Page 57 of Breaking Ophelia
Julian and Rhett loiter at the periphery, pretending disinterest. But I catch the flick of Julian’s fingers, a silent count of the seconds. He’s timing me, betting on how long it’ll take before I can’t stand it anymore.
Bam cracks his knuckles, grinning. “Ten says she makes it to the creek before you catch her.”
I ignore the peanut gallery. My blood is loud, boiling in my ears, but I keep my hands loose at my sides. Every muscle wants to sprint, to break the air and the trees and the distance between us, but I make myself wait.
The Board doesn’t appreciate deviation. From the dais, Dr. Abelard’s voice floats down, cold as the stone it bounces off.
“Remember the rules, Mr. Montgomery. She must submit, or she will not survive the night. If the Hunt fails, the cycle resets.”
I nod, not taking my eyes off the woods. “Understood.”
A longer silence. Then a Board member—a woman this time—calls out: “Do not damage the merchandise beyond repair. Bring her back whole, or not at all.”
The Feral Boys howl with laughter, a chorus of hyenas. I grin, slow, and crack my knuckles.
“Run, little vixen,” I call out, pitching my voice just right to echo through the trunks. “By the end of the night, you’ll be begging for me.”
The woods give nothing back.
I start to move again. Slow at first, letting the adrenaline bleed off in measured pulses. The ground is uneven, the air thick with old leaves and the metallic stink of anticipation. I track her by the sound of broken branches, the faint marks in the frost where her feet skimmed over roots, the occasional drop of blood from her palm.
She’s smart. She doubles back, uses the creek to hide her trail, even climbs a fallen oak to lose her scent. I respect it. But she’s not good enough. Not against me.
Every so often I pause, listening for her, letting her little whimpers and curses lead me towards her.
Soon, my little prize, soon.
Chapter 13: Ophelia
Idon'tlookback.Every cell in my body wants to—demands to—but the smarter part of me knows: if I look, I'll trip. If I trip, it's over. The trees close around me in a ribcage of black limbs and too-bright moon, the ground a tangle of roots and vines.
My dress catches on every fucking twig, every indent, every tooth of the forest. I rip it free and run harder, not caring what I leave behind. The crown of poppies is gone in the first couple minutes. I feel it tug from my scalp, spill petals down my neck, but I don't slow to retrieve it. Let the petals mark my path; maybe he’ll follow them, like Hansel and Gretel.
My lungs burn. The air is so cold it knives my insides, leaving each gasp wet and raw. I taste copper on my tongue, salt andblood and snot. I wipe at my mouth and the back of my hand comes away red—no way to tell if it's from my nose or the new cut on my lip or the gash across my palm from the ritual.
Branches whip my arms, my legs. I lose feeling in the soles of my feet from the cold, or maybe just from running so long I’ve forgotten what not-hurting feels like. Every step is a lesson in pain: a thorn rips my calf, a stone splits the skin above my heel, my ankle rolls and nearly sends me down but I catch myself on pure panic.
I hear him, his footfalls, his breathing. "You can't escape me, Ophelia. You're mine!" Echoing through the woods before a cackle of laughter sounds off.
Now he’s not bothering with silence. He wants me to know he’s coming. It’s all part of the game.
I veer left, into a thicker clump of underbrush, and immediately regret it. A bramble rakes my shin, pulling a white-hot flash across the flesh. The dress snags. I try to jerk it free, but a whole sleeve tears off at the shoulder, leaving my arm bare to the cold. I keep running. The fabric flaps behind me like a flag of surrender.
I am not going to surrender.
I am not.
The moon is a flashlight, blinding and pitiless. It paints the thin layer of snow in patches so bright they sting, and in every one I see the stains I leave behind—blood, sweat, a streak of mudwhere I fell the last time. I have no idea how long I’ve been running, but my throat is raw and my breath comes in shudders now.
The world narrows to three things: the drum of my pulse, the ache of my muscles, and the constant, growing presence of him.
Somewhere behind me he shouts, "You're slowing down, baby! Let me help you." His voice is bright and easy, like we’re flirting in the courtyard instead of playing the oldest, ugliest game in the world.
A surge of rage pushes me through another patch of blackness. I hit a log, go sprawling, and catch myself with both hands. My other palm opens up on a stone, the pain sharp and dizzying. I look at it: the blood wells up, hot and bright, running down my wrist in a line that is weirdly beautiful in the blue-white dark.
Keep moving.
I push off the ground and limp forward, ignoring the way my ankle is starting to balloon. Every inch of skin is on fire now, scraped, bruised, raw. My hair is loose, sticking to my face, plastered to my neck with sweat. The only thing holding me together is the hate—pure, unfiltered hate for the boy hunting me, for the Board who made this happen, for my own fucking father who signed my life away for a stack of chips at the wrong table.
