Page 100 of Breaking Isolde
I think about Casey, about what she’d say if she were here. Probably something like “Don’t fuck it up, Issy.” Maybe she’d punch me on the shoulder, or maybe she’d roll her eyes and ask if Rhett’s sperm is as self-important as he is. The thought makes me laugh.
Valence’s body was never found. Bam made sure of that. He erased every security camera log on campus, and buried her just like he said he would. The Board launched an “investigation,” but it lasted three days, and the conclusion was “unfortunate departure.” They sent her family a care package and a generic letter, and that was that.
The Board cares about nothing but appearances. It’s all about justice, legacy and power. It’s about the brand, the reputation, the ability to keep suckering in the next generation of monsters and victims. If the world ever saw the truth, the whole game would collapse.
I rub my hands together, feeling the roughness of new callus and old scar. I could have left. I thought about it. Packing a bag and just running. Rhett would have followed, of course. But something holds me here. A compulsion. Or maybe just the need to finish what I started.
The wind picks up, rattling the porch like it’s about to shake the whole cottage off its blocks. I huddle deeper into my sweatshirt. It’s Rhett’s, of course, because I’ve ruined all my own clothes or left them to rot at the dorm. He bought me new ones, but I prefer his. His smell calms me. Settles my nerves when they feel fried from anxiety or stress.
The sleeves hang past my fingertips and the collar is stretched from where he tugs it when he’s deep in thought. I bury my face in the fabric, breathe in the cheap detergent and the faint masculine scent that clings to his skin.
Footsteps behind me. Slow, heavy, deliberate. Rhett never bothers with subtlety when it’s just us. I hear the door open, hear the hinges groan, and then his voice.
“You planning to freeze to death or just reenact some tragic gothic novel out here?”
I grunt. “If I said both, would you make fun of me?”
He laughs, putting his hands on my shoulders and squeezing. “I’d just join you.”
He sits beside me on the steps, not on the bench, but on the actual wood. His jeans are wet at the knees and there’s a streak of dirt on his jaw. He’s been digging again. I don’t ask.
For a long time, we don’t speak. Just listen to the wind and the sound of Westpoint’s bells in the distance.
Finally, he says, “They called for Bam’s Hunt.”
I turn, slow. “Already?”
He nods. “Next week. His girl arrives this week.”
“Fuck,” I say, because what else is there?
He flicks ash onto the porch, shrugs. “It never stops, Issy. They need the spectacle. Keeps the Board happy, the donors happier.A slow churn out of the next big move, the one that takes them closer to owning all the power players.”
I want to throw up. “Who’s the runner?”
He names a girl I don’t know. I imagine her as I was—scared, desperate, hoping there’s a way out. There isn’t. Not really.
“We could leave,” he says, voice soft. “You and me. No one would follow.”
I shake my head. “If we do, it just keeps happening. Someone else will take our place.”
He looks away, jaw set. “You sound like a martyr.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I just want to see them burn.”
He smiles, but it’s twisted. “You and me both, wildcat.”
The sun is almost gone now, just a smear of pink over the trees. The cold has crept up my legs, through the denim, and I’m starting to shiver. Rhett sees it, but doesn’t say anything.
I stand, brush off my ass, and glare at the campus one last time. “I’m going in.”
He follows, just a step behind.
“Dinner, shower and then sleep, Issy. Baby needs rest and so do you.”
“Yes, Daddy.” I tease, loving the way his eyes darken whenever I say that.
“Woman, if you weren’t already pregnant, I’d be pumping one into you right now.”
