Ophelia
When I open my eyes, the room is still dark. I’m beneath the covers in my own bed. The memory of last night slams into me and I jerk to the side, expecting him to still be there.
But the space beside me is empty. Warm, though. Which means he hasn’t been gone long.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. Half-past five. I know sleep won’t return, no matter how tightly I shut my eyes. So I lie there instead, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of last night.
I slept with him.
Arlo Vass.
If I’d harboured even the faintest doubt about still being a virgin, he put that to rest.
But the thought curdles quickly into something worse, what if I had someone? What if, in the years I’ve lost, there was a man who mattered, and I’ve just betrayed him with Arlo?
Except it doesn’t sit right. That thought feels… false. What doesn’t feel false is the way my body answered his, like it had always known him.
And I don’t mean as a stranger who happened to hate me on sight. It was something else, something deeper, and I can’t explain it.
The pull between us is too strong, too raw. I can’t even muster regret. Not when I think of the way he touched me, the way it felt to unravel under him.
There’s an ache between my thighs, lingering and shamefully delicious. Just the memory of his hands on me sends a shiver down my spine. Last night was better than anything I’d ever imagined, better than anything I thought possible.
So yes, I must have done this before, whether with someone I cared for, or just something casual. I can’t remember. All I know is that I had condoms in my drawer.
Condoms.
I bury my face into the pillow beside me and let out a muffled scream. The fabric is laced with his scent, wild berries and rain.
I don’t regret sleeping with Arlo, the passion, the heat, all of it was there, but I do regret that it was him who woke this in me.
Him, of all people. The man is a complete arse, and never misses a chance to prove it with his words.
His voice echoes in my mind.
This means nothing. This is a hard fuck to get you out of my system.
I didn’t expect anything more. I’m not na?ve. We have chemistry, and however much he claims to despise me, he can’t stay away. He stirs my body in ways I can’t ignore.
We’re both adults. We both wanted it. That’s all it was. A night we chose, even if he insists I’m the woman he hates.
I push the covers back and slip out of bed. The air is cool on my skin as I pad into the bathroom. A quick rinse under the shower, enough to feel fresh.
When I step out and catch my reflection in the mirror, the bruising across my ribs is still faintly purple, but less tender now.
My forehead itches, the stitches tugging, mercifully they come out today. My feet will need fresh dressings as well.
I wash my face, brush my teeth, run a comb through my hair until it behaves.
In the closet, I pull on my jodhpurs, tug on my riding boots, and shrug into a light jacket against the chill. My hair goes up in a plain ponytail, practical for the stables.
In the kitchen, I prick my finger and check my levels. Normal range. I draw up the dose, give myself the injection, then get on with breakfast.
I slice an avocado, mash it onto sourdough toast, and scatter a few cherry tomatoes on top. Light enough that it won’t weigh on me once I’m riding. I eat quickly, then clear the plate.
I grab my gloves and head for the door. The chair I’d shoved beneath the handle is gone, and the lock, fixed.
My brows lift. It must have been Arlo, who else? When on earth did he manage to have it repaired? I hadn’t heard a thing, which is odd, given I’m hardly a heavy sleeper. I shake it off, grateful enough not to press the thought further.
The corridor is silent as I step outside. Cold, morning air greets me, tightening my lungs. I set off across the grounds, the walk to the stables taking near twenty minutes. By the time I arrive, dawn is just beginning to stir at the edges of the horizon.
Bellamy is already waiting in his stall, ears pricked the moment he catches sight of me.
I murmur a greeting and step in close, cupping his face in my hands until his nose brushes mine. His breath warms my cheek, familiar and grounding.
I refill his water, run my hands down each leg to check him over, then set about the tack in proper order, saddle, girth, bridle.
I lead him out to the schooling arena and mount, muscle memory carrying me through the motion. The moment I’m in the saddle, something in me eases.
It’s only us now, his stride beneath me, the morning air cool against my face, the kind of focus that shuts everything else out.
We start simple, then move over a few jumps. Nothing wild, just enough to stretch him, and me along with him. With every stride, every landing, the weight I woke up with slips a little further away.
After training, I cool him down, untack, rub him dry, then finally feed him. Once his stall is set, I lock up and head back to the dorms.
I’m sweating, so another quick shower is in order before I dress for the day. I let my hair down, add a touch of makeup, and pack my bag.
I leave the dormitory building and choose to walk to the main hall rather than take the car. I make my way to the infirmary, where the nurse sees me straightaway.
The stitches at my temple are removed. My feet are cleaned and rebandaged, but she tells me I can manage them myself from now on.
Daily changes, careful watching, only to return if there’s swelling or redness. I nod, grateful.
Afterwards, I head straight to the dining hall. Riding has restored my appetite.
I take my usual seat, the table is empty, none of the others here yet. I place my order and pull out my phone.
A photo from this morning, Bellamy against the pale sunrise, goes up on my Instagram story. Then I scroll.
Naturally, that gossip page is everywhere again, St. Monarche?’s own private tabloid. The Ferrum Syndicate dominates the feed, masks, the party, rumours piling by the minute.
I lock my phone just as my food arrives, and that’s when Octavia strides in, Milo behind her, Arlo close behind him.
My heart trips, infuriatingly, as my eyes meet Arlo’s, but I force it still.
Octavia slips into the seat beside me, greeting me lightly with a quick hug. They order their food, and it arrives soon after. Milo’s plate is only meat, the man might actually have an obsession.
I drop my gaze back to my acaí bowl. We eat in silence. Arlo doesn’t look at me, and for that I’m almost grateful.
At least there are no cruel words. I’d dreaded seeing him again today after last night, but he’s pretending it never happened.
Even though it sends a pang through me, I ignore it. This is for the best.
I finish first and rise from my seat. Octavia glances up at me. “Class starts in five,” I tell her.
She nods. “I’ll see you after.”
I leave, and though I feel eyes on my back, I don’t turn.
Classes pass in a blur. By the time I notice the clock again, evening has already drawn in. Octavia had messaged earlier, telling me to meet her for dinner, so I head straight to the dining hall.
It’s packed now, far fuller than it was this morning. The low ceiling hums with voices, lost amid the clatter of cutlery and trays. Half the academy seems crammed inside.
Our table is already full—Adelaide and Piper in their usual seats, Octavia spots me as I walk in and lifts her hand in greeting.
The Ferrum men are there too, and even Mr Wardgrave. I’d already read everything I could find about them online and on social media, and I’d asked my sister enough questions to put names to faces.
I slip into the chair beside my sister and place my order.
Octavia leans in. “I saw you left the party early last night,” she murmurs, her voice pitched low. “Everything all right?”
“Yes.” My lips part again, on the verge of saying more, but the arrival of trays interrupts, silverware clattering as dishes are set down before us. The moment slips away.
Milo Markev, who is one of the Russian Bratva heirs, eyes his portion as though it’s a personal insult. He prods at one of the round shapes with his fork, lifts it, and squints suspiciously.
“What the hell is this?” he demands, glaring at the thing.
“A meatball,” Arlo replies, his tone dry, not even looking up from his own plate.
Milo’s scowl deepens. “No. Absolutely not. This is not a meatball. It’s an imitation, a fraud in spherical form.”
Arlo deigns to glance over, his face unreadable. “They’re vegan meatballs.”
Milo blinks slowly, twice, like his mind needs a moment to catch up. Outrage finally settles across his features. “Vegan meatballs? Why the fuck would I order vegan meatballs?”
“Why are you asking me why you ordered them?” Arlo replies, entirely unbothered.
Adelaide spears her own portion, takes a bite, and raises one perfectly arched brow at Arlo. “I ordered lasagna. This tastes suspiciously like it was made with soya cheese.”
Milo makes a face. “Is that even real cheese?”
Isaak Markev, Milo’s cousin and a Bratva heir himself, answers in a matter of fact tone. “Soya cheese has been used for decades as a dairy free alternative to traditional cheese. It’s derived from soy milk, a coagulated product of soybeans, and often blended with—”
“Alright, genius, we get it,” Milo cuts in, waving his fork.
Isaak’s eyes narrow, unimpressed.
Milo points to Hunter’s plate. “And what about you? Didn’t you order chicken?”
Mr Wardgrave glances down at the suspiciously neat strips on his dish. “Seems so.”
Milo gestures at it. “So what’s that supposed to be then? Faux chicken? How can chicken be vegan?”
Isaak exhales sharply, clearly affronted by the stupidity. “Vegan chicken is made from plant proteins, soy, seitan, pea isolate, even mycoprotein. Combined with vegetable oils, seasonings, and stabilisers to replicate the texture and taste of poultry.”
Arlo allows the faintest ghost of a smirk. “Plenty of things are possible these days.”
Milo stabs the food again as if he might bend it to his will. “So what, you’re telling me we live in some bloody vegan utopia now? All I wanted was a plate of meatballs.”
“You’re not far off,” Arlo drawls.
Isaak turns his head towards him, suspicious. “You mean to say the academy’s entire menu has been replaced in the space of an afternoon?”
“Apparently,” Arlo says with the faintest shrug. “New supplier. New ethos. What do I know?”
Octavia, who’s been watching the exchange with a look of delight, leans forward. “This is suspicious.”
Arlo barely flicks his eyes toward her, his expression bored. “How so?”
“Ophelia is vegan,” she says smoothly. “And someone’s gone and changed the entire academy menu to be vegan too. Rather thoughtful of them, wouldn’t you say?”
His gaze stays flat and uninterested. “Who said I had anything to do with it?”
Octavia’s mouth opens to retort, but Milo slams in first.
“My hand’s itching for the blade I’ve got tucked on me, and the more you keep talking to my woman, the more tempting it gets to plant it in your shoulder, Arlo.”
Arlo finally gives him a look, but before he can speak Octavia shoots Milo a glare cold enough to slice him in two.
“Psycho,” Octavia hisses. “Stop proving my nickname for you is earned.”
Milo lets out an exaggerated groan, then whirls toward us, his grin stretched wide and unhinged. “Ahh, she spoke to me. Did you hear that? I’m in heaven, she actually spoke to me!” He jabs an elbow into Arlo’s ribs, his eyes glittering.
“You are, without question, clinically insane,” Arlo mutters.
Milo only grins wider, swinging back to fix my sister with his gaze. “We’re destined, spitfire. Don’t waste your breath pretending otherwise.”
Octavia doesn’t flinch. “Yes, you’re destined to die, and I’m destined to be the one who kills you.”
Milo slaps the table, triumphant, his laughter ringing out. “She adores me. This is hate to love in its purest form. Real as it gets. Tell me I’m wrong, lads.” He gestures to the boys, waiting for them to agree.
I can’t help myself, a smile tugs at my lips despite everything, and I shake my head at the absurdity of it.
Around us, the hall is alive with the hum of voices. More than a few students are eyeing their dinners with suspicion, nudging at their plates as if afraid of what might be lurking there.
Did Arlo really do this? Change the entire menu?
But why would he?
I’ve been vegan for as long as I can remember. It’s not something I ever push on others, everyone makes their own choices, and I respect that. Even Octavia isn’t vegan. She never has been. But she always tries to avoid eating meat in front of me.
And if she’s right… if Arlo actually did this… then what does it mean?
Again, I don’t necessarily feel uncomfortable when others eat meat, but I can’t help the pang in my chest when I see it. It probably sounds ridiculous to most people, but feelings rarely bow to reason.
That said, I would never judge anyone for their choices, nor would I ever ask them to stop. This is simply how I live, how I enjoy my life.
Still, changing the entire cafeteria menu seems a bit… extreme.
I glance up, only to find Arlo’s eyes already on me. The death glare he sends cuts straight through, dragging me back to reality. So that’s my answer.
Even after last night, his hatred hasn’t vanished, not that I expected it to.
I look away, focusing on my plate instead, shutting him out as conversation carries on around the table.
I’m so tangled in my own thoughts I don’t even register the rising tension until the scrape of a chair jolts me back. Octavia’s seat crashes back as she surges to her feet.
“Say that again. I fucking dare you.” Octavia’s voice is low, her whole body angled forward.
Adelaide doesn’t even flinch, only regards her with disdain. “Very mature.”
I stand, catching my sister’s hand before she can take another step. “Let’s go,” I hiss under my breath, tugging her with me.
Thank God, she lets me drag her out of the hall before things escalate.
“I fucking hate that bitch,” she mutters the second we’re clear.
“Octavia.” My warning tone is enough to make her look at me, though I understand well enough that something has passed between them. It doesn’t mean I enjoy hearing her spit venom.
Back at the dorms, she ends up in my room. We don’t speak of Adelaide again.
Instead, we bury ourselves in study, books spread across the floor, notes abandoned when a series takes over the screen.
We pile through junk snacks until we’re both drowsy, and for the first time in weeks, a hint of normalcy creeps in.
A reminder that even in this madness I’ve woken into, there are still fragments of ordinary life.