Page 74 of Breaking Isolde
He traces the bruise on my collarbone with one finger, then lets his hand fall to his lap. “Does it hurt?” he asks.
“Only when I move,” I lie.
“Try not to.”
He doesn’t move, just sits there, staring at the curve of my neck. His eyes are fixed, hungry, but not for flesh. It’s something else, something I don’t have the words for.
I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, and tuck my face into the crook of my elbow.
He says, “I never wanted to hurt you.”
I look up, glare at him through the mess of my hair. “You could’ve fooled me.”
He doesn’t defend himself. Just sits, hollowed out.
He breathes in, then out. “Casey didn’t deserve what happened. But you—you don’t deserve any of this either. I just—I didn’t know how else to keep you safe. The Hunt—it’s rigged. If I didn’t claim you, they wouldn’t take mercy on you. There’s no escaping. Not for me. Not for any of us.”
I wait for the punchline, the “it was all for your own good,” but he just lets the words hang there, like he knows how pathetic they sound.
“I’m not Casey. I’m not weak.”
He nods. “I know.”
He brushes the hair from my face, thumb grazing my cheekbone. His hand is warm, rough, but it doesn’t hurt.
“I can say I’m sorry forever, and I will if that’s what it takes, but you’re either gonna believe me or you’re not. There’s not much I can do about it either way.”
I want to say something, to tell him to fuck off, but the anger is gone, replaced by a weird, empty ache.
He stands, pacing the room, hands twisting. “If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
I laugh, broken. “I can’t even walk properly.”
He kneels in front of the bed, face level with mine. “Then stay. Just for now. Please.”
The please throws me. He’s never asked for anything before.
He reaches out, hesitates, then rests his hand on my knee. His eyes are wild, desperate, like he’s the one running from something.
He whispers, “I don’t know how to fix this.”
I don’t either.
So I do the only thing that makes sense: I grab his shirt, pull him in, and kiss him.
It’s not like before. There’s no violence, no hunger. Just lips against lips, the slow need of wanting something you shouldn’t.
He kisses me back, slow, like he’s afraid to hurt me. His hands cradle my face, thumbs tracing the line of my jaw.
I let him.
He lays me back, careful not to jostle my wounds, and covers my body with his. He’s warm, heavy, the weight of him a comfort.
He kisses down my neck, stopping at each bruise. He lingers there, tongue gentle, lips soft. His hands never roam, never push.
He waits for me to move first.
I slide my hand over his body, feeling the scars on his back, the hard lines of muscle. He shivers, then presses closer.
