Ophelia
The days have passed in a blur of lectures, hours in the stables, and endless study halls. Before I’ve even caught my breath, October is upon us, its first few days already slipping between my fingers.
Time here has a way of tightening and snapping past too quickly, leaving me unanchored.
I haven’t seen much of Arlo these past weeks. I won’t deny it, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid him. He hasn’t made it difficult, and for that I’m grateful.
Yet despite the distance, there lingers a constant, prickling awareness. In corridors, in the library, even shut away in my dorm, I can’t shake the sense of being watched.
My mind insists it’s nothing, imagination running riot, but the feeling refuses to relent.
Every few days I send Eleanor a message, always hoping this will be the moment she answers, herself, in her own words, telling me she’s safe. But there’s never a reply. She remains absent, vanished entirely from the world.
The nights are worst.
Sleep resists me, and when it finally comes, it drags me into dreams I can’t hold onto, faces blurred, moments distorted, fragments that slip away the instant I wake.
I come to, drenched in sweat, heart battering against my ribs, certain I’ve seen something forbidden.
I force myself to believe they’re only nightmares. They must be.
Because if they’re not, if they’re shards of the past I can’t remember, then what lies buried in my head is darker than I dare admit.
When the final class of the day ends, I make my way back to the dormitory.
It’s Friday, and tonight is the first football match of the season—St. Monarche? against Velmark Academy, of all schools.
How that will play out, I cannot begin to imagine, given Arlo now captains our side and only recently wore Velmark’s colours.
I couldn’t care less about football, but as one of the Thirteenth Circle, I’m expected to make an appearance. We have our own benches reserved, after all.
Inside the dormitory building, I head for the lift, where Piper is already waiting. She notices me and offers the faintest of smiles.
“Hi,” she says softly, her eyes darting away almost immediately.
“Hello.” I return the smile.
“Piper—” I begin.
She cuts me off with a shake of her head. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? I only wanted to know if you’re all right. You seem more withdrawn than ever.”
Her gaze flickers back to mine. “You’re imagining things, Ophelia. Everything is fine.”
The lift doors open. We step inside. Neither of us speaks again. She doesn’t wish to, and I won’t force her.
Still, the familiar pang rises in me, the same one I feel whenever I see Adelaide. Something between us is fractured. Something happened to tear us apart, to turn us from inseparable girls who once shared everything into… this.
Whatever this is.
The lift halts on our floor. We walk down the corridor together, parting at our doors without so much as a goodbye.
I drop my bag by the door and slip off my boots. In the bedroom, I peel out of my clothes until I’m left in nothing but a blush pink silk bra with matching briefs.
My gaze lifts instinctively to the window, only to collide with eyes the colour of midnight blue.
Arlo.
He stands at his own window opposite mine, watching me without pretence. His stare is unyielding, and even across the distance I feel the weight of it.
Heat coils low in my body, my nipples tighten, my thighs press together of their own accord.
It doesn’t escape him as his jaw tightens and his hands flex at his sides.
I spin away and head for the closet. I pull on black leggings, a soft shirt on top.
Back in the kitchen, I draw my insulin and prepare dinner. Music hums from the speaker, filling the quiet while I chop, stir, and plate.
By the time I’ve finished eating, it’s nearly time to leave. The walk will take twenty minutes.
I lace my trainers, shrug into a coat, slip my key card into my pocket, and step outside.
The corridor is quiet. That familiar pang returns, the memory of when we would knock on each other’s doors and walk down together to the matches, laughing, simply ourselves.
But times have changed.
I leave the dorm alone and set out for the football pitch. AirPods in, my favourite album playing, I let my thoughts drift and almost wish the walk were longer.
At the stands, I head straight for the Thirteenth Circle’s reserved seats and greet my sister with a quick hug.
Adelaide pointedly avoids me, her curls swept into a careless bun with loose strands falling about her face. She wears leggings, a plain shirt, and her leather jacket thrown over the top, speaking in low tones with Lucian Ward, second in command to the Circle’s leader.
Isaak’s gaze lingers on her, assessing, as though trying to decipher her.
Yet his attention shifts to the man at her side, his expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something deadly beneath it.
Piper sits quietly, dressed much as I am, her ginger hair neatly plaited. A book lies open in her lap, and she seems wholly absorbed in its pages.
“Grant me the patience not to murder this man here and now,” Octavia mutters under her breath, just for me. “Far too many witnesses, and not even father could sweep it away.”
I follow the line of her glare. Milo is sprawled lazily in his seat, grinning at her, clearly savouring every ounce of her irritation.
I shake my head with a laugh. “I wouldn’t allow you to commit murder in broad daylight. So for now, you’re safe.”
“Oh? But you’d turn a blind eye if it were done under cover of night? Good to know,” she smirks.
“Why are they here?” I ask, lowering my voice.
“Because their friend is playing, I suppose.”
“No,” I murmur, “I meant here. These are the Circle’s benches.”
“Ah.” She sneers towards Adelaide. “Apparently there’s some sort of truce now.”
As if sensing the weight of Octavia’s glare, Adelaide turns, catches our eyes, and raises her middle finger in Octavia’s direction. My sister only rolls her eyes in response.
The game begins, and the stands erupt as St. Monarché scores the opening goal against Velmark.
The atmosphere is electric, shouts, chants, and stamping feet rolling across the pitch. Just as the whistle blows for half time, Octavia rises abruptly from her seat.
“I’ll fetch drinks. What do you want?”
“Water.”
She scrunches her nose. “You’re so dull,” she says with a laugh, and disappears into the crowd.
She returns a few minutes later, pressing a bottle of water into my hand and holding up a luridly red punch for herself, so sweet and artificial it can only be liquid sugar.
The match resumes. Time slips by.
I watch Arlo play, and I can’t deny it, he’s extraordinary. His speed, his precision, the way he commands the field, he could go professional one day.
Not that I know much about football. Still, the way he moves, the strength, is impossible to miss. Every line of muscle strains beneath his kit.
He’s the sort of man girls dream about.
Just not me.
Liar.
I’m watching him so closely I hardly notice when someone slips into the empty seat beside me.
I glance up and find Marcel there, smiling down at me. My brows pull together in surprise, he doesn’t usually approach me, and I can’t say I like that he’s begun to now.
“Hi,” he says easily.
“Hi,” I return.
“Good match,” he remarks.
I nod, polite but noncommittal.
He chuckles. “Not much of a football fan, then?”
I lift one shoulder. “It’s fine.”
The words are barely out before a ball comes hurtling into the stands, striking Marcel on the head.
In the chaos that follows, my bottle tips, water spilling across my shirt. The wind bites immediately at the damp fabric, the chill running straight through me.
Marcel stands, rubbing at his temple, still dazed. But my eyes are already on the pitch, on Arlo. Fury is etched into his face, an expression that could tear me apart.
What the hell is his problem. Truly.
The whistle blows and, eventually, he drags his gaze from me, turning reluctantly towards the coach, but not before he levels Marcel with a glare that could kill.
“I’ve got another layer under this,” Marcel says suddenly. My brows knit in confusion as he pulls off his hoodie, strips the T-shirt beneath it, then slips the hoodie back on and holds the spare shirt out to me.
I stare at it in his hand. The thought of wearing it unsettles me, yet the cold seeping through my soaked shirt leaves me with little choice.
I’m still hesitating when the commotion on the pitch spills into the stands. Another whistle, shouts from the team, and then Arlo is moving.
In an instant, he’s climbed the barrier, stormed up the stairs, and is beside us. He shoves Marcel’s hand away. “Take that back.”
A moment later, his own jersey is over his head and thrust at me. I blink, stunned, but when I don’t move quickly enough he curses, seizes my wrist, and drags me with him down the aisle into the private corridor leading to the bathrooms.
I stare at him. He hasn’t spoken to me in weeks, unless it was to spit something cruel, and now he’s acting like a man possessed.
“Take off your shirt, Ophelia,” he grits out as the door slams behind us. “I don’t have all day, and in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m in the middle of a match.”
I bristle. “Well, I didn’t ask for yours. Marcel was already offering me...”
“Don’t say his fucking name,” Arlo snarls, his voice lethal. “And don’t ever let the thought of wearing another man’s clothes cross your mind. Ever.”
“And why not?” I snap back.
He smirks darkly. “Because, Ophelia, if I ever find you in another man’s attire, I will strip it from you and consign him and his garments to the flames. Afterwards I will fuck you senseless to remind you, precisely who you belong to.”
“You’re deranged.”
“No doubt about it.”
“I don’t belong to you.”
He leans in, his nose grazing the shell of my ear. “Say what you like, Ophelia. Denial doesn’t alter the truth. You’ve always been mine, whether you care to admit it or not.”
I shrug off my coat and tug my shirt over my head. The cold air bites at my skin, my nipples tighten beneath the lace, and his gaze falls, hungry, making me feel, for a moment, like prey under a predator’s watch.
I take his jersey from his hand and slip it on. It’s still warm from his body, carrying the scent of him.
“Put the coat back on,” he orders. I roll my eyes but comply, pulling it around me once more.
He holds my gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering there, before stepping back and leaving the bathroom.
Through the doorway I glimpse him crossing the pitch, bare chested, as though nothing at all had transpired.
I remain rooted to the spot, wondering what on earth that was.