Chapter 12 Caius
It’s twilight, the hour of confession and crucifixion, and the stones outside Westpoint’s amphitheater have been scrubbed clean for the ritual.
The air is icy and still, every noise carrying for miles, even the click of polished shoes and the panicked flutter of bird wings. The moon is full, and the hour is here.
Despite the chill eating into my skin, it doesn’t bother me; it’s tradition that burns hotter than blood.
Tonight, little O will be mine.
The open courtyard is ready for what’s to come.
Every inch of ground has a memory, a stain, a story in it.
Tonight, those stories are hungry. The Board hold the high ground on their limestone platform, flanked by two separate species of evil: the Billionaires, fake smiles and perfect teeth, and the Vicious Kings, mafia royalty with scars and knuckle tattoos visible even in the torchlight.
The same mafia that protects it’s ‘assets’. The Funders take no chances when it comes to ensuring it’s interests are protected, and even though the cops are in our back pockets, there’s nothing like a group of lawless men at your side.
That’s why Ophelia has to obey the rules of the Night Hunt.
They’re here to ensure she does, and if she doesn’t, to enforce the secrets spilled on this hallowed ground remain a secret.
A whimper escapes her and my eyes snap to hers. I lose my ability to breathe for a moment.
Ophelia stands in the center of the ring, bare feet on freezing rock, white dress trailing in the dust. The fabric isn’t designer; it’s ceremonial, woven for purity and spectacle, but it hugs her curves in a way that is neither pure nor accidental.
Her hair is up—ragged ponytail, strands breaking free to frame her jaw—but what owns my soul is the crown of blood-red poppies circling her skull.
It’s macabre and perfect, the color standing out against the white of everything else.
My beautiful fucking Goddess, ready to become to wife of the God son.
The chosen one.
Me.
Two men bracket her. They’re not from around here. They’re the Vicious Kings muscle, men with faces cut from concrete, whose job is to stand, immovable, and make sure the main course doesn’t bolt before the meal begins.
Ophelia’s hands are still, but I can see the tremor up her arms, the subtle hitch of her breathing, how she’s drawing every possible molecule of oxygen from the air.
I watch the muscles in her jaw flex. Even now, when she should be praying for mercy or blackout, she’s got her head held high. I can’t help but smile.
I’ll admit, when The Board told me who my runner was, I just about slit their throats, but seeing her here, standing tall makes my cock hard and my heart jump out of my chest.
A beautiful bride she will be.
We—the Feral Boys—are stationed in a loose perimeter around the ritual space.
Colton is off to my right, face set in his default mask of polite contempt.
Rhett’s by the hedge, all tension and cold green eyes.
Julian stands beneath the statuary with hands folded in front of him, looking like the world’s most dangerous altar boy.
Bam paces at the boundary, too restless to stand still, knuckles flexing.
I keep apart, at the apex of the ring, because I can’t look away from her.
Every fucking instinct in me is locked on her body—on the way her shoulder blades cut angles through the silk, on the bare skin at her nape, on the rapid, nervous pulse at her throat.
There are at least fifty bodies here, maybe more, but the only ones that matter are her and me.
Dr. Abelard is the first to move. He’s in full regalia: academic dark blue gown, velvet gold stripes, gold chain of office so heavy it looks like a noose.
He carries a leather-bound book and, more importantly, a ceremonial dagger.
It’s old as dirt, blade blackened with use, the hilt set with the Academy logo.
He glides to the center and faces the crowd, eyes bright with the peculiar joy of a man who gets to hurt someone and call it duty.
“Welcome,” he intones, and the word echoes off the stone like a verdict.
“Tonight we gather under the auspices of the Hunt, as our ancestors did, in honor of the sacred bloodlines that built this place and will one day rule beyond it. We thank the Board for their presence, and our benefactors, who watch with interest as tradition finds new expression in every cycle.”
He looks over the crowd, gaze falling to the Vicious Kings, then to the Funders, then to us. His mouth twitches in something like a smile.
“Let the ritual commence.”
He opens the book. Latin spills from his mouth, half song, half snarl. I catch fragments: “Cor sanguinis, fructus prolesque, devotio.” Blood, fruit, progeny, sacrifice. The words are older than the country, older than the Board, older even than this slab of rock.
He produces the dagger with a flourish and holds it high, moonlight crawling up the blade.
Then, with the casual expertise of a man who’s opened many veins, he slices his palm and lets the blood spatter onto the stone.
It’s red as the poppies, red as the violence simmering in the crowd.
Abelard keeps chanting, blood dripping a slow, deliberate line down his wrist.
The blessing.
He steps to the edge of the circle, motioning to the two men at Ophelia’s sides.
She tenses, but she doesn’t try to run. She knows the game isn’t started until they say it is.
Abelard gestures to me. “Caius Montgomery.”
Every head swivels. The Board is stone, but the Funders lean forward as if to memorize my face. The Vicious Kings do not react, but I see their boss make a subtle signal, thumb tracing his jaw.
I move to the center. My footsteps echo. My heart pounds like a war drum.
“Approach,” Abelard says.
I close the distance. The light from the torches is white-hot, washing the color from the world except for the blood and the flowers. I stop just out of arm’s reach from Ophelia, and let myself feel the drag of her gravity.
Abelard extends the dagger. “You know the tradition.”
I take the blade. It’s heavier than I expect, the grip sticky with his blood. I cut my palm, clean and deep, and don’t flinch at the sting.
Abelard turns to Ophelia. “The Hunt is not merely about dominance, but union. The blood is the contract, the flesh is the vehicle.” He nods for her to step forward.
She does, two short steps, feet white against the black stone.
He speaks to her, voice gentle. “Do you know what happens next?”
Ophelia looks at the dagger, then at my hand, then at me.
“I bleed,” she says.
“Correct.”
The Board leans forward as Abelard gestures wildly. “It is customary,” he says, “for the male to make the mark.”
I look her in the eyes. The color in them is hard to name in this light, but it’s alive, sparking with the violence of her will.
I offer her the dagger, blade first, giving her the option.
She hesitates. I wonder, for a heartbeat, if she’ll try to drive it through my throat. Then she shakes her head, her lips thinning as she reaches towards me.
Instead, she takes it, steady, and draws a line across her palm to match mine. The cut is shallow, but it beads fast. She doesn’t flinch, either. Not even when the blood starts to drip down her wrist.
Abelard nods, pleased. “Now join hands. Let the blood mix.”
I extend my hand. She stares at it like it’s a trap, then places her hand in mine. Our blood mixes, hot and slick. I squeeze hard, not to hurt, but to make it real. I want to feel the pulse of her under my skin. I want her to feel mine.
The crowd murmurs, a ripple of approval or hunger.
Abelard lifts his hands, voice loud. “Sanctificamus. Now you are holy,” he intones. “Ex duobus unum. From two into one.”
He releases us, stepping back, and the torchlight flares as if on cue. The poppies around Ophelia’s head glow black-red, her face pale beneath them, eyes wide and unblinking.
“Tonight,” Abelard announces, “the Hunt begins anew. Let all witness the courage of our chosen, and may this union survive and thrive.”
The Board stands as one, their faces impassive but their focus absolute.
The men who flanked Ophelia melt into the crowd. She’s alone in the circle, blood on her hand, staring at me.
Abelard bows to me, then to her, “The last step before the Hunt begins. Valence, bring me the dagger.”
For a long moment, nothing moves. The air is a living thing, every atom thrumming before Valence makes her way down, producing a smaller, thinner knife.
Why the need for two knives, I’ll never understand, but these people weren’t right in the head, so maybe this one needed to be clean, who the fuck knows.
Then, in a voice just for me, just as Abelard takes the thin blade, Ophelia says, “You’re not going to win.”
I grin, blood running down my wrist, and squeeze her hand tighter.
“I already have.”
The torches snap in the wind. The moon climbs higher. All the predators in the yard, every witness in the bleachers, every ghost in the stone, holds its breath, waiting for the next move.
This is tradition. This is madness. This is the moment before the world goes red.
And I am ready to take what’s mine.
I wonder if she knows how pretty she is knowing she’s about to be ruined.
Abelard moves between us. The dagger is in his hand, shining in the low moonlight. The handle is white, inscribed with something I can’t read. He studies me with eyes gone flat, stripped of human context.
“Palma,” he says, Latin curling off his tongue. He grabs my wrist and slices my palm deeper, just above the first cut. He squeezes, milking the wound so blood drips down, dark and syrupy, trailing over my skin to the stone. “It is time to make you one of the Marked.”