Page 66 of Breaking Isolde
The footsteps come again. Closer, closer, then stopping at the edge of the clearing.
I hold my breath, waiting.
He’s there. I can see the black of his suit, the cut of his jaw, his face now splattered with mud and blood.
He waits, not moving. For a second, I think he’s lost my trail, but then he just tilts his head back and sniffs the air, like a fucking wolf.
I want to laugh, but the sound won’t come out.
He circles the clearing, looking for signs of movement, then kneels by the log. His hand, covered in blood and dirt, reaches for the hollow where I’m hiding.
I bite down on his fingers.
Hard.
He howls, yanks his hand back, and for the first time all night, I feel a surge of victory.
I leap out, swinging the jagged end of a branch I broke off inside the log. It’s not a weapon, not really, but I swing it at his face anyway.
He knocks it away, barely, but the force knocks him backward. I keep going, driving the branch into his stomach, then his side.
He grunts, trying to grab it. He twists the branch out of my hands, then grabs my hair and pulls me to him, our faces inches apart.
“Your nickname suits you,” he rasps.
“Better than some stupid like babe or doll,” I spit back.
He laughs, blood on his teeth. “Goddamn woman, you’re perfect.”
He kisses me, hard, teeth clashing, blood and spit and tears all mixing together. I bite him, again, drawing more blood, but he doesn’t stop.
He shoves me to the ground, pins my wrists with one hand, the other pulling up the hem of my dress. The fabric tears away. The cold burns against my skin.
He kisses down my neck, bites my shoulder, then licks the blood from my hand.
“You belong to me now,” he says.
I shake my head, spit in his face again. “Go to hell.”
He just smiles, then runs his hand between my legs. I try to clamp my thighs together, but he’s stronger. He holds me open, presses his fingers inside, slow and rough and claiming.
I hate that my body reacts. I hate that I’m wet, that every nerve is alive, that the pain and the pleasure are indistinguishable.
He leans down, mouth at my ear. “Tell me to stop,” he says.
I want to. I do.
But the words won’t come.
He fucks me with his hand, relentless, until I’m sobbing, half from rage, half from something I refuse to name.
He pulls his hand out, wipes it across my mouth, then stands, looking down at me.
“You fight harder than anyone I’ve ever known,” he says. “That’s why you’re mine.”
He stands, waiting for me to give him something.
I think of Casey, and I know she’s watching.
