Chapter 9 Ophelia
The door to the Feral Boys’ wing is ajar.
It’s seven and they’re already partying.
I hesitate, one hand splayed against the scarred wood, listening.
It sounds like the entire Academy is inside—bodies crashing, girls shrieking, the wet slap of meat and power on display.
If I walk in, every head will turn. If I walk away, I lose.
If I hesitate one second longer, the ghosts of the ancestors will rise from their fucking crypts and drag me in themselves.
I go.
Inside, the air is all sweat, weed smoke, and the sweet, rot-sugar stench of Red Bull cocktails spilled onto tile.
There’s a crowd in the foyer, shoulder to shoulder, limbs threaded together in ways that seem almost anatomical.
I squeeze past a couple dry-humping against a radiator.
She’s wearing a skirt, no underwear, and he’s grinding so hard I see the slick between her cheeks. I keep my eyes up, forward.
Some of the faces I recognize, most I don’t. The girls are sharp, birdlike, movements quick and wild even when they’re laughing. The guys are macho, every one of them smelling blood and waiting for an excuse to taste it. Somewhere in the back, glass shatters. No one cares.
I look for him. I have to. He’s the only thing in here more dangerous than the crowd.
A hand clamps onto my upper arm, hard enough to pop the muscle. I try to twist but he’s already behind me, breath in my ear, voice pitched for just me. “You’re late.”
I bite back a snarl. “Fuck off.”
He laughs, the sound low and hungry. The hand on my arm tugs, pulling me through the press of bodies.
Heads turn—first in confusion, then in recognition, then in sick, delighted awe.
The corridor narrows, and still he doesn’t let go.
Every time I slow, his grip tightens, and every step is a new bruise blooming beneath my sleeve.
He’s dressed different tonight. Instead of the usual black suit, Caius wears a white tee, dark jeans, no shoes.
The shirt stretches over his chest, the neck torn open just enough to show the blue-black stain of an old bite on his collarbone.
His hair is wet, slicked back, and the drops run down his temples in slow, measured lines.
We climb the stairs two at a time. At the landing, he stops so suddenly I nearly eat the banister. “Wait.” His tone is final.
He checks the hallway, peering down both ends like a cop on a raid. He looks at me—really looks—and I see the gears turn behind his eyes.
Then he opens the door and shoves me through.
His room is… not what I expected.
No filth, no disorder. The carpet is vacuumed into geometric stripes, the bed so crisply made I could bounce a quarter off the cover. Everything is navy or burgundy or polished wood. On the wall above the desk, there’s a framed photo of a man who must be his father, the resemblance uncanny.
A single lamp is on, light pooling in a perfect oval over the desk. Next to it, a stack of books arranged by size and color. I blink, thrown off by the total control. He steps in after me, closes the door, then leans against it, arms folded, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“Sit.”
I stay standing. “Why did you want me here?”
He looks at me like he’s already bored, but I know the patience is a trick. “Did you eat dinner?”
I don’t want to answer, but I do. “Yes.”
He moves so fast I barely register the shift—one second at the door, the next he’s in my face, so close I feel the heat radiate off him. He smells like aftershave and something more dangerous. His hand goes to my throat, not tight, just a warning. The other hovers at my jaw, thumb grazing my lip.
“Good girl,” he says.
I want to break his thumb, but I’m too stunned by the gentleness. My pulse hammers against his palm. He’s not even squeezing.
He lets go, backs away just enough to make me chase the air. “Kneel.”
The word lands like a slap.
I square my shoulders. “No.”
His lips twitch. “A brat. How fitting.”
He moves behind me, hands on my shoulders, forcing me down. I lock my knees, but his weight is impossible. He drops me like a sack of flour, and I catch myself with my hands, palms burning. The carpet is rough under my knees, the fibers biting my skin.
He steps in front of me, towering over me.
“Look up.”
I don’t, at first. He waits. The silence stretches until it hurts. Then I do, and the look in his eyes is pure victory.
He unzips his jeans, slow. The sound is loud in the room. He fishes himself out, and it’s insane how fast he goes from zero to fully hard. Of course it’s big. Why would I expect anything else?
I look at the wall behind him, anywhere but his cock, but he grabs my hair and forces my face forward.
“Suck it.”
“No.”
His grip on my hair tightens, and for a second I think he’ll pull it out by the roots. “You can do it on your knees or on your back. Pick.”
I bare my teeth, but I don’t fight. Instead, I open my mouth and let him push the tip in. He doesn’t wait for me to adjust—he just shoves deeper, the head hitting my tongue, the shaft filling my mouth until I gag. He lets go of my hair, but I know better than to pull away.
He moves with slow, grinding thrusts, each one a fraction deeper, like he’s measuring how much I can take. The taste is salt and skin, warm at the back of my throat.
I want to hate it.
But I’m soaked through my fucking underwear. I clench my fists, trying not to give him the satisfaction, but it’s impossible. My body is a traitor, every nerve ending lit up, my pussy aching, arousal pooling between my thighs.
He watches me, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth open just enough to show teeth. “You look so good like this,” he says, voice raw. “You should always be on your knees.”
I pull back, letting his cock slip from my lips, saliva glistening on the head. “You’re a fucking pig.”
He laughs, the sound harsh and bright. “And you’re addicted to it.” He grabs the back of my neck, pressing me forward again. “Open.”
This time, I do it willingly. I take him in as deep as I can, breathing through my nose, letting him use me. He rocks his hips, slow at first, then faster. His fingers dig into my skull, holding me in place as he fucks my face.
I reach up, hands on his thighs, nails digging in. He doesn’t flinch. He just thrusts harder, the base of his cock slapping my lips, the head battering the entrance to my throat.
I gag again, tears springing to my eyes, but I don’t stop.
He moans, a low, shuddering sound. “Fuck, yes. That’s it. That’s my girl.”
My jaw aches, tongue raw from the friction, and the taste of him is a permanent fixture at the back of my throat. There’s no one here—just the steady thud of music from below, and his hand pressed to the wall as he steadies himself, breathing in short, sharp stabs.
My hands shake. Not with fear, but with something worse: a need I can’t wash out, not even with a fistful of soap and a bucket of bleach. My panties are soaked, every nerve ending throbbing. It’s obscene.
“You want more?” he says, voice shredded.
I don’t answer, but my thighs grind together on instinct.
He laughs, the sound a wreck. “That’s what I thought.”
He pauses and stares down at me, one hand on my jaw, the other pulling at the knot in my hair.
The bun unravels, and he threads his fingers through the strands, gripping at the base.
He slides his cock back out, the tip swollen and glistening.
He drags it along my cheek, painting lines I’ll never scrub off.
He tilts my chin, making me look up. “Open.”
I do. He feeds it to me, slow this time, letting me savor the drag of skin over tongue, the blunt weight of him filling my mouth. He’s watching for a reaction, but I keep my eyes on his, ignoring the need building through me.
He doesn’t like that. He grips my chin, and fucks my mouth harder, each thrust a little deeper, a little rougher. My lips swell, my jaw stretches to accommodate, and my nose smashes against the hard ridge of his pelvis. He groans, low and guttural, and the sound is a hook in my gut.
The wet heat between my legs is unbearable. I rock my hips, hoping for relief, but it only makes it worse. I want to reach down, to touch myself, but that means he won and I can’t let him see what he does to me.
He pulls out, lets me gasp for air, then shoves back in, setting a brutal pace. “Fuck,” he says, voice tight, “you were born for this.”
I choke on him, spit leaking down my chin, and he smiles. “Look at you, drooling on my cock.”
I hate him, I hate him, I hate—
My moan vibrates against his shaft, and he feels it.
His eyes go wide, then predatory. “Touch yourself,” he commands.
I hesitate. He yanks my hair, hard. “Now, or I’ll bend you over and fuck your ass dry.”
The threat is real, and my body obeys before my brain can protest. I slide my hand under my skirt, push the soaked fabric aside, and find my clit, hard and swollen and desperate for attention.
“Good girl,” he rasps. “Show me how much you want it.”
I work my fingers in tight, brutal circles, the pleasure immediate and explosive. He slows his pace, letting me savor the fullness, the stretch, the humiliation. My breath hitches, and my thighs tremble.
“Cum for me,” he says, “while you choke on my cock.”
I do. The orgasm rips through me, violent and raw, tearing a scream from my throat that’s muffled by the meat of him. My whole body convulses, and for a second I’m blind, white heat burning out every other sense.
He groans, loses his rhythm, then pulls out and jerks himself, coming in thick ropes across my face, my lips, the hollow of my throat. The heat of it shocks me, and I nearly come again from the intensity.
He collapses to his knees, spent. For a second, neither of us moves.
Then he leans in and kisses me, tongue licking the mess off my lips, the taste of him and me mingling in a way that’s disgusting and—fuck me—intimate.