Page 79 of Breaking Isolde
I nod, once. “I do.”
He gestures at the table. There’s a contract, parchment as thick as cardboard, covered in legalese and Latin and blood-red wax. A ceremonial quill and inkpot wait beside it.
“Sign,” Abelard says.
I take the pen. The weight is wrong, too light, but I do it anyway. My signature is ugly, a series of jagged slashes. The ink dries black.
Abelard watches me, then lifts the next page.
“And the terms for your Claimed.”
Isolde stiffens in the chair. I can see the tremor in her fingers.
Abelard’s voice is smooth, rehearsed. “Per tradition, the Greenwood will be branded, in flesh, and bound to the House of Grey. Her firstborn child will belong to the Board until such time as they are sorted into their rightful place among us.”
Valence shifts, an almost-smile ghosting over her lips.
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Isolde tenses under my hand.
“What the fuck, Rhett?” She screams. “No!”
The hooded figures look up, startled. No one says a word, but I see the ripple, the shift in the air as a dozen predators catch a new scent.
Abelard blinks, slowly. “You refuse the ritual?”
“I accept the Chair,” I interrupt her before she can speak, “but Isolde is mine without your mark. She will not be branded.”
Gasps, small and sharp, fill the air.
Valence leans in, her eyes bright. “That is not the way.”
“It is now,” I say.
Abelard’s smile turns dangerous. “You dare to break centuries of order? Of the Law?”
I meet his eyes. I let him see the monster I am, the one he built piece by piece.
“I do,” I say.
The room explodes in whispers, voices overlapping. Some are furious, some intrigued, all of them hungry for chaos.
Abelard slams the table with his fist. The candles shudder.
“You overstep, boy. All women of Westpoint are branded.”
I step forward, close enough to smell the cologne on his collar. “Try me.”
He stands, slow, every inch of him vibrating with threat. “If you refuse, the debt transfers. The penalty will fall on your own head. You will forfeit your right to succession. We won’t just take your firstborn, but all your children. We demand you uphold the covenant of the Law!”
I don’t blink. “You need me more than I need you. You want order, or you want a war?”
Valence tips her head, studying me. “Interesting.”
Abelard turns to her. “You support this madness?”
She shrugs, the movement elegant. “Sometimes madness is just innovation in ugly clothing.”
