Page 8 of Breaking Ophelia
“I… I don’t think that’s necessary.” I swallow around the lump in my throat.
His eyes flick up, so hard and soulless I recoil for a moment.
“It is.” The Dean replies. “He will show you to your class and help with your integration here at Westpoint.”
I can’t do anything but nod.
“Excellent, if you have no questions, you’re dismissed.”
I stand. Caius rises after, slow and steady, like he has all the time in the world to stalk his next meal. He wears the same uniform as the others, but on him it looks like a dare—shirt unbuttoned just enough, tie knotted loose, cuffs undone. His shoes are mirror-polished, and he moves in them like he was born to walk across marble.
“Come,” he says, barely looking at me.
I trail him, feeling the six pairs of other eyes scrape my back as I go. The door clicks shut and the hallway swallows us whole. No words for a long time, just footfalls and the uncertain fizzle of antique light bulbs overhead.
His pace isn’t fast, but every step feels like I’m falling more behind. I jog to close the gap and walk silent at his side.
“Why are you helping me?” The words slip out before I can kill them.
He doesn’t stop. “Because I have to.” The edge of his mouth lifts, but it’s not a smile. “Don’t mistake this for kindness, Morrow. I’m not responsible for your comfort, only your performance.”
A laugh, dry as cut grass, escapes me. “Got it. I’ll try not to embarrass the family cash cow.”
He glances my way, eyes unblinking. “Funny.”
I snort.
He turns down a side corridor so narrow we walk single file. “Your first class is Economics.” Stopping in front of a door, he opens it and gestures inside. “Good luck.”
Somehow, the way he said it makes me think he doesn’t wish me well at all.
Squaring my shoulders, I head into the lion’s den, ready for a couple of hours of thinking about nothing except why the fuck I was assigned a keeper.
Maybe he will warm up to me… or keep me safe.
Yet as I look back at him, nothing in his gaze says he wants me safe.
In fact, if I wasn’t such a paranoid mess right now, I’d guess those eyes wanted to suck the soul from my body.
And the smirk he gives me as he shuts the door tells me the same.
Well…
Fuck.
Chapter 2: Caius
ThelibraryatWestpointis not for reading. It’s a monument to money, to blood, to the kind of history that makes ordinary people kneel. Ceiling like a cathedral, windows that filter daylight into black and bruise. Each bookshelf is older than the United States, oiled wood, glass locked against the touch of students with less than three generations in their blood.
And yet… here she is. Tucked into a chair, reading some fucking book I can’t make out the title of.
I take the upper alcove, where I can see the entire floor through a mesh of wrought iron. From here, I have full sight lines on every aisle, every corner, every security camera tucked into thestonework. The air’s heavy with dust and the sharp chemical stink they use to keep the leather from rotting. I like it up here.
No distractions.
Contrary to what they say about me, I do enjoy reading. I mainly read the history of Westpoint, but I’m also a fan of horror.
Ophelia sits alone at a table below. The others avoid her, like she’s radioactive or contagious, which is both true and smart. Her shirt hangs off her shoulders—some thrift-store thing, blue and already thinning at the elbows. She reads the way people smoke: slow drag, slow exhale, page by page. Her hair’s down, dark and too shiny, as if she doesn’t know the only way to survive here is to blend in with the wallpaper. Hazel eyes flick over the text, never looking up, but I know she senses the watching.
