HER BREATH HITCHED

Ophelia grabbed the scattered pages, heart racing. “It was an experiment. Nothing more.”

Carl stood there, quiet, too quiet. The air between them was electric — not the playful static of before, but something heavier.

“You tested your powers… on me?”

“It was months ago. I erased it.”

“Not well enough.”

She looked at him. Really looked. His eyes weren’t full of that cocky amusement anymore. There was hurt there. And something else she couldn’t name.

“Why me?” he asked, voice lower now. “Why not anyone else?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, truth spilling out like blood. “Maybe because I couldn’t figure you out. You’re the only one who makes the world go quiet.”

The silence between them cracked open.

Then he stepped forward.

Close.

Closer.

Her breath hitched.

“You erased the memory,” he said. “But not the feeling.”

And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving the scent of smoke and power in his wake.

The next day, Headmistress Vale summoned them both.

“You two seem to think Combat Class is a personal drama stage,” the headmistress said dryly. “I don’t tolerate chaos without purpose.”

Carl leaned back in the chair. “I bring plenty of purpose.”

Vale didn’t blink. “Then you’ll bring it to detention. Every evening this week.”

Ophelia groaned. “Seriously?”

“Unless you’d prefer suspension,” Vale said, then turned back to her holo-screen.

Dismissed.

Outside her office, Ophelia shoved Carl’s shoulder. “You just had to push me.”

He grinned. “You’re fun when you’re mad.”

“I’ll make you regret that.”

He leaned in, that maddening smirk back in place. “I hope you do.”

Detention was held in the Archive Room — an old underground vault full of relics, classified power records, and forbidden texts.

“Why do I feel like we’re being punished with a side of temptation?” Carl asked, running a finger along a dusty shelf labeled Bloodline Rebellion: The Forbidden Years.

Ophelia ignored him and began stacking old tomes.

But halfway through the hour, the power cut.

The door clicked shut.

Locked.

“Tell me you didn’t do this,” she said.

“I didn’t,” Carl said, but he sounded too amused.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re claustrophobic, aren’t you?”

She glared. “Don’t.”

“Your breathing just changed.”

“I said don’t.”

But his voice softened. “Hey. Wolfe. It’s just us. I’m not your enemy.”

For a second, she wanted to believe him.

He stepped closer, brushing a curl behind her ear. “Want me to keep you distracted?”

“I swear, if you—”

But she didn’t finish.

Because he kissed her.

And she didn’t stop him.

When the door finally clicked open again an hour later, neither of them said a word.

They didn’t speak as they walked up the stairs.

Didn’t speak when they separated in the hall.

But that kiss… it echoed like an earthquake under her skin.

And later that night, when she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Ophelia realized something terrifying:

She wanted to do it again.

But she couldn’t afford to.

Because feelings were weaknesses. And at Velgrave, weakness got you killed.

By Monday, the rumors had started.

“Did you hear Wolfe and Maddox got locked in the Archive Room together?”

“I bet they tore each other apart…”

“Or tore each other’s clothes off.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes and kept walking, but the whispers clung to her like perfume.

Lilith caught up beside her. “You know, I could actually see that happening.”

“Nothing happened.”

Lilith arched a brow. “You’re lying. Your pupils dilated when you said that.”

Ophelia groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“And Carl is delicious. So technically, you're just human.”

Before she could respond, Carl walked past them. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smirk. But he brushed Ophelia’s fingers with his.

The contact was brief. Barely there.

But her power short-circuited for a second.

And in that silence… she could still taste

That night, Ophelia snuck into the training dome.

She needed to burn something. Punch something. Anything to get the Maddox Effect out of her system.

She loaded up a memory sequence and projected it into the air — her fighting herself. Every strength. Every weakness. A perfect mirror match.

She charged.

Dodged. Struck. Twisted.

But the memory version of herself whispered something mid-fight:

“He’s in your head.”

She froze.

The memory Ophelia landed a hit.

She hit the ground with a grunt, heart thundering.

The truth hurt more than the impact.