Breaking Ophelia (Feral Boys of Westpoint #1)

Prologue Caius

We sit in a row, a gallery of future kings and executioners. Rhett’s smile is thin and dangerous. He’s bored of the constant fucking meetings, but he has no choice.

None of us do.

We are the chosen, and as the chosen, we must abide by the rules set in place before our time.

Julian sprawls like he owns the world, which is almost true—he's been bred for it, the same way Dobermans are bred for bite.

Bam looks bored enough to put a fist through the table, tattoos writhing up his forearm as his fingers drum on his knee.

Colton is a wraith, half-shadow, gaze sliding across the room, calculating.

Not that we can escape even if we wanted to.

Which we don’t.

Life is made for us.

The Board made us come early, so now we simmer in silence under the cathedral ceilings of the Academy’s oldest chamber. I count the seconds between each torch’s gutter, each drip of wax.

It’s theatrical. Meant to intimidate, but after countless times in here, the charm has all but worn off. The stone walls sweat cold; the portraits along them look as if they’re watching, because they are. Every founder, every previous Master of the Hunt, all immortalized in oil and shadow.

I fix my eyes on the entrance, counting how many footsteps it’ll take for them to cross the marble. The Board never rushes. Power isn’t about haste; it’s about making people wait. I learned that lesson in the cradle.

Bam cracks his neck. Rhett shoots him a glance. “Nervous?” he scoffs.

Bam shrugs. “Hungry.” His gaze flicks to the velvet cushions along the far wall. Ceremonial daggers, each one unique, each one with a kill count.

Rhett makes a show of yawning. “Tradition. Nothing more entertaining than ancient men talking about their glory days.”

Julian’s laugh is a sigh. “You’d be surprised what some of them did. There’s a founder up there who beat a president to death with a paperweight. Not even kidding.”

Colton picks his nail with a butterfly knife before rolling his eyes. “No one’s joking.”

I tune them out as the doors open.

Twelve Board members enter in pairs, black and midnight blue robes trailing like water.

Each robe bears a different crest—hawks, wolves, lions, the usual boring shit.

Their faces are masks: a spectrum of paleness and thinness and ancient rage, only the occasional glint of gold tooth or signet ring to tell you they’re even alive.

They take their seats at the far end. We rise, because that’s how the world works. Show respect to the ones who could end your bloodline with a phone call.

The elder, Dr. Abelard, waits for the silence to collapse.

His voice is a drag of gravel and ash, heavy with the certainty that nothing in the world could ever defy him.

“Sons of Westpoint. You are not here because you are worthy. You are here because you are necessary. Your worth will come to fruition should you abide by the rules of the Night Hunt and fulfill your duties. Your matches have already been chosen.” His eyes sweep the line, stopping at each of us just long enough to imply he knows the sins we haven’t even committed yet. “Sit.”

We sit.

Abelard sets a heavy book on the table. Leather, older than any living person. The kind of thing you only touch with gloves, unless you own it.

“For centuries, we have cultivated the minds that rule this nation. Presidents. Judges. Generals. All shaped by these halls.” His fingers tap the book, slow and deliberate. “And with every cycle, we test the strength of our legacy.”

One of the women on the Board—silver hair, mouth like a slit in a corpse—leans forward. “The Hunt is not a game. The Hunt is survival. Of bloodlines, of ideas, of the Will.”

Julian smirks. I hope it’s a joke, but with him you never know. “And what if the wrong side survives?”

The woman smiles. “The Hunt decides. It always has. Should you fail, your match will perish, and you will have one more chance to redeem yourselves.”

I study their hands. Some hold glasses, some rest on the table, but all are ready to strike.

Ceremony is everything here, but they want us to remember: tradition is just the elegant skin on top of violence.

Colt catches my eye, then looks away, but I follow the drift of his gaze—stained glass windows overhead, lit from behind so the colors burn even in the dark.

Each panel shows the Hunt in some form: runners in white, hunters in black, the aftermath always soaked in red.

Every window ends with a tableau of conquest—one side triumphant, the other erased.

If we win, as we will, our matches bloodline is erased and she becomes ours.

Property.

Breeders.

Wives.

Bam mutters, “Why even do this? You could just pick the winners.” His voice is low, but meant to be heard.

Rhett grins. “We’re a circus for the donors. People love a blood sport.”

Abelard raises a skeletal hand. Even the echoes obey.

“The Night Hunt is not for entertainment. It is for correction. Our history is littered with mistakes. Weak stock. Unfit heirs.” His glare pins us.

“That ended with the introduction of the Hunt, and in the absence of new games, we are growing weak once again.”

A low shuffle, then another Board member speaks. “The girls have been selected for maximum compatibility. Intelligence, health, genetic variance. We will not tolerate deviation from the approved list.”

My mouth twists. They’re not talking about people. They’re talking about breeding stock.

Rhett licks his lips. “And if the runners refuse?”

Abelard’s mouth curls. “Then they are removed. And so are their families.”

Julian runs a finger down the scarlet lining of his blazer, tracing the seam like it’s a wound. “No surprises then. Efficient.”

The Board doesn’t bother responding. That’s all the answer we get.

The eldest female, Ms. Valence, taps the ceremonial dagger in front of her. “Remember your lines. We are not merely administrators. We are executioners.”

She slides her glance to me, eyes glassy and red. “Isn’t that right, Caius?”

I meet her gaze, unblinking. “That’s correct.”

She nods, satisfied.

Rhett snorts. “Don’t see the point of all this theater, but—” His smile never reaches his eyes. “—we’ll do it your way.”

Colton says nothing. Bam flexes his hands like he’s already strangling someone.

Abelard closes the book with a thud. Dust blooms. “Tonight, we receive the first of our guests. Tomorrow, the beginning stages of the Hunt begins. Do not embarrass your lines. Do not fail.”

The Board members rise, all at once. Robes slither along marble. For a moment, they linger—twelve statues watching five bugs under a microscope.

“We will see you tomorrow evening for the final instructions. 7 p.m., do not be late.”

Then they file out, leaving the room colder than before.

We sit in the aftermath, all five of us pretending to relax, each measuring the others. Rhett breaks the tension first, voice raspy. “Anyone else think it’s funny they act like the Hunt is sacred, when it’s just a culling?”

Julian answers. “Sacred things always need blood to stay alive. That’s the joke. Plus, no one dies if we win… which we will.”

Bam cracks his knuckles again, louder. “I hope they make it interesting this year. Last time was boring as shit.”

Colton’s eyes flick up, just once, at the stained glass. “Someone always runs. Someone always chases. Someone always dies.”

I let the silence settle. The Board wants me to lead, so I do.

“Get ready,” I say. “They want blood, we give it to them.”

The obsidian table throws back a funhouse reflection—five faces, all fangs, no mercy.

It’s the only legacy that matters.

We arrive early, take our usual seats and wait. For once, The Board is on time… apparently our guests require more timelines than a bunch of ragamuffins.

Abelard sits and watches us.

A sharp rap at the door interrupts our thoughts as one of the Board says, “Enter.”

The temperature drops a few degrees when the Billionaires make their entrance.

No trumpets, no pageantry. Just a precise ripple in the room’s geometry—the way the light bends around them, the way everyone in the chamber straightens without meaning to.

Three men, two women, all in black. Not the black of funerals, but the kind you see in the pit of an open grave.

Their faces are blurred by the flicker of torchlight, but it’s intentional: you remember the suits, the posture, the cut of their hands.

One has hair so white it looks like it should belong to a corpse, another is so young the Board members seem to wilt in his presence.

All five wear the same signet ring. I recognize the crest, even though it’s supposed to be a secret.

It’s the hand that writes the checks, the hand that signs the death warrants.

The Academy funders.

A retinue of servants—silent, desperate—fan out, pouring vintage brandy into glasses that cost more than most houses. The scent is sweet, almost syrupy, and it clashes perfectly with the chemical tang of torch smoke and old stone.

The Billionaires don’t sit. They don’t need to. They won’t be here long. They let their brandy swirl, barely touching the glasses, as if even that is beneath them.

One speaks, voice thick with old money and older expectation. “The Academy’s traditions have served us well. But the Pineridge deviation is troubling.” He says it like he’s ordering a rare steak.

The Board shifts, a collective tensing that’s almost musical. Abelard’s jaw pulses; Ms. Valence’s lips peel back, shark-smooth. “The boys of Pineridge,” Abelard rasps, “broke our sacred covenant. They refused to complete their Hunts. They took the ritual to their resort. Bastardized it.”

Ah, yes. The Pineridge boys, who didn’t want to participate. The reason the Night Hunt was on hold… until now.