Page 102 of Breaking Isolde
He watches me, eyes unblinking. I know he wants to ask if I’m okay, but I also know he won’t. We have an agreement—no bullshit, no pity, no “how are you really, babe.” Just honesty, as raw as we can stomach.
I drain my coffee, grimace. “You think this will work?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stands, comes around the table, and pulls me out of my chair and onto his lap. I pretend to resist, but it’s half-hearted. He hooks his arms around my waist, one hand resting flat and heavy against my stomach.
I sigh, but he just holds me there, his face buried in my shoulder. His breath is warm, and I can feel his heartbeat against my spine.
He whispers, “It has to.”
I believe him. Not because he’s infallible, but because he’s stubborn, and that’s what I need right now. Not hope, not faith—just the determination to see the world destroyed if it refuses to bend.
I rest my head against his, breathing in the smell of coffee and sweat and whatever cologne he stole from the supermarket last week. We sit like that, perfectly still, while the rest of the world keeps spinning out of control.
I move to get up and he’s on me in a second.
He kisses me like he needs to memorize my taste before the world ends. Tongue, teeth, the sweet burn of caffeine and the threat of blood. His hands are everywhere—neck, hip, that spot just below my ribs that makes me giggle.
When he finally pulls away, I stare at his mouth, at the tiny scar on his lower lip I put there during our Hunt. It never healed right, and neither did we. That’s the problem with trauma. Sometimes you grow around it, like a tree swallowing barbed wire, and the wound becomes part of the architecture.
He wants to talk about the plan. His obsession has grown like a wildfire, and I know it’s because he wants to keep me safe, but I need him. I need him to forget about everything except him and I.
Standing, I sway my hips the way he likes. The way I know he can’t resist. He follows me to the living room and I push him down on the couch and straddle his lap, burying his face in my hands.
“Forget the plan for five minutes,” I plead. “Just be here. I need you.”
He grins. “Only if you let me undress you.”
“Deal.”
He peels off the sweatshirt, then my tank top. My scars are a map, and he traces every single one with his fingertips, reading them like a code.
For a while, we just breathe together. His hands move down, then up, and I can feel the heat from his skin even through my jeans.
He murmurs, “You’re shaking.”
“I always shake,” I say. “You make me nervous.”
He likes that. He bites my jaw, gentle, then drags his lips to my ear. “You want to hear what Bam found?”
I roll my eyes, but nod. “This one last thing and then you’re going to fuck me. Understood?”
He chuckles, “One of the new Board members is laundering money through the scholarship fund. Bam got the receipts. Cai’s compiling a list of every fake student and every payout.”
I blink, surprised. “Already?”
He grins, triumphant. “Bam’s an animal, but he’s not an idiot. He wants out as much as we do.”
“Okay, great, enough talking.”
I kiss him, hard. I want him to feel my gratitude in the way I dig my nails into his shoulders, in the way I grind against him until he gasps. I want him to know that this is all I have left.
When we fuck, it’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s a war of attrition, and every time I win, I want to gloat. Every time I lose, I want to cry. We fight for dominance, but always end up the same way—entwined, tangled, both exhausted and both too stubborn to let go.
After, we lay side by side on the battered rug, panting, staring at the ceiling as if answers might drip from the water stain above the light fixture.
He says, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but we have to, Issy. We have to be careful. The new Chair is already onto me. If I push too hard, they’ll shut me out.”
I nod, staring at the popcorn texture overhead. “Don’t get caught.”
