Chapter 10 Caius
The air is raw and wet, the kind of morning that latches to your skin and drags you down to hell. Because that’s what this place is.
Hell.
The only good thing about a day like this is that it’s perfect for hunting.
I wait across the quad, perched on the edge of a granite planter, cigarette burning slow between my fingers.
The first classes of the day don’t start for another forty minutes, but already the Westpoint animals are on parade: girls in crisp whites, eyes hollow from last night’s party; boys in sport coats, voices rough with hangovers and amphetamines.
I watch the entry to the humanities wing.
A steady trickle of bodies. Then she’s there—little ghost, hair pulled tight, uniform pressed so hard it looks like she’s wearing paper.
She carries that ugly canvas bag like a shield, both arms wound around the strap, knuckles bleached.
Her shoes are wrong for the outfit, still the thrifted boots with the cracked soles.
Every step is too careful, as if she expects the ground to vanish beneath her.
She stops, scans for threats, and crosses to the alcove where the classroom waits.
That’s when he moves: Lachlen. Legacy brat, smile so wide you could dump trash in it.
He floats up beside her, all clean lines and perfect teeth.
He’s talking before he even stops walking, words flitting off him like sparks.
I focus, watching for the tells. He leans in—too close, hand on the wall, boxing her in. She tries to step aside, but he cuts her off with a laugh. Then the hand drops, casual as you please, right to her waist. His thumb hooks into the band, fingers splayed just above her ass.
A low pulse starts behind my jaw. I grind the cigarette out on the planter, flick the butt into the grass, and stand.
I don’t hurry. No one hurries here. But my body is locked, every muscle wound for violence. I cross the quad in twelve even steps. By the time I reach them, he’s got her pushed back against the stone, voice low, eyes glinting with the smug of a kid who’s never had to bleed for anything.
Ophelia’s face is a mask, but her body is panicked—shoulders hunched, neck tight, eyes darting to the ground. She hates this. She hates him.
And I hate that I never want to see fear in her eyes again.
Not even when she looks at me.
Lachlen doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see anything but himself reflected in her terror. He says something—probably a line he’s used a hundred times—and gives her waist a squeeze.
I snap.
My hand catches the back of his neck, thumb driving into the soft spot below his skull. He yelps, goes up on his toes, and I swing him hard into the limestone column. His cheek cracks against the edge, blood instant. Ophelia ducks away, stumbling sideways, bag clutched like a lifeline.
Lachlen tries to turn, to square up, but I’ve already got him by the hair. I twist, slam his face to the stone again, then drop him to the concrete. He lands on his hands, whimpering.
I lean over, voice calm. “Don’t fucking touch her.”
He scrambles back, blood running down his jaw. “Dude—fuck—are you insane? She’s just a warm cunt to fuck, Jesus Christ.”
I grab his blazer, haul him to his feet. There’s a small crowd now: three girls, one with her phone out; a guy from my chemistry class, pretending to text. I ignore them. I want them to watch.
I push Lachlen against the wall, pinning him with one hand. With the other, I press his face to the stone, cheekbone grinding against the grit.
“Apologize,” I say.
He spits blood, tries to wrench free, but he’s soft, all theater and no rage. “I’m sorry, man—fuck—just joking, it was a joke—”
I drive my palm into his back, making him gasp. “Do it right.”
He shudders, voice shaking. “I’m sorry, Ophelia, I—shit—won’t happen again—”
She stands off to the side, eyes huge, one hand gripping the edge of her skirt to keep it from blowing in the wind. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t look away. I can feel her watching me, seeing everything.
I let go of him. He staggers, wipes his mouth, and nearly goes to his knees.
The blood is still on my knuckles, and I can’t decide whether to lick it off or smear it across Lachlen’s teeth.
He’s still standing, barely, clutching his face and whimpering like a kid who just lost his mom at the mall. I almost want to give him a head start, see if he can make it to the nurse before I snap his leg.
I catch his eyes through the mess. They’re swollen, one already going purple, but the hate in them is clean. He wants to say something. I don’t let him.
Stepping in and putting my hand around his throat, I walk him backwards through the quad, inside and down the hall to the class he attends with me and O.
I shove him into the desk, hard enough that the metal legs screech. He grabs for my arm, weak, blood slick between his fingers. I raise my fist, and his whole body recoils, head turtling in on itself.
Pathetic.
I grab him by the jaw, squeeze until the bone creaks. “Open.”
He does, and I force his mouth wider, pressing my thumb against the hinge. “Say it.”
He gurgles, voice full of snot and humiliation. “I’m sorry—”
“No. She’s mine and I want to hear you say it.”
He shakes, tears leaking from the uninjured eye. “She’s yours, okay? Fuck, she’s yours, just let me go—”
I let go, not because I’m done, but because he’s no longer worth the energy.
Instead, I turn to the crowd, scanning for her, hoping she followed us in. She’s there, just inside the door, face a wax mask, eyes emptied out. Ophelia looking like a corpse at her own funeral. Her hands tremble at her sides, but she doesn’t look away.
“Next time,” I say, voice even, “I’ll take the hand off at the wrist.”
Somebody in the back laughs. The rest just stare, stunned.
I walk past the ruined legacy, stepping over the drips of blood spreading across the tile. I don’t bother wiping my hands. I want her to see it, to remember it.
She doesn’t flinch when I stop in front of her.
“You okay?” I ask.
She blinks, and her lips twitch like she might actually smile. “You think this helps?”
I shrug, rolling my shoulders. “Keeps the line short.”
There’s a long silence. Then, softly, she says, “He wasn’t worth it.”
I glance back at Lachlen, who’s crawling under the desk, sobbing and spitting teeth into his palm. “Nobody here is.”
She almost laughs. “Including you?”
“Especially me.”
I can feel the eyes on us. I want to smash every phone in the room, but I don’t. I want them to see this. I want them to understand what it means to be claimed.
I grab her wrist, gentler than I mean to, and pull her into the room. “Sit. You’re not missing class over that little bitch.”
She doesn’t resist. She just lets herself be steered to the front row, where everyone can see her. Where everyone can see that she’s with me, whether she wants it or not.
The first real teacher—some sub with hair plugs and a nervous tick—shows up five minutes late, sees the blood, and immediately pretends not to. The lecture goes on, but the room doesn’t hear a word. All attention is on us.
Ophelia leans over, voice so low only I can hear. “You just made everything worse.”
I look at her, and for the first time I see it: the way her eyes shimmer, the way her jaw is set, the way her breath comes in through her nose and out through her teeth.
She’s not afraid.
She’s excited.
And so am I.
I smile, slow and mean. “Good.”
The class ends in a blur. I don’t remember the words. I only remember her pulse, the electric current of her skin where I held her. I want to break something else. I want to break her.
But first, I want her to know that it’s a choice.
When the bell rings, the crowd surges for the door, but nobody gets too close. Lachlen is gone, probably halfway to the infirmary, maybe already calling his daddy to sue mine.
Ophelia stands, shakes her hair loose, and looks at me with a challenge.
“You done being a guard dog?”
I grin. “Never.”
She starts for the exit, and I follow, hands in pockets. The corridor is already humming with the next crop of kids. Word travels fast here. I see the looks, the whispers, the reverence.
They know I own her.
But only she knows how much I want her to want it, too.
She stops at the end of the hallway, turns, and faces me full-on.
“You need therapy,” she says.
I close the gap, so close that I can see the downy hairs on her cheek, the tiny freckles spreading in random patterns over her skin.
“I need you,” I say.
She doesn’t look at me and it infuriates me. Doesn’t she understand I’d kill every fucking person in this room if it meant no one would even look at her wrong ever again?
“You don’t let anyone touch you,” I grind out. “Not unless it’s me.”
She laughs, harsh, but her voice is steady. “Is this your version of being a possessive asshole?”
I reach out, thumb wiping a line down her chin. “If he touches you again, I’ll break his fingers.”
She grabs my wrist. Her grip is tight, almost painful. “Maybe you should start with yours.”
We stare at each other, locked.
I lean in, close enough that our foreheads nearly touch. “I’m not like him,” I say.
She smiles, ugly and real. “You’re worse.”
And she’s right.
Anyone who was in my spot would understand that there are no rules when it comes to protecting her.
You break bones.
You break rules.
You break them all, for her.
“Let’s go.”
She tries to twist out of my grip, but I’m already calling the cook and telling them to bring dinner up to her room.
And this time I will sit and watch her eat.
She still looks like she’s withering away and I hate the pang in my chest at the thought of my girl suffering, even if it’s by her own hand.
“No. Leave me alone.”
“Nah, I don’t think I will. Walk or I’ll drag you, makes no difference to me.”
I don’t let go of her wrist. Not in the hallway, not on the stairs, not when the second-years flinch away from us like we’re radioactive.
She tries to yank free at the first landing. I squeeze harder, and she grits her teeth, not a sound. The whole school is a fishbowl now, faces pressed to every window, the rumors already burning through the ducts.
Word will get back to The Board but I don’t give a fuck.
By the time we reach her room, her pulse is a jackhammer. I can feel it in the bone of her wrist, the fine tremble in her fingers, the heat that rolls off her skin in waves.
I don’t say a word. I shove her through the door, kick it shut behind us.
She gasps as I walk her backwards, never breaking eye contact, until her spine hits the wall. She braces for a blow that never comes.
Instead, I drop her wrist, and tear at the buttons of her blouse. The fabric gives with a sound like teeth breaking. Buttons bounce across the tile.
She fights me for a second, hands at my shoulders, nails digging. I don’t stop. I want the pain, want it to linger under my collarbone for days.
I push the blouse off her shoulders, drag her skirt up over her hips. She’s shaking, but she’s not scared. She’s vibrating with need.
Her hands fist in my shirt. I lean in, bite the side of her neck, hard enough to bruise. She moans, and I feel her pulse stutter, then ramp up.
I want her to remember this. I want every inch of her to be proof that she’s mine.
My hand slips between her thighs, fingers rough, knuckles scraping her skin. She’s wet already, soaking through the cheap cotton of her underwear. I hook a finger under the band and rip it off, the elastic snapping against her thigh.
I drop to my knees, grip her hips, and bury my face in her. She tries to squirm away, but I hold her in place, tongue working circles until her knees buckle.
She fists my hair, yanking hard, trying to control the rhythm. I bite her inner thigh, and she yelps, then swears at me.
I look up, mouth wet, and growl, “Take it.”
She does. She lets her head fall back, chest rising and falling so fast I think she’ll hyperventilate.
When she’s close, I stand, grab her by the throat, and kiss her. She tastes like blood and spit and the salt of her own sweat.
She moans into my mouth, nails clawing down my back, and I want to fuck her against the wall, to feel her break against the stone.
I fumble my belt, pants down just enough to free my cock. I lift her by the waist, pin her to the wall, and drive into her in one slow, brutal thrust.
She screams, but it’s muffled by my mouth. She wraps her legs around me, ankles locked, heels digging into my ass.
I pound into her, each thrust a statement, a dare.
She comes first, I make sure of that.
Her body clamps down, cunt pulsing around me, and she bites my shoulder to keep from crying out.
I fuck her through it, wanting to see how many times I can make her come before I do.
When I finally break, I bite the skin at her collarbone, coming hard, filling her so deep I feel the tremors in her core.
We slide down the wall, tangled and shaking.
For a long time, neither of us moves.
I listen to her breathing slow, feel the sweat cool on my skin.
She shoves me off, crawling for the bed. I follow, rolling her onto her back, pinning her with my weight.
She doesn’t fight. She’s too spent.
I brush the hair from her eyes, thumb gentle on her cheek.
“If you tell anyone,” I say, “the Board will destroy us both.”
She nods, eyes glassy, lips swollen.
I kiss her, soft this time.
“I’m not afraid,” she whispers.
I believe her.
I rest my hand on her ribs, feeling the heartbeat steady under my palm.
For the first time, I let myself think about what happens next.
Maybe this is enough. Maybe I won’t have to break her, after all.
Maybe I’ll just keep her as she is.
Feral and wild, full of teeth that bite and a wit twice as sharp.
Not the perfect wife The Board wants…
But the perfect wife for me.