ugly canvas bag like a shield, both arms wound around the strap, knuckles bleached. Her shoes are wrong for the outfit, still the thrifted boots with the cracked soles. Every step is too careful, as if she expects the ground to vanish beneath her.
She stops, scans for threats, and crosses to the alcove where the classroom waits. That’s when he moves: Lachlen. Legacy brat, smile so wide you could dump trash in it. He floats up beside her, all clean lines and perfect teeth. He’s talking before he even stops walking, words flitting off him like sparks.
I focus, watching for the tells. He leans in—too close, hand on the wall, boxing her in. She tries to step aside, but he cuts her off with a laugh. Then the hand drops, casual as you please, right to her waist. His thumb hooks into the band, fingers splayed just above her ass.
A low pulse starts behind my jaw. I grind the cigarette out on the planter, flick the butt into the grass, and stand.
I don’t hurry. No one hurries here. But my body is locked, every muscle wound for violence. I cross the quad in twelve even steps. By the time I reach them, he’s got her pushed back against the stone, voice low, eyes glinting with the smug of a kid who’s never had to bleed for anything.
Ophelia’s face is a mask, but her body is panicked—shoulders hunched, neck tight, eyes darting to the ground. She hates this. She hates him.
