Chapter 12 Caius #2
He steps to Ophelia. Her hand is still slick with her own blood, but he ignores it, instead taking my ruined hand and pressing it to the center of her chest—right over her heart.
The fabric stains instantly, crimson soaking the white in a starburst. My hand is almost as big as her whole chest, and I feel the ragged pace of her heartbeat, how it jumps and stutters at my touch.
The blood stains her sternum, her breast. My handprint is a brand, a brand-ownership, either in this life, or the next.
Abelard holds my wrist there, pinning her in place, and begins the chant.
“Sanguis in sanguine. Linea in linea. Fortitudo in progenie. Dominium in perpetuum.”
Blood into blood. Line unto line. Strength through progeny. Dominion eternal.
He’s squeezing my hand so hard I can feel the bones grind, but I don’t pull away. I’ve never wanted to belong to another as badly as I want to belong to this little vixen in front of me.
But to belong to her, and her to me, we must get through this night, we must follow tradition.
Ophelia looks at me, eyes wide. There’s a tremor at the corner of her mouth, like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, letting me bleed for her.
The Board is watching. Their gaze is hungry, waiting for the smallest sign that she’ll break. The Funders are impassive, but I know they’re betting on the outcome. The Vicious Kings look bored, but even they can’t ignore the violence in the air.
Abelard finishes the chant, then steps back, releasing my wrist.
I don’t move. My hand is still on her chest. I press it in, just a little, to feel her heart hammer beneath the skin.
She doesn’t flinch.
“Remove your hand, Mr. Montgomery,” Abelard says, tone cool.
I do, slow. My palm leaves a perfect red imprint above her heart, the blood already drying at the edges.
Ophelia shudders, just once. Then she straightens, eyes snapping to mine, and I know in that instant: she will never forgive me for this, and I will never let her forget it.
This night, this Hunt, this place, all pave the way for our prosperity. She may hate me, but she will come to love me.
The ritual is almost complete. Abelard gives a subtle nod, and everyone takes their seats on the platform, leaving just the two of us standing, facing each other. One face hardened, one resolved.
A hush rolls over the crowd.
Then, from the steps of the amphitheater, a figure emerges in a black robe. No face, just shadow under the cowl. They raise an ancient horn to their lips—a thing carved from bone, banded in iron, older than anything else here.
The blast that follows is not music. It’s a scream, raw and animal, echoing off the stone and the forest beyond. Every muscle in my body tightens at the sound.
The figure lowers the horn and turns to Ophelia.
“Run,” it says. Voice flat, final, a sentence passed.
She doesn’t move.
For a second, time freezes. The poppies, the blood, the torchlight—it’s all suspended, a painting of what happens just before the world goes feral.
Then she looks at me.
Our eyes lock. There is so much hate in hers I almost laugh.
I mouth the word: Go.
She does.
Ophelia bolts, bare feet smacking the stone, dress whipping behind her like a flag. She sprints past the first torch, then the second, then vanishes into the dark gap between the amphitheater and the woods.
The crowd erupts—not in applause, but in a hiss of approval, a collective shiver of anticipation.
The Board stands. Abelard bows. The Vicious Kings light cigarettes, the smoke curling up in lazy threads. The Feral Boys all go rigid, tracking her flight with eyes gone hard.
I stay where I am, blood dripping from my palm, the ghost of her heartbeat still thumping in my hand.
This is the moment. The best part.
I wait, savoring the distance she’s covered, knowing that every step she takes is borrowed time.
The figure in black raises the horn again, but doesn’t blow. Instead, it fixes me with a stare from under the cowl. I think I see a glint of eyes, but maybe it’s just the moon.
“Caius Montgomery,” it says. “Pursue.”
I nod, once.
Then I turn and walk, not run, after her.
Let her think she has a head start. Let her think she can outrun what’s coming.
That’s the fun of it.
I reach the edge of the woods, the Hunt officially begun, and I pause just long enough to let the smell of her fear guide me.
When I catch her—and I will—I’ll press my hand to her chest again. And this time, I won’t let go.
Let the Hunt begin.
The woods swallow her in six seconds, the white of her dress flashing through the branches before the dark slams shut behind her. I walk to the edge of the ring and stop, letting her go.
I’m supposed to chase. Tradition says I sprint after her, howl and foam and rend the air with threats. But tradition can eat my ass. I want her terrified, desperate, convinced that every footfall is her last. I want her to feel my eyes in the back of her skull, even when I’m not there.
Colton sidles up next to me, arms folded, jaw working on a chunk of gum like he’s grinding his own teeth to dust. “You gonna let her get out of range?” he murmurs, just for me.
I don’t look at him. “She’ll leave a trail.”
He laughs, sharp. “Bloodhound now, huh?”
“Always was.”
Julian and Rhett loiter at the periphery, pretending disinterest. But I catch the flick of Julian’s fingers, a silent count of the seconds. He’s timing me, betting on how long it’ll take before I can’t stand it anymore.
Bam cracks his knuckles, grinning. “Ten says she makes it to the creek before you catch her.”
I ignore the peanut gallery. My blood is loud, boiling in my ears, but I keep my hands loose at my sides. Every muscle wants to sprint, to break the air and the trees and the distance between us, but I make myself wait.
The Board doesn’t appreciate deviation. From the dais, Dr. Abelard’s voice floats down, cold as the stone it bounces off.
“Remember the rules, Mr. Montgomery. She must submit, or she will not survive the night. If the Hunt fails, the cycle resets.”
I nod, not taking my eyes off the woods. “Understood.”
A longer silence. Then a Board member—a woman this time—calls out: “Do not damage the merchandise beyond repair. Bring her back whole, or not at all.”
The Feral Boys howl with laughter, a chorus of hyenas. I grin, slow, and crack my knuckles.
“Run, little vixen,” I call out, pitching my voice just right to echo through the trunks. “By the end of the night, you’ll be begging for me.”
The woods give nothing back.
I start to move again. Slow at first, letting the adrenaline bleed off in measured pulses.
The ground is uneven, the air thick with old leaves and the metallic stink of anticipation.
I track her by the sound of broken branches, the faint marks in the frost where her feet skimmed over roots, the occasional drop of blood from her palm.
She’s smart. She doubles back, uses the creek to hide her trail, even climbs a fallen oak to lose her scent. I respect it. But she’s not good enough. Not against me.
Every so often I pause, listening for her, letting her little whimpers and curses lead me towards her.
Soon, my little prize, soon.