Arlo
I walk away from her, the last person I ought to care about, yet the thoughts will not leave me.
I slowly come to the realisation that Ophelia might truly not recognise me. She could be a brilliant liar.
No, I am not blind anymore. I know she is a brilliant liar. But even she could not fake it this badly.
And if she doesn’t remember me, then why?
What happened to her? What happens to a person to forget someone?
Did she forget only me, or did she lose entire pieces of her life?
What is it, amnesia, some other affliction, something worse?
I grind my teeth and tell myself, again, that I do not care. I try to mean it. But it’s uglier than that. Because despite myself, I bloody do care.
I clench my fists, set my jaw, and keep fucking moving.
I lost my cool with her again.
It started at assembly, then I followed her to the infirmary, kissed her, cornered her, breathed the same air. I’d allowed myself to be vulnerable in front of her, and that was unacceptable.
When I enrolled at this wretched institution, I set rules for myself, commandments to keep me in line.
Rules were to be kept. Yet they began to splinter almost immediately.
Rule one: Do not look at her. Do not approach.
That one died the moment I saw her face.
Rule two: Do not speak to her.
That went to hell just as quickly.
Rule three: Do not touch her. Do not kiss her. Certainly do not fuck her.
That rule didn’t stand a chance. I haven’t fucked Ophelia Bellanti, a technical truth. But it means nothing when my cock has been hard since the moment I laid eyes on her. My mouth has already given her what my head forbids, and I nearly let it happen for a second time today.
I kept myself together, barely.
Rule four: Hate without mercy. Never forget betrayal. Make her pay.
That one is, perversely, the simplest. A single recollection of what she did summons a tide of loathing I cannot stem.
If only I could stamp out the need for her and leave nothing but hatred, everything would be perfect.
Perhaps I just need one last fuck to get her out of my system. Then I can keep my head straight, and all that will remain is the revenge.
Isaak didn’t give me a choice about coming here. As one of the heirs of the Ferrum Syndicate, I was obligated to follow. But it worked in my favour, I had already intended to set foot on this island. His timing only made it easier.
I step outside and let the old doors creak shut behind me. The air is damp, it must have rained while I was inside. The courtyard is nearly empty.
I walk across the stone path behind the main building, past the open lawn with its benches, past the training grounds and the sports hall looming beyond.
Students are already running laps across the football pitch. I make a note to seek out the coach. If there’s anything worth my time here, it’s that. At my last academy I was captain, and here I intend to be exactly the same.
That problem, however, is for tomorrow.
By the benches Milo is already there, perched on the table with his legs sprawled across the bench, a lighter flicking restlessly between his fingers. Isaak and Hunter sit with him, deep in discussion.
Milo is the first to notice me and grins like the unhinged bastard he is. “Finally decided to crawl back, Vass. Tell me, did Ophelia greet you on her knees, with your co—”
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. I close the distance in a heartbeat and both hands clamp around his throat. He is one big motherfucker, after all.
“Get her fucking name out of your mouth,” I say, barely containing the fire inside me.
Milo’s expression barely shifts, that infuriating smirk is still there. It makes me want to break his face. I squeeze a little harder.
“I thought you hated her,” he grits.
“I do,” I tell him without hesitation.
“It really doesn’t look that way,” he says, face flushing now from lack of air, but the fucker keeps pushing.
I release him and shove him back, he barely budges. He cocks his head, laughing and coughing at the same time.
“I can despise her and be obsessed with her in equal measure. That is not your business. Utter her name again and I will burn you with your own lighter.”
“You wound me,” he laughs. Then, because he likes to stoke trouble and seems to have a death wish, he adds, “You could never kill me. Certainly not for a wh—”
I do not let him finish that either. My fist finds his jaw and I drive it home. He tumbles from the table, spits blood onto the paving and still manages a smirk up at me.
“Do not ever finish that sentence, Milo,” I say slowly. “I can, and I will kill you. Apparently, when it comes to her, I am capable of madness. Do not test me.”
Because I need to put the fucker in his place, I add, “If you play with fire, you will get burned. Shall I make you pay through… Octavia, perhaps?”
The smirk drops. In an instant the easy going Milo is gone, in his place stands the hard blooded Bratva product he truly is.
The look on his face, is one he normally reserves for his enemies before he ends them.
He moves so fast I barely register it, in a second a blade is at my throat.
I merely smirk. “How does it feel, being on the other side of the coin?” I ask, provoking.
Before he can answer, Hunter is between us, forcing us apart. “Enough,” he snaps in that clipped, teacherly tone that carries no real weight here.
Milo keeps staring, I hold his gaze. We do not look away for several long, silent moments.
Isaak finally looks up from his phone. “If you’re finished playing at violence, gentlemen,” he says coolly, “the Thirteenth Circle host a gathering tonight. As representatives of the Ferrum Syndicate, we are required to attend.”
Isaak’s family runs the Syndicate, that has been the case for generations.
The Thirteenth Circle are our antagonists, an alliance is unheard of.
Yet Isaak has convinced not only his father but the rest of our parents that a truce will profit us.
I call it horseshit, but it suits me. I was already meant to be here, his manoeuvring only made my task easier.
“What time?” I ask.
“Be there at nine. And don’t forget the masks,” Isaak says, already back to his phone.
I linger a little longer. At some point Hunter was gone, and it was only the three of us. When I check my watch there are five minutes to the end of class, so I push up from the bench and turn my back on them without a word.
I do not know why I walk toward the building, why my steps draw me to her classroom.
I was not born a stalker, those instincts lay buried until she awakened them. This need to chart her movements, to have eyes on her at every hour, borders on madness.
I despise how little control I have.
I convince myself it’s only to make sure she’s safe.
Why?
If anyone is to hurt Ophelia, that someone will be me, nobody else gets that right.