Page 52 of Breaking Isolde
I shake my head. “Nope.”
She groans and falls back against the pillow. “I feel like shit.”
“You look worse,” I say, and she almost smiles.
I pour her another glass of water and set it next to the bed.
She sits up and drinks, hands shaking.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks, her brow so high up on her forehead, it almost disappears
“Because no one else will,” I say.
She stares at me, like she’s trying to see through me. “You’re a monster.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I’m your monster now.”
She closes her eyes and lets the words sink in before passing out, her snoring slow and gentle.
The rest of night is endless and every hour tastes like penance.
I don’t sleep, even after Isolde’s breathing goes quiet and regular. I stand watch over her like I’m expecting her to vanish at any moment, as if the next time I blink she’ll be a chalk outline in the shape of a regret.
The room gets cold. I find her extra blanket in the closet and lay it over her, tucking the edges in around her. I set her phone to vibrate and place it within arm’s reach of her.
By seven, she’s opening her eyes, rolling over and staring at me.
“You must really like the stink of vomit, Grey.”
“Guilty.”
She smiles, barely, and the fever has burned the fight out of her. “Most guys would have left.”
“I’m not most guys,” I say.
She rolls her head toward me, the hair fanned out across the pillow in sweaty clumps. “Is this what you did for her?”
“No.”
She nods, hesitates and then inhales.
“Did you love her?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Instead, I reach out and brush her hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger on the skin just long enough to feel her pulse.
She doesn’t pull away.
The silence sits. Not uncomfortable, but not comfortable either.
After a minute, she gets up and heads to the bathroom. Standing, I’m ready, just in case she needs me. As she passes, she rolls her eyes. I memorize the shape of her mouth, the small scar on her left eyebrow, the tiny notch in her earlobe where someone once tried to pierce it and failed.
Her question trigger memories I’d rather not remember. Casey, not as she was in the end, but as she looked the first time I cornered her in this very building. The same stubborn tilt to the jaw, the same eyes daring you to do your worst.
I hum the nursery rhyme, soft and slow, and for a moment the room feels haunted.
Is this what she heard in her final moments?
The question hangs in the darkness, unanswered.
