Arlo
We won.
I know Velmark inside out, played with them for years, so I know exactly where to press, which men to unbalance.
It was almost insultingly simple.
When I step into the changing room it’s carnage, shouts, slaps on the back, boots kicked in corners. The boys are high on the win.
I take a quick shower, letting the hot water sluice the pitch grit from my skin, then dress and go.
There’s a party tonight, the Thirteenth Circle’s celebration for the match, but I have time before that.
I’m hungry, and I’d sooner eat alone than elbow my way through the dining hall and then the same faces at a party.
Too many people. Too many conversations. For now I want silence.
So I make my way back to my rooms.
On the walk, I wake my phone and pull up the security feeds, it’s become a habit.
The live view of Ophelia’s sitting room fills the screen, she’s on the sofa, blanket tucked round her knees, a glass of wine in one hand.
She’s completely still, absorbed by whatever’s on the TV, a basket of knitting lies on the bed, yarn in a tangle.
I installed that camera the night I stayed in her dorm. The same man who changed the lock did the work, without questions.
I can’t seem to help myself when it comes to her.
But that’s nothing new, is it?
I need to have eyes on her all the time. If I’m not following her from a distance, I hack the academy feeds or I use the one I installed in her sitting room.
It was hard to justify, but I convinced myself one feed would be enough.
I wish it were.
If I could, I’d have sightlines into every corner of that flat, even the damn bathroom.
I know it’s fucked up. But I don’t give a shit.
I watch a few seconds longer, because I can’t stop myself.
Then I flick the feed closed and open another.
Marcel fills now the screen, the prat who had the gall to sit beside her at the match, who thought it acceptable to hand her his shirt. He’s lucky he left with all his bones intact.
I thumb open Notes and start a list.
1) Expel him.
2) Sabotage his family’s reputation.
3) Plant a scandal that sticks.
He must not imagine this place his playground.
He sat beside her. He spoke to her. He dared offer her his shirt.
Unacceptable.
My phone pings with an incoming call. I glance at the screen, my father. I answer.
“Good evening,” he says, his tone clipped. “I hear you’ve started playing again. A match today, wasn’t it?” Straight to the point.
“Yes. We won.” I don’t know why I bother with the detail, nor do I correct him, I never actually stopped playing.
“Hmm.” His tone is thin, disdain woven into every syllable. “It’s a waste of time and you know it. Football. You should be focused on your studies, not chasing a ball across a pitch. Do you truly believe I’ll hand the company to a spoiled brat who favours games over legacy?”
I let his words wash over me, the same sermon he’s given a hundred times. Disapproval has always been his chosen language.
He keeps droning. I speak over him.
“I have to go.”
“I haven’t finished—”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Nothing is more important than your fut—”
I end the call. He’ll be livid, but I couldn’t care less.
By the time I reach my room I’m moving two steps at a time. I drop my kit bag, head to the kitchenette and throw something together, eggs and toast.
I eat at the counter, phone propped on the worktop, scrolling between feeds as I chew.
Afterwards I change into black jeans and a simple black hoodie. I grab my mask, slip my phone into my pocket, key card in the same hand, and head downstairs.
The men are already in the lobby, masks loose in their hands. We nod and move out.
Milo looks wired. “Damn, I wish we could proper fuck someone up tonight,” he says, pouting. “I miss doing whatever the hell we want, not waiting for the Circle to give us permission to spill some blood.” His tone is sour and hungry.
Isaak merely smirks. “All in good time. For now we play by their rules.”
We head for the woods, the track narrowing until the thud of bass leaks through the trees. Masks go on as we walk. By the time we reach the clearing, it’s heaving, the night well underway.
We take drinks from the trestle set up near the fire and claim the same rough wooden chairs we had last time.
I’ve barely settled when a shadow falls across me. I look up to find… Zahara, or whatever the hell she calls herself.
The look she shoots me makes it plain I’ve said that aloud.
“It’s Zara,” she snaps, her lips pursed. Milo barks out a laugh.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice flat.
She gives me a syrupy little smile she no doubt thinks enticing but lands nowhere near. “Thought we could talk.”
“Get lost.” My tone leaves no room for mistake. After the stunt she pulled last time, she’s lucky I don’t squeeze the air out of her lungs.
She tilts her head, still pressing. “Come on. We had a good time before. We could—”
Isaak cuts across. “If by good time you mean ending up flat on your arse in the dirt, then I dread to think what a bad one looks like.”
My patience thins to nothing.
“Get lost,” I repeat, this time with a dead edge that makes her falter. She swallows, steps back, and has the sense to leave.
Milo throws me a shit eating grin as she retreats. “She really doesn’t know how to take a hint, does she?” He flicks his lighter, drags deep, then tosses me the pack.
I catch it, spark one, and let smoke curl into the night before chasing it with a mouthful of beer.
Not my drink of choice, it tastes like piss, but between the punch and this, I’ll take the lesser evil.
The music pounds, the clearing sways with bodies, voices pitched high.
Isaak leans in, trading something low with Hunter at his side.
Time passes uncounted. Hunter disappears first, likely following Piper, though I couldn’t be less interested, and Milo slips off soon after, distracted by Octavia.
That leaves me with Isaak. I light another cigarette, halfway through the drag when I see her.
Ophelia.
She steps into the clearing, and the noise dulls in my head.
A red slip of a dress clings indecently to her body, far too short, paired with boots and a jacket far too light for the cold.
Her legs, long and taut, draw every eye, but it’s her hair that makes my chest seize. Pale silver blonde, falling in waves to her waist, a single braid at her temple fastened with that damned diamond clip.
The sight of it burns in me, a dull ache I crush by curling my hand so tight round the bottle it nearly shatters.
She sees me. And looks away.
Cool as anything, she heads for the drinks table, unscrews a bottle of water, and tips it back.
Her eyes skim the press of bodies as she swallows, taking it all in, and she spares me no second glance.
A ring of girls I don’t know closes around her, she smiles, and they draw her onto the makeshift dance floor.
She hesitates at first, then disappears into the music. The way she moves should be illegal, and I’m not the only one who notices. Nearly every man is watching her.
I pull out my phone and jot their names into Notes.
Every man who lays eyes on her goes on the list to be dealt with later, because who the fuck do they think they are, staring at what’s meant for me alone?
She catches my gaze and her lips part. For a second the world narrows to the glint of those green irises and the looseness of her smile, the wine has given her a brazen edge.
I imagine sliding myself between those plush, parted lips.
My mask conceals whatever flickers across my face, hiding the hunger I don’t care to share.
I draw another drag of my cigarette, let the smoke curl away slowly, ever so slowly.
Then I crush it beneath my boot and rise, never taking my eyes from her as I close the distance to my target.