Arlo
I do not show myself to her for the rest of the day. That does not mean I stop tracking her.
She feels it, I know by the way she kept glancing over her shoulder. After class she went straight to her dorm and has not left since.
I’ve got the front door camera of her building linked to my phone. Every time someone steps in or out, it pings me. Fortunately, only four of them live there, which means the alerts don’t come through every few seconds. It makes keeping track of her almost effortless.
It’s past seven now. Night presses over the island, the sky dimming into that washed out grey before full dark.
From my window I can see straight into the living space of her suite, the curtains remain undrawn.
No light, no movement, nothing. She’s missed dinner, and with her diabetes she shouldn’t. If her blood sugar has dropped… if she hasn’t checked it—
I push the thought away and grit my teeth, forcing myself for the hundredth time today to believe I do not care.
I sound like a broken record, it’s that bad if even I can see it.
In a short while I’m expected to meet the others for the Thirteenth Circle party, but this need to know she’s unharmed is eating at me.
She’s required to be there too. These sorts of events are not her style, but her father’s name sits among the academy’s founding families and the Circle’s allies, the sisters’ attendance will be compulsory.
Time drags on. The camera pings each time one of the other girls leaves the dorm, one by one they slip off screen.
Still nothing, no movement from Ophelia. My thumb hovers over the feed. Perhaps she slipped out. The thought barely forms before I dismiss it. Impossible. Not without me seeing.
My phone shudders with a flood of notifications from the group chat, I was meant to meet the others long ago, but I could not care less.
I pace my living room, restless, until, in the end, the devil on my shoulder wins.
I snatch up my phone, slide my key card into my pocket, and stalk out the door.
The path to the girls’ block is brief, the lane silvered with moonlight.
Inside, silence reigns. I take the stairs two at a time, each step reverberating against the walls, until I halt before the door marked in gilt numerals.
1114.
I lift my hand and rap once with my knuckles, then wait, listening.
Nothing.
No sound, no stir within.
I knock again, harder this time. Still nothing. The silence on the other side is absolute.
Fucking hell. I do not give a shit, she could be lying dead this very second…
Still, that does not stop me from driving my shoulder into the door. Once. Then again. On the third blow the lock gives way and the door bursts open as I force my way inside.
I look around. Nothing is lit, the place is drowned in shadow, with only the spill of moonlight through the window and the dull glow of the path lamps outside.
I glance back as I push the door with my foot, but it refuses to catch.
Fuck, I’ve broken it.
I turn, intending to make my way toward her bedroom, when something cracks against the back of my head.
“Fuck.” My hand flies to the spot as I spin. A small figure lunges, she swings again, but I catch her wrists.
“Let me go, you lunatic,” she hisses.
I can’t see her clearly in the dark, but the faint silhouette of her frame is enough.
“Stop,” I say, and at the sound of my voice the fight drains out of her.
“Arlo…” she whispers, my name on her soft lips, and it does something to me, something I do not like one bloody bit.
She tries to pull her hands free, to step back, but I don’t release her.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps. “You scared the life out of me, you can’t just barge into my room—”
“You weren’t moving for hours. It’s past dinner. The party’s begun—”
“I was sleeping,” she groans.
I should perhaps have taken that into consideration, but there is no reason where she is concerned.
All this hate I bear for her collides with the love I try and fail, to stamp out each time.
Yet I keep trying.
I will, eventually, win and erase Ophelia Bellanti from my memory, from my soul, from my very being.
Today, however, is not that day.
I release her abruptly. She’s fucking with my head too much, and standing in her space, surrounded by that damned strawberry scent, is robbing me of precious neurons.
She startles, almost toppling onto her arse. I hear her huff and move away, until the blinding light hits me.
I look around her space. It feels cosy… hers. My eyes catch on an object near my feet, the very thing she used to crack against my head, her so called weapon of choice in an emergency, if I had to guess.
And what a weapon…
I don’t know whether to laugh or lose my temper, because lying at my feet is a bloody dildo.
A huge pink dildo. Very much hers.
I lift my gaze to her, one brow raised. She shifts from one leg to the other, drowning in an oversized white T-shirt and fluffy socks, her long white hair a tangled mess, her cheeks flushed pink as she bites her lower lip.
Fuck, she’s so damn cute. Kissable. Shame she’s also the woman I hate.
“So that’s what you reach for to defend yourself against an intruder, is it?” I drawl.
Her blush deepens. “It was the closest thing to me…”
I step nearer, bending until my lips brush her ear.
“So… the kiss this morning left you wanting?”
She nods, so slight she likely doesn’t even realise it, and the smallest movement curves a cruel smirk across my mouth.
“Ah, so it’s attention your pretty cunt is after.” My hand skims her cheek, down the line of her throat, over the swell of her breast, her stomach, her thigh. I slip beneath the hem of her shirt, higher and higher until I find her bare.
The discovery sends a vicious rush through me. The thought of her sprawled here earlier, shirt ridden up, cunt wet and waiting for me—only me—to sink in and split her apart, has my cock straining with the urge to take.
I nip at her ear as my fingers circle her clit. She gasps, breath hitching, and whispers, “Don’t.”
“Say it like you mean it, and I won’t.”
But she doesn’t. She stays silent, torn, and I take her silence as permission. I push two fingers inside her, groaning at the tight heat that clenches around me. “Bloody hell… you grip me like a vice.”
I work her slowly, thumb still teasing her clit, and she writhes beneath me, hands fisting into my shirt to steady herself.
“You’re not using that toy ever again,” I rasp. “Not unless I’m in the room to watch.”
Her lips twitch, but her voice is breathless when she whispers, “Why do you sound jealous of my vibrator?”
“Because when your pussy needs filling, you come to me. I’ll stuff you full, stretch you open until you can’t think. My cock will ruin you. No plastic could ever compare.”
“You’re insane. You’re actually jealous of a toy.”
“No.” The lie burns in my throat, because of course I am.
I’m fucking unravelling over her, but she’ll never know it. All she’ll see is loathing in my eyes, and if I’m feeling generous, an orgasm or two to keep her pliant. It’s the only way I can convince myself she’ll leave my system.
And yet here I am, in her dorm, fingers buried deep in her pussy, utterly incapable of staying the fuck away.
So rule number three nearly went to hell as well.
It never specified what kind of fucking—and being buried knuckle deep inside her cunt certainly qualifies.
I shove the thought aside and quicken my pace. My teeth find her neck, and she moans as she tightens around my fingers and breaks apart, trembling through release.
She’s shaking, flushed, undone, the very picture of post orgasmic bliss. I close my eyes, breathing her in. Damn, she’s intoxicating.
I draw my fingers from her slowly and step back. She watches me the whole time, hair mussed, lips parted, gaze fixed on me. I lift my hand to her mouth.
“Lick them clean.”
She stares for a long moment, colour high in her cheeks, before parting her lips and obeying, tongue curling around me.
“Good girl,” I murmur, wrecked by the sight of her plush pink mouth wrapped around my fingers. I press deeper until she gags, then pull away with a wet pop and drag them into my own mouth instead.
Her taste coats my tongue, sweet, addictive, ruinous. Like I’m fucking her mouth and pussy at the same time.
Hell, how I’ve missed this. The taste of her.
“Fucking delicious,” I rasp.
Her gaze drops down my body, halting at the blatant swell in my trousers. Her eyes snap back to mine, wide and knowing. She’s seen the dark stain already spreading there.
“You… came,” she breathes, her tone wavering as if unsure whether it’s a question or a fact.
I don’t bother answering. Instead, I reach for the glucometer on her desk and hold out my hand.
“Give me your finger.”
“I can do it myself.”
I wait. She huffs, but finally surrenders her hand. I prick her skin, check the numbers, and glance up at her.
“Eat before the party. If you faint, don’t expect me to catch you this time, I might just stand and watch that pretty head of yours split open and bleed across the fucking floor.”
She looks at me with wide eyes, as though I’ve struck her. She’s forgotten who I am. Fingering her pussy doesn’t mean the hate has gone, and she’d do well to remember it.
I step out without another word and head for my dorm. A cold shower.
I bloody need it.