Page 43 of Breaking Ophelia

And I hate that I never want to see fear in her eyes again.

Not even when she looks at me.

Lachlen doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see anything but himself reflected in her terror. He says something—probably a line he’s used a hundred times—and gives her waist a squeeze.

I snap.

My hand catches the back of his neck, thumb driving into the soft spot below his skull. He yelps, goes up on his toes, and I swing him hard into the limestone column. His cheek cracks against the edge, blood instant. Ophelia ducks away, stumbling sideways, bag clutched like a lifeline.

Lachlen tries to turn, to square up, but I’ve already got him by the hair. I twist, slam his face to the stone again, then drop him to the concrete. He lands on his hands, whimpering.

I lean over, voice calm. “Don’t fucking touch her.”

He scrambles back, blood running down his jaw. “Dude—fuck—are you insane? She’s just a warm cunt to fuck, Jesus Christ.”

I grab his blazer, haul him to his feet. There’s a small crowd now: three girls, one with her phone out; a guy from my chemistry class, pretending to text. I ignore them. I want them to watch.

I push Lachlen against the wall, pinning him with one hand. With the other, I press his face to the stone, cheekbone grinding against the grit.

“Apologize,” I say.

He spits blood, tries to wrench free, but he’s soft, all theater and no rage. “I’m sorry, man—fuck—just joking, it was a joke—”

I drive my palm into his back, making him gasp. “Do it right.”

He shudders, voice shaking. “I’m sorry, Ophelia, I—shit—won’t happen again—”

She stands off to the side, eyes huge, one hand gripping the edge of her skirt to keep it from blowing in the wind. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t look away. I can feel her watching me, seeing everything.

I let go of him. He staggers, wipes his mouth, and nearly goes to his knees.

The blood is still on my knuckles, and I can’t decide whether to lick it off or smear it across Lachlen’s teeth.

He’s still standing, barely, clutching his face and whimpering like a kid who just lost his mom at the mall. I almost want to give him a head start, see if he can make it to the nurse before I snap his leg.

I catch his eyes through the mess. They’re swollen, one already going purple, but the hate in them is clean. He wants to say something. I don’t let him.

Stepping in and putting my hand around his throat, I walk him backwards through the quad, inside and down the hall to the class he attends with me and O.

I shove him into the desk, hard enough that the metal legs screech. He grabs for my arm, weak, blood slick between his fingers. I raise my fist, and his whole body recoils, head turtling in on itself.

Pathetic.

I grab him by the jaw, squeeze until the bone creaks. “Open.”

He does, and I force his mouth wider, pressing my thumb against the hinge. “Say it.”

He gurgles, voice full of snot and humiliation. “I’m sorry—”

“No. She’s mine and I want to hear you say it.”

He shakes, tears leaking from the uninjured eye. “She’s yours, okay? Fuck, she’s yours, just let me go—”

I let go, not because I’m done, but because he’s no longer worth the energy.

Instead, I turn to the crowd, scanning for her, hoping she followed us in. She’s there, just inside the door, face a wax mask, eyes emptied out. Ophelia looking like a corpse at her own funeral. Her hands tremble at her sides, but she doesn’t look away.

“Next time,” I say, voice even, “I’ll take the hand off at the wrist.”