Page 67 of Breaking Isolde
I get up, strip off the remains of the dress, and use my blood to draw lines on my chest, my arms, my face.
I am not prey.
I am the storm.
“If you’re going to claim me…” I pause, “If Im going to LET you claim me, we’re not gunna do it with just your creepy friends watching. Yeah, HI BOYS, I SEE YOU.”
Rhett cocks his head, watching me. “Oh? Then how do you wanna be fucked, Issy?”
“Over the boulder where they spilled my blood.”
The answering grin is dark and menacing and finally I understand.
This game isn’t about old money’s power… it’s about the new. Finding strength in brokenness and power in struggle.
If they want a show, I’ll give them one.
If they want a monster, I’ll become one.
Rhett offers me his hand, “Let’s get going then, my wild Goddess.”
I take it and we start walking.
Chapter 14: Rhett
Wewalkuptheembankment together, hand in hand, as if the entire world isn't watching our every step. Isolde is naked except for a crown of mud and tangled hair. Blood runs down her thigh, dirt smeared up her ribs, one breast streaked raw from the gash where the branch bit her earlier. She limps, but refuses to lean on me. There’s no shame in her body. She could walk into a Senate chamber, bare and battered, and make half the gallery flinch.
We crest the rise above the amphitheater. The torchlight halos her head and for a half second I see Casey in her—the same defiance, same wild eyes, same refusal to bow even when the world is loaded against her. The difference is, Isolde is all fire and gasoline, and Casey was gentle in spirit.
She was never going to make it in our circles, but Isolde will.
She has to.
The assembly has never been this silent. Not for me, not for anyone.
A respectful distance away, the Feral Boys have regrouped: Colton, Bam, Julian. None of them move an inch. Colton gives a slow nod of respect, something almost like a salute. Bam leans back against a tree, licking his lips, eyes never leaving Isolde. Julian watches with his own hunger.
On the platform, the Board is arranged in a precise half-circle—twelve pairs of hands, all folded at exactly the same angle. Abelard stands at the center, his face the only visible emotion: total, unvarnished shock. Valence’s gaze tracks Isolde, but she does not move, does not speak.
The funders are more honest. I can taste their disgust. The ritual tradition abandoned in the mud is a bigger scandal than the blood on Isolde's thighs. A few men in tuxedos avert their eyes. A woman in a fur stole makes a small sound, chokes it down. No one says a word.
Isolde pulls ahead, steps to the base of the altar, and looks up at the Board. Then she laughs. Loud, unhinged, a cackle that bounces off the stone and rolls through the seats like an aftershock. She bows, arms open, as if presenting herself for judgment.
"If you want a show, you're gunna get one!" she yells, voice hoarse, and throws her head back to howl at the sky.
The sound rattles the Board. Abelard blinks first, hands falling from their perfect formation. Valence looks at me, a silent accusation, but I just smile and guide Isolde up the small hill to the ancient boulder. She steps in the sand circle and wiggles her feet.
I sweep the ritual daggers and white linen off the rock with one arm, letting them scatter in the dirt below. She climbs it herself, dragging herself up the rough face, without so much as a wince. At the top, she turns, looks at the faces watching, then at me, and waits. I reach for her.
She doesn't resist when I push her back onto the stone. She sprawls, arms wide, legs splayed. She laughs again, quieter this time, and runs her tongue along her teeth, baring them at me like an animal.
I kiss her. Hard. I bite her bottom lip until she bleeds. I squeeze her breast, hard enough to make her hiss, then run my palm over the ridge of her ribs, counting each one. Her heart is pounding, fast and uneven, but not with fear.
I leave a hickey on her neck, then another just below her collarbone. The marks overlap—my signature in red and purple, layered over the bruises from the chase. The assembly doesn’t matter anymore. They could riot, scream, set the stands on fire, and I wouldn't stop.
All I want is to devour her.
She tries to arch up, to bite my face, but I pin her down and grind my knee between her legs. I can feel her, slick and hot, despite the cold. She writhes, moans, shoves at my shoulders, but I hold her down. The stone is freezing, and her skin pebbles under my hands.
