Ophelia
I watch him leave, his back rigid as he disappears down the corridor, and I remain rooted, lips still stinging from his bite, tingling as though branded.
My fingers lift of their own accord, brushing over the tender ache. The taste of iron lingers. I kissed a stranger, and what a kiss it was. The thought unsettles me, guilt tangling with anger and the faintest trace of loathing.
What on earth possessed me to allow it?
Am I truly so reckless now?
That face, striking, impossibly beautiful, yet marred by a hatred I cannot fathom. His words, cold and venomous, have lodged somewhere I cannot reach.
I should not care. He is nothing to me. And yet it pierced me all the same.
Rage swells within me. Who does he think he is? To behave with such arrogance, to kiss me with the intensity of a man in love—as though such a thing were even conceivable.
He is a stranger.
A shift of movement breaks my thoughts. The grand doors of the hall swing open, and students spill out. Their stares catch on me, curiosity pressing down with a suffocating weight.
Trust me to know how to make an entrance, or an exit, for that matter.
I reach for my bag, only now realising I must have grabbed it in my rush to leave the room.
I check my blood sugar, then pull out a small chocolate bar and tell myself the fainting was nothing more than recklessness, that I hadn’t eaten after seeing I was low.
Not because of those strange flashes pressing in on me. But were they memories… or only fragments of my imagination?
Around me, the assembly dissolves into a low murmur as students drift out in clusters. I glance over the press of dark clothes, scanning for Octavia, or Piper, or anyone—until at last I spot my sister.
She’s across the hall, walking beside a man I don’t recognise. Tall, with a strong jaw and dark hair falling carelessly into his face, one I’m fairly certain walked in with the midnight eyed stranger who rattled me earlier.
Octavia doesn’t seem to notice me, too intent on fending him off. Her anger is clear, though the man only looks amused, watching her with an attention that sends an unpleasant shiver through me. They don’t look like strangers.
I bite into the chocolate and shake my head, but questions churn regardless. I need to know what is going on, her reaction when they entered the assembly, and now this.
Turning, I descend the main staircase and make for the dining hall. With Type 1 diabetes I already have to be mindful about when I eat, add a concussion, amnesia, and a stitched forehead, and I can’t afford to neglect it now.
I still have some time before first period, Cognitive Ethology, part of my Animal Behavioural Psychology degree.
At least I was granted the freedom to study something of my own choosing.
My father scarcely cares what it is. He knows I’m already saddled with etiquette and other pointless courses meant to mould me into a perfect wife.
The marriage is already arranged, and I’ll be paraded as the perfect ornament, the polished arm at some man’s side. Whatever I choose here means nothing to him.
We agreed on three years. No more. He made it clear, no Master’s, no further indulgence.
And now this is my final year, my last scrap of freedom before Florence claims me for good, before my future husband is likely waiting the moment I step off the jet.
I shake the thought aside. There’s no point dwelling, I’ve always known my role. If I’d been born a son, I would have led. Unfortunately for him, I am a daughter. But even daughters have their uses.
After a quick breakfast and my injection, I arrive at class with only minutes to spare. The room is half empty. Morning light spills through the arched windows, gilding the desks in muted gold.
The lecturer arrives, a man in his mid-forties with neatly pressed cuffs, and launches into a lengthy discussion on behavioural conditioning in domesticated animals.
Two and a half hours later, I’m drained. After a summer free of academia, the return to structured study feels heavier than I’d anticipated.
When it finally draws to a close, I gather my things and step out. The corridor carries me past sweeping staircases and gilt framed doors until I reach the lavatories.
Empty, at first, and mercifully quiet.
A moment later, a few girls drift in, their chatter trailing after them. I’m grateful they don’t spare me any more notice than I afford them, which is none at all.
I adjust my hair to veil the scar, studying my reflection. The wound is healing, though far too slowly for my liking. I make a mental note to call at the infirmary after lunch for fresh bandages.
Infection, on top of everything else, would be insufferable.
When I leave, I cross the steps and make my way to the dining hall. Inside, my gaze moves quickly across the room. No sign of the girls.
I take my seat at our table and scroll idly through the menu, settling on a bowl of roasted vegetables and lemon water. The food arrives quickly, just as the doors open.
Octavia strides in first, her pink hair loosely tied back.
Piper trails behind, unusually pale, shoulders slightly hunched, a book clasped in one hand.
Adelaide follows at her own pace, perfectly composed, dressed in leather trousers and jacket, heels striking crisply against the floor. None of them speak. They don’t even glance at one another.
They take their places at the table. Dormitory assignments ensure we’re still forced together, whether we like it or not.
Piper offers me the faintest nod before settling into the chair at my side, placing her book on the table and opening it without a word.
Octavia claims the seat on my other side, her eyes flicking to my barely touched plate.
“Eat,” she murmurs. Despite her expression, I catch the glimmer of concern.
Adelaide chooses the far end, her disdain plain as she lets her gaze sweep over us. “What are you gawping at? Eat your food before you swoon again.”
A few students glance over.
I don’t react. She’s unconvincing to me. I cannot believe this performance is truly her. Either I’m painfully na?ve, or something beneath the surface is fracturing. Adelaide doesn’t turn on her own without reason.
I push the food idly about my plate, coaxing myself into a few reluctant bites. My appetite is gone, but nutrients are non-negotiable.
The dining hall doors swing open, and the atmosphere shifts.
Conversation falters, cutlery stills, even laughter dies mid breath.
A boy steps in first, though boy is the wrong word to use. He’s tall, broad shouldered, his dark hair arranged yet careless. He’s dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket. I don’t know him, yet I remember the silhouette from this morning’s assembly.
Two others follow. One I recognise as the man Octavia was speaking with earlier. Without his jacket, in only a T-shirt, the tattoos covering his arms are impossible to miss.
The last, my lips prickle before my thoughts can catch up.
Midnight eyes.
I need to know his name. Who they are. But his words echo back to me, dark and final.
If you insist on an introduction, let me be plain. I am your worst fucking nightmare.
If I ever doubted his hatred, that alone should have settled it. And yet, the kiss. That brutal, bewildering kiss.
My hand drifts to my lips before I realise it, brushing the place where his mouth had claimed mine. As if summoned by the thought, our eyes meet across the hall.
His mouth curls into a knowing smirk.
The three of them don’t so much as glance at their own table. Instead, they make straight for ours.
Midnight eyes takes the seat directly opposite me, his thigh knocking the table as he lowers himself.
Piper goes still beside me, her gaze sweeping the hall as though searching for someone, before lowering back to her book. Her fingers grip the edges so tightly I half expect the spine to splinter.
Adelaide arches a brow, appearing collected, though the tension in her jaw gives her away.
Octavia glares at them with such venom it is a wonder they do not drop dead on the spot.
I may not yet know their names, but the weight of their presence tells me enough.
The doors open once more, and another man enters.
He’s older than the others, late twenties, perhaps early thirties, with broad shoulders and a tailored suit.
His jaw is sharp, his expression detached, giving nothing away.
He doesn’t look like a student, and he certainly doesn’t behave like one.
Faculty don’t dine with us, but he doesn’t seem to care, lowering himself into the empty seat opposite Piper.
I hear her inhale sharply, though she masks it quickly, eyes dropping back to her book. She turns a page as though nothing at all is out of place.
My attention shifts when the man across from me lets out a low rumble. It pulls my gaze back to him.
His eyes cut between me and the teacher I had been watching, sharp with a ferocity that feels almost dangerous. If I didn’t know better, I would think him jealous. But that’s impossible. Not after he made it painfully clear how much he loathes me.
He holds my stare, saying nothing. My chest tightens, my heart rattles against my ribs. Then he suddenly asks. “How the fuck did you get that cut on your forehead?”
Of all the things he might have said, this is the last I expected.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. The truth seems to disarm him.
“Are you going to tell me your name,” I blurt, “or must I keep calling you midnight eyes in my head?”
His expression shifts so fast it makes my head spin, darkening into malice. “Do not ever… ever in your pathetic life call me that. You lost the fucking right.”
The words strike harder than I expect. I don’t understand why. I don’t want his anger. I don’t know what crime could merit such loathing.
The tension grows unbearable. Around me, the girls are locked in stare contests or murmuring in low voices with the other men, which only adds to the strain. My appetite vanishes entirely.
Another class awaits, and I still need my bandages changed. Remaining here feels intolerable.
I gather my bag and stand. The man opposite rises as well, scraping his chair back in a way that makes half the hall glance over. His gaze fixes on me, then on the bowl I didn’t finish, then back again, as if the sight of my unfinished food offends him.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of more attention and head for the exit. He follows. The stares and muted whispers confirm it, but I can feel the heat of his body at my back regardless.
Marcel is seated at one of the nearby tables. When his eyes catch mine, he nods and offers a small, polite smile. I return it automatically. Behind me, the man closes the distance further, a low sound rumbling in his chest.
I have known Marcel for years, through schoolrooms, boarding houses, and now this academy. He belongs to old money. Once, long ago, he confessed some manner of feeling for me. I never encouraged it. Whatever we are, it falls short of friendship, courteous acquaintances, nothing more.
Two years of my life are gone, and much may have shifted in the meantime. Yet when I look at Marcel, I feel nothing, only the dull assurance of safety.
The man behind me is another matter entirely. His signals are erratic, flaring red like a warning. He feels dangerous, and danger has always carried its own peculiar allure.
And deep down, I already know, I will not be able to ignore it.