Page 41 of Breaking Isolde
Colton tilts his glass. “You’re really pushing it, Rhett. The Board’s watching.”
“They love a show,” I say.
And they do. Dr. Abelard and Ms. Valence stand at the far end of the room, just close enough to see every gesture, every calculated move. Abelard’s face is carved out of stone, but Valence watches me like a fucking hawk.
I shift my grip to Isolde’s hip, digging my fingers in until she hisses.
Leaning into her, I snarl, “You’ll smile, you’ll drink, you’ll act grateful. Or I’ll make it worse.”
She bares her teeth, but there’s no bite.
Bam pours us some whiskey and hands us each a glass before downing his in one go.
I raise my glass. “To the Night Hunt,” I say, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear. “To survival of the fittest. May we be fruitful and multiply”
Isolde lifts her glass with a shaking hand. Her voice is steady, though: “To extinction.”
Jules laughs, delighted. “I like her.”
I press the rim of my glass to her lips. “Drink.”
She obeys, draining half in one go.
“Good girl,” I murmur. I know it will make her want to rip my throat out.
I keep her pinned to my lap while the Boys exchange war stories: whose father bribed which Senator, which city the next ‘expansion’ is in, who’s currently on the Board’s shit list. I watch Isolde absorb it all, turning information into future weapons.
She shifts, once, as if to bolt for the doors. I grab her wrist, squeezing until she makes a small, helpless sound.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I say.
She lifts her chin. “You afraid I’ll embarrass you?”
“No. I’m afraid you’ll embarrass yourself.”
I slide my hand up her thigh, just under the tablecloth. She freezes, skin gone white.
“You wouldn’t,” she whispers.
I slide my fingers higher. “You want to test that?”
She tries to jerk away. I clamp down, nails digging into flesh.
She breathes fast, then forces herself to relax.
Jules sees the tension and raises his brows. “Everything good over here?”
I smile. “Just fine.”
Bam drains his drink, slams it down. “Get a room.”
I shake my head. “No fun in that.”
Colton watches Isolde, unreadable. For the first time, he seems almost sorry for her.
The donors circle the table, making idle conversation, trading thinly veiled insults and favors. Every time someone stops to talk, I introduce Isolde as “my date.” She corrects me once, calls herself “the latest acquisition.” The guests laugh, delighted. The phrase circulates, and soon everyone is using it.
She is a trophy, and I make sure she knows it.
