Page 53 of Breaking Ophelia
I survived.
They want me to cry, to beg, to break.
All they get is blood in my mouth and a rage that won’t stop growing.
I hope these motherfuckers choke on it.
Chapter 12: Caius
It’stwilight,thehourof confession and crucifixion, and the stones outside Westpoint’s amphitheater have been scrubbed clean for the ritual. The air is icy and still, every noise carrying for miles, even the click of polished shoes and the panicked flutter of bird wings. The moon is full, and the hour is here.
Despite the chill eating into my skin, it doesn’t bother me; it’s tradition that burns hotter than blood.
Tonight, little O will be mine.
The open courtyard is ready for what’s to come. Every inch of ground has a memory, a stain, a story in it. Tonight, thosestories are hungry. The Board hold the high ground on their limestone platform, flanked by two separate species of evil: the Billionaires, fake smiles and perfect teeth, and the Vicious Kings, mafia royalty with scars and knuckle tattoos visible even in the torchlight.
The same mafia that protects it’s ‘assets’. The Funders take no chances when it comes to ensuring it’s interests are protected, and even though the cops are in our back pockets, there’s nothing like a group of lawless men at your side.
That’s why Ophelia has to obey the rules of the Night Hunt.
They’re here to ensure she does, and if she doesn’t, to enforce the secrets spilled on this hallowed ground remain a secret.
A whimper escapes her and my eyes snap to hers. I lose my ability to breathe for a moment.
Ophelia stands in the center of the ring, bare feet on freezing rock, white dress trailing in the dust. The fabric isn’t designer; it’s ceremonial, woven for purity and spectacle, but it hugs her curves in a way that is neither pure nor accidental. Her hair is up—ragged ponytail, strands breaking free to frame her jaw—but what owns my soul is the crown of blood-red poppies circling her skull. It’s macabre and perfect, the color standing out against the white of everything else.
My beautiful fucking Goddess, ready to become to wife of the God son.
The chosen one.
Me.
Two men bracket her. They’re not from around here. They’re the Vicious Kings muscle, men with faces cut from concrete, whose job is to stand, immovable, and make sure the main course doesn’t bolt before the meal begins.
Ophelia’s hands are still, but I can see the tremor up her arms, the subtle hitch of her breathing, how she’s drawing every possible molecule of oxygen from the air. I watch the muscles in her jaw flex. Even now, when she should be praying for mercy or blackout, she’s got her head held high. I can’t help but smile.
I’ll admit, when The Board told me who my runner was, I just about slit their throats, but seeing her here, standing tall makes my cock hard and my heart jump out of my chest.
A beautiful bride she will be.
We—the Feral Boys—are stationed in a loose perimeter around the ritual space. Colton is off to my right, face set in his default mask of polite contempt. Rhett’s by the hedge, all tension and cold green eyes. Julian stands beneath the statuary with hands folded in front of him, looking like the world’s most dangerous altar boy. Bam paces at the boundary, too restless to stand still, knuckles flexing.
I keep apart, at the apex of the ring, because I can’t look away from her. Every fucking instinct in me is locked on her body—onthe way her shoulder blades cut angles through the silk, on the bare skin at her nape, on the rapid, nervous pulse at her throat. There are at least fifty bodies here, maybe more, but the only ones that matter are her and me.
Dr. Abelard is the first to move. He’s in full regalia: academic dark blue gown, velvet gold stripes, gold chain of office so heavy it looks like a noose. He carries a leather-bound book and, more importantly, a ceremonial dagger. It’s old as dirt, blade blackened with use, the hilt set with the Academy logo.
He glides to the center and faces the crowd, eyes bright with the peculiar joy of a man who gets to hurt someone and call it duty.
“Welcome,” he intones, and the word echoes off the stone like a verdict. “Tonight we gather under the auspices of the Hunt, as our ancestors did, in honor of the sacred bloodlines that built this place and will one day rule beyond it. We thank the Board for their presence, and our benefactors, who watch with interest as tradition finds new expression in every cycle.”
He looks over the crowd, gaze falling to the Vicious Kings, then to the Funders, then to us. His mouth twitches in something like a smile.
“Let the ritual commence.”
He opens the book. Latin spills from his mouth, half song, half snarl. I catch fragments:“Cor sanguinis, fructus prolesque, devotio.”Blood, fruit, progeny, sacrifice. The words are olderthan the country, older than the Board, older even than this slab of rock.
He produces the dagger with a flourish and holds it high, moonlight crawling up the blade. Then, with the casual expertise of a man who’s opened many veins, he slices his palm and lets the blood spatter onto the stone. It’s red as the poppies, red as the violence simmering in the crowd. Abelard keeps chanting, blood dripping a slow, deliberate line down his wrist.
