Page 36 of Forged in Blood

His answering snarl is an instinct, but one I refuse to tolerate. Leaning forward, I bare my teeth and growl, and he presses his lips into a thin line, sufficiently chastised. “The girl with the pink hair—Ophelia Hart. She belongs to my boys, and they do not share. Especially not with Ronan.”

Nicholas’s rage simmers ever closer to the surface, but he knows better than to challenge me. “If they have claimed her, she would have their scent, and he?—”

“They have not claimed her. But make no mistake, she belongs to them. To House Drakos.”

He sits back in his chair, running his tongue over his teeth. He is well aware that by invoking the name of my family, I am making it clear that she belongs to me, and he is far too cunning to risk my wrath. Still, he chooses not to back down entirely, pushing me as far as he dares. “What’s so special about this girl that they want her so badly, yet they haven’t laid claim to her?”

“I do not claim to know the inner workings of adolescent vampire minds.” Keeping my eyes locked on his face, I pause and straighten my cufflinks. “But if you wish for peace to remain between the societies, you will ensure that nobody from Onyx touches the girl. Understand?”

The hesitation in his nod speaks to his reluctance, but I do not require enthusiasm. Only obedience.

“Ensure that they all know it too, Nicholas. Every one of them. Make them swear an oath if you must.”

His lip curls again. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

“I shall leave it to you to ensure their compliance in whatever way you choose.” I push back my chair and suppress a smile when he flinches. Before I leave his office, I give him one last parting reminder of who holds all the power here. “If you would prefer it, I could have your father make you swear an oath.”

He bangs his fist on his desk. “Get out of my office.”

“Do not make an enemy of me again, Nicholas. Or I will exact my just revenge.”

On my way back to my office, I do everything I can to banish all thoughts of Ophelia Hart. But, as the day goes on, the worry of what she might be and what that would mean for all of us lingers like an uninvited guest in my mind.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

OPHELIA

Sitting in my usual seat in the second row of the lecture hall, I absentmindedly flick through the pages of my textbook. The sound of laughter makes me look up, and I stifle a groan as three girls make their way along the row to sit near me. The front couple of rows are usually for people like me who sit alone or are a littleunusual, for lack of a better word.Not for the popular girls, which these three clearly are. Being an outcast all my life, I can tell.

One of them sits beside me and smiles. “Hi.”

“Hey.” I offer a faint smile in return.

Her friends sit too. Each of them gives me a quick wave and a smile, and I offer an awkward wave in return. They chatter among themselves, and I tune them out, taking out my battered copy ofWuthering Heightsand getting lost in the words of Emily Brontë. After a few minutes, the girl next to me nudges my arm. “Hey, you know her, right?”

I look up from my book and shake my head. “Know who?”

She tuts. “Penelope Nugent. I heard you went to the same high school.”

“Yeah.” I shrug, feigning disinterest. “We weren’t friends though.”

Her nose wrinkles. “No? Well, I heard she’s a bitch.”

That’s putting it mildly, but I don’t say that. Instead, I give another shrug and go back to my book, but the girl beside me is undeterred. “So was she?”

I glance up again. “Was she what?”

She rolls her eyes. “A stone-cold bitch? Because she’s still giving off those vibes, you know what I mean?”

Not sure what to say, I nod.

“So you know, right?”

“I guess, yeah,” I admit, even as uneasiness builds in my gut.

The second girl peers over her friend’s shoulder. “Yeah, a bitch, right?”

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