Page 64 of Breaking Isolde
I hear the horn in the distance. It echoes through the trees, a sound so ancient it makes the hair on my arms stand up.
They’ve let him loose.
The air shifts. The cold cuts deeper. I force my legs to move, sprinting through the trees, lungs screaming. I try to think of a strategy—climb a tree, dig a pit, lure him into a swamp—but the woods are unfamiliar, the terrain against me. I double back, then circle.
The dress snags on a branch. I rip it free, tearing a hole up the side as I trip and crash into the ground. My knees are bleeding now, the skin raw from falling. I taste blood in my mouth but I don’t remember biting my tongue. I don’t stop.
My only advantage is that Rhett is predictable. He wants to win, wants the show, wants the ritual to mean something. He’ll try to scare me, herd me, make me crack before he even touches me.
Then he has to claim me. Publicly. With God knows whoever watching.
I slow, then stop, ducking behind a fallen log. I press my back against the bark, try to muffle my breathing. The woods are quiet. I look around, blinking against the cold, and see nothing. Just shadow and mist and the distant glow of the campus lights.
I count to sixty. Then I stand, try to run again, but my ankle turns and I crash down hard. I bite back a scream.
When I look up, I see him.
Rhett is ten yards away, a black silhouette against the gray. The white mask gleams, eyes reflecting the moon. He’s not even breathing hard.
“Nice try,” he says, voice flat and deadly. “But you left a trail.”
I scramble to my feet, ready to fight, but he doesn’t charge. He waits, head tilted, watching to see what I’ll do next.
I bare my teeth, hands clenched. “What, you’re gonna monologue me to death?”
He laughs. “You’re the one who wanted a fair chase.”
He moves then, fast, clearing the distance in three steps. I duck, try to slip past him, but his hand finds the back of my neck and yanks me off balance.
He doesn’t hurt me. He doesn’t have to. He’s stronger, faster, built for this. He pins me to the ground, one hand on my back, the other pulling my wrists behind me.
“You’re not even trying,” he whispers, voice in my ear. “Fight harder.”
I buck, twist, try to headbutt him, but he just tightens his grip. My breath comes in gasps, vision swimming.
I start to cry. Not because of the pain, but because it’s exactly what he wants.
He drags me to my knees, rips the mask from his face, and looks down at me with those annoyingly beautiful green eyes.
He runs a blood-stained finger down my jaw, across my lips. “This is the part where you beg, Isolde.”
I spit in his face. It lands on his cheek, a perfect hit.
He wipes it off, then wipes his hand on the front of my dress, smearing blood and spit together.
He smiles, slow. “Better.”
He stands, hauls me up, and slings me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I kick, thrash, but it’s useless.
He walks, steady, deeper into the woods, not even winded. I hang there, upside down, dress over my head, hair full of leaves.
After a minute, he sets me down. We’re in a clearing, moonlight bright and harsh. There’s a stone bench at the center, slick with frost.
He sits, pulls me onto his lap. I try to resist, but he holds me there, arms like steel.
“I’m going to give you a second chance to run in a minute, because I’ll be honest, this was lame. But first, I want to tell you a secret.” He tilts my chin up. “Do you know what the real point of the Hunt is?”
I shake my head, jaw tight.
