Chapter 6
464words
He no longer treated me as completely invisible.
Sometimes Jasper would appear at mealtimes with iron-rich foods, claiming "Damian sent these."
Once, seeing me struggle with a runes essay, he actually spoke directly to me: "Your interpretation of the fifth rune is wrong. Check 'The Blood Code' in the restricted section—third floor, eastern corner."
His manner remained frigid, but beneath the ice lurked something almost like… concern?
I refused to nurture false hope, convincing myself I was imagining things.
I rationalized away each of his unusual behaviors.
The food? Maintaining his blood source's health. Simple asset management.
The academic help? Probably gathering intelligence on Genevieve's classes through me.
We were classmates, after all—I was his perfect spy.
I forced myself to see my role clearly: a tool, nothing more. This shield protected what remained of my shattered heart.
My isolation deepened when Rowena began avoiding me.
She'd been my only friend—bright, cheerful, human like me. But suddenly she started finding reasons to be elsewhere.
Genevieve's entourage would shoot warning glares whenever we passed, their meaning crystal clear.
Finally, under my persistent questioning, Rowena cracked: "They say you're cursed, Ophelia. That being near you brings disaster." Her eyes darted nervously. "I'm sorry, but… I'm scared."
After that, I was truly alone—punished for reaching above my station, for wanting what wasn't meant for me.
Rumors coiled around me like poisonous snakes.
In the dining hall, one of Genevieve's vampire lackeys deliberately blocked my path.
Sneering down at me, he spoke just loud enough for nearby tables to hear: "Well, if it isn't Damian's premium blood bag. How's the vintage today—sweet or savory?"
Laughter rippled through the surrounding tables.
I stood there, fists clenched, face burning with humiliation, utterly powerless.
"Jasper." The ice in that voice could have frozen hell itself. "Control your clansman. Since when does anyone comment on what's mine?"
Damian had appeared from nowhere.
He didn't approach—just leaned against a distant pillar, his gaze promising violence.
The bully's face drained of color. He stammered apologies and practically ran from the hall.
Everyone feared Damian. Everyone.
After the scene ended, Damian left without acknowledging me—as though I hadn't even been there.
I stood frozen, emotions warring inside me.
Had he actually defended me?
No, I reminded myself bitterly. He was protecting his property, nothing more.
I channeled my confusion into my sketchbook—my only true confidant.
I filled pages with Damian's profile on stage, his furrowed brow as he carried me, his tender gaze when looking at Genevieve.
Later pages grew darker, more abstract.
I drew bloody needle marks, a golden canary in an ornate cage, birds with broken wings trying desperately to escape closed windows.
This was my only release—my silent scream against cruel fate.
