Page 88 of Breaking Isolde
“Come, let’s go to my place. I have an idea and it involves a phone call.”
The clock in the Feral Boys hall ticks loud and insistent. Every second is a threat, a reminder that time’s running out and I’m fresh out of lifelines. All except one.
I pace the length of hall, hands dug into my hair until the scalp burns. Isolde sits on the couch, knees tucked to her chin, watching me with that flint-eyed determination that makes me want to break things. Or fix them. Or both.
I check my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. There are no rules, no roadmap, only the certainty that if I miscalculate, they’ll kill her. Or me. Or both.
I hit Caius’s number. The line rings, once, twice, then connects. His voice is static. “Grey. This is a bad time.”
I keep my tone even, but it wavers. “Need a favor.”
A pause, then a sigh. “What kind?”
“I need sanctuary. For Isolde.” I glance at her, and she meets my eyes without blinking. “The Board’s coming down on us. Hard. They want to erase her, Cai. Not just from Westpoint—permanently.”
The silence stretches, thin and tight. Caius doesn’t answer right away. I know he’s doing the math: risk to himself, to O, to the future they’re building out there, wherever they are now.
When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, almost gentle. “You sure about this?”
“No.” I swallow. “But I don’t have another move. Not unless I start killing people, a LOT of people, by myself, and even then, there’s only so much blood I can spill before the Board sends in the real monsters.”
He laughs, short and sharp. “You are the real monster, Rhett. That’s why they like you.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Cai.”
“I’m not.” Another pause. “Listen. O is pregnant. I don’t want trouble, but I’ll do this for you, because you’re my brother. One time favor, but neither of you can cause us issues. We’re in the middle of a move. You know the drill: burn your phone, take the river road, don’t bring anything that can be traced.”
“I know.”
“Meet me at the old turbine plant,” he says. “One a.m. sharp. If you’re late, I’m gone.”
I breathe out, slow and steady. “Thank you.”
He hangs up without another word.
I stand there for a minute, staring at the phone like it just told me the date of my own execution. Isolde breaks the silence. “What did he say?”
I look at her, memorize the way she sits, the way she doesn’t flinch even though her whole world is about to go up in smoke. “We have a place to go. But we can’t fuck it up. Not even a little.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I gather the basics: a duffel bag, two changes of clothes, my old hunting knife, the keys to the BMW. I wipe down my phone, tossit in a glass of whiskey, and watch the screen bubble and die. When I look up, Isolde is at my side, watching me.
“What if we don’t make it?” she asks.
I consider lying, but I’m done with that. “Then we go out fighting.”
She grins, bright and savage. “Good.”
I sling the bag over my shoulder, scan the room for anything I missed. The Westpoint crest on my wall stares back at me, smug and eternal. I rip it down, fold it once, and toss it in the trash.
It’s over. There’s no going back.
We walk out together, silent as ghosts, ready to burn the world down if that’s what it takes.
We don’t get far.
We hit the stairwell and I hear it: a soft, measured click. The sound of heels, not boots. Old money doesn’t run. It arrives.
