Page 49 of Breaking Isolde
I walk the quad, slow. I force my lungs to take air. I focus on the little things—the crunch of gravel, the taste of copper in my mouth, the wind on my skin.
They can’t have all of me.
I won’t let them.
And when I see Rhett next, I’ll show him what they turned me into.
I hope he likes it.
Chapter 10: Rhett
WhenIsoldeGreenwood’schairsits empty after I explicitly told her to be in class today, I don’t bother with the rest of the lecture. The numbers on the whiteboard blur into background noise. Even the professor’s droning seems distant, as if I’ve already pressed a pillow over his face. I keep my hands folded, eyes on the place where she should be, and let the anger work its way through my veins.
The moment class ends, I leave. No lingering, no networking with the ambitious leeches that haunt the edges of every major. I take the north exit, cross the quad, and head straight for Archer House. The wind is sharp, mean, loaded with rain that won’t fall. The stones are slick, but I know every patch of friction and blackice by heart. I move at a pace just short of a jog, fists jammed in my coat pockets.
I palm my master key, insert twist, and the door gives. No one’s home, or if they are, they’re quiet as fucking mice. I can smell the neglect—someone burned microwave popcorn recently, and the residue mixes with mildew and perfume to create a scent that makes me want to hurl.
I take the stairs two at a time. The second-floor landing is empty. The only noise is the thump of my shoes and the distant whine of plumbing.
Her room is in front of me in a second. I knock once, hard. No answer. I try again, softer, listening for any sign of movement. Nothing.
I fish in my pocket for the key to her door, almost drop it before putting it in the keyhole and turning. The knob gives with a reluctant groan.
I push the door open and look around. An absolute mess. Heading down the hall and pushing open her bedroom door, I almost gag.
She’s in bed, covers pulled up to her chin, one arm thrown over her face. The blinds are half-closed, casting the room in alternating bands of weak sunlight and deep blue shadow. A half filled puke bowl sits on the floor. It smells like sweat and sickness. There are two mugs on the desk, both untouched, and ahalf-empty bottle of water on the floor. Her laptop sits open, but the screen is black.
Isolde isn’t asleep. She’s humming to herself, a thin, nasal tune that winds up and down in a way that’s almost childish. I recognize the melody—it’s the old nursery rhyme about babies and cradles falling down.
She stops humming when she senses me. But she doesn’t open her eyes.
I close the door behind me and step closer, boots silent on the old wood floor.
“You planning on sleeping through the rest of term, or just today?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Her breathing is too rapid for someone lying in bed all day; her lips are dry and cracked, voice croaking as she speaks. “Go away, Rhett.”
I move closer, close enough to see the sheen of sweat on her brow and the red splotches high on her cheekbones. A fever has her hard… her hair is pasted to her neck, and her skin glows with an unhealthy, almost glow-in-the-dark pallor.
I reach out and push the hair from her face. She flinches, but doesn’t fight it.
“You’re burning up,” I say, and it comes out more gentle than I intend.
She snorts, a sound closer to a cough. “Go take your concern and shove it up your ass.”
I sit on the edge of her bed, hands braced on my knees. “If you wanted to die, you’d pick a more dramatic way to go. So why the isolation?”
She turns her head, eyes fluttering open. The blue of her irises is shot through with red, the whites webbed with fatigue. “Don’t flatter yourself. The last thing I want is you watching me rot.”
I let her have the barb, but don’t move. “Isolde, you need—”
“I need you to leave,” she snaps. “Or is this part of your kink? You watch girls fall apart and then what, write a dissertation on their bones?”
“Not quite,” I sigh. She’s angry. She has a right to be.
She laughs, a wrecked, bitter sound that turns into a coughing fit. When it passes, she glares at me with what little strength she can muster. “I had a full medical inspection, courtesy of your Board friends. They drew enough blood to fill a kiddie pool and oh, get this, forced me into a reproductive inspection. Yep, speculum and everything. Next time, maybe let me know when your sick little cult wants to probe my uterus for future heirs.”
The words are so sharp they should hurt, but I feel nothing but a cold, leaden rage. Not at her. At the Board. At Abelard and Valence and every fucker who ever thought tradition meant permission.
