Page 77 of Breaking Isolde
My thoughts empty of everything. The anger, the bitterness, the rage. The burning desire to get revenge for something that he probably didn’t have a choice in.
Instead, I dream of him.
And I wonder if that’s enough to make me whole again.
Chapter 16: Rhett
There’snodreamsasI rest. Whatever was left in me is all redacted, classified, burned out in the Hunt. Isolde sleeps beside me, one arm across her chest, the other bandaged to the elbow. Her hair fans across my pillow, the color of drying blood. She doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch. I watch her breathe, count the seconds between each rise of her chest, waiting for her to turn, to wake, to say something cruel and necessary to fill the space.
I get up and have a quick shower, not wanting to leave her for too long before pulling on a new pair of boxers and hopping back in beside her.
The corridor outside my quarters is silent except for the distant groan of the ancient pipes, but I’m used to those. What I’m notused to is the sound of measured footsteps, a click-click on the tiles, deliberate and slow. There’s no knock. Whoever it is, they don’t bother with warning.
I’m already sitting upright, sheets bunched around my hips, when the lock disengages with a click. The door creaks open and a figure steps in, the silhouette lit harsh and stark by the overhead bulbs. Black robes, gloves so tight they might as well be part of the skin.
He carries a scroll. Old money, literal style.
He closes the door behind him and stands just inside, the scroll cradled in both hands, arms extended.
I don’t bother with a show of strength. I stand, and face him with my hands loose at my sides.
“The Board’s running low on subtlety,” I say.
The messenger doesn’t respond, only inclines his head the slightest degree.
I take the scroll, break the red wax with my thumb, and unroll it. The letterhead is familiar: the Board’s insignia, Westpoint’s logo.
To the Heir Apparent, Rhett Grey:
You are hereby summoned, together with your claimed, to appear before the Board at the appointed hour of 8pm. You will present the Hunted, Isolde Greenwood, for the ceremonial acceptance and branding, as tradition and legacy require.
Upon completion, you will be invested with all rights and obligations of the Chair.
Failure to comply will result in forfeiture of claim and immediate erasure.
I read it twice, even though I could have guessed every word before I broke the seal.
I roll the parchment back up and glance at the messenger. “You can tell Abelard I’ll be there. And to try something new. The threats are getting boring.”
A flick of his chin, then he turns and leaves, door closing behind him with a click.
I toss the scroll onto the desk and look at Isolde. She’s awake, eyes wide and unblinking, staring at the space where the messenger was. The pale of her skin is brighter than usual. She blinks once, then sits up, the sheet slipping to her waist.
“What did it say?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away. I need to consider how much to involve her in Board politics. “The usual. They want to brand you as mine. And make me swear fealty.”
“And if we don’t go?”
“They kill us both,” I say, and I don’t bother softening it.
She shrugs, but the movement is stiff. “Figures. So what? Are you gonna brand me?”
“Nah.”
We don’t talk after that. There’s nothing to say.
She limps to the bathroom and slams the door. I hear water running, the clatter of bottles. I use the time to get dressed. I choose black, but today it’s the good suit, the one tailored to fit. The tie is silk, narrow, the knot tiny and perfect.
