Page 56 of Breaking Ophelia
The blast that follows is not music. It’s a scream, raw and animal, echoing off the stone and the forest beyond. Every muscle in my body tightens at the sound.
The figure lowers the horn and turns to Ophelia.
“Run,” it says. Voice flat, final, a sentence passed.
She doesn’t move.
For a second, time freezes. The poppies, the blood, the torchlight—it’s all suspended, a painting of what happens just before the world goes feral.
Then she looks at me.
Our eyes lock. There is so much hate in hers I almost laugh.
I mouth the word:Go.
She does.
Ophelia bolts, bare feet smacking the stone, dress whipping behind her like a flag. She sprints past the first torch, then the second, then vanishes into the dark gap between the amphitheater and the woods.
The crowd erupts—not in applause, but in a hiss of approval, a collective shiver of anticipation.
The Board stands. Abelard bows. The Vicious Kings light cigarettes, the smoke curling up in lazy threads. The Feral Boys all go rigid, tracking her flight with eyes gone hard.
I stay where I am, blood dripping from my palm, the ghost of her heartbeat still thumping in my hand.
This is the moment. The best part.
I wait, savoring the distance she’s covered, knowing that every step she takes is borrowed time.
The figure in black raises the horn again, but doesn’t blow. Instead, it fixes me with a stare from under the cowl. I think I see a glint of eyes, but maybe it’s just the moon.
“Caius Montgomery,” it says. “Pursue.”
I nod, once.
Then I turn and walk, not run, after her.
Let her think she has a head start. Let her think she can outrun what’s coming.
That’s the fun of it.
I reach the edge of the woods, the Hunt officially begun, and I pause just long enough to let the smell of her fear guide me.
When I catch her—and I will—I’ll press my hand to her chest again. And this time, I won’t let go.
Let the Hunt begin.
The woods swallow her in six seconds, the white of her dress flashing through the branches before the dark slams shut behind her. I walk to the edge of the ring and stop, letting her go.
I’m supposed to chase. Tradition says I sprint after her, howl and foam and rend the air with threats. But tradition can eat my ass. I want her terrified, desperate, convinced that every footfall is her last. I want her to feel my eyes in the back of her skull, even when I’m not there.
Colton sidles up next to me, arms folded, jaw working on a chunk of gum like he’s grinding his own teeth to dust. “You gonna let her get out of range?” he murmurs, just for me.
I don’t look at him. “She’ll leave a trail.”
He laughs, sharp. “Bloodhound now, huh?”
“Always was.”
