Page 92 of Breaking Isolde
I can’t read her expression. Maybe she’s wondering if I’ll eat her baby. Maybe she’s just sizing up the next victim of this bullshit legacy.
Rhett leans in close. “You okay?” he whispers.
I want to say yes. I want to say I’m fine, that I can take it, that nothing those fucks at Westpoint did was enough to break me.
But I’m not okay.
I’m terrified.
And I’m not ashamed of it.
I let Rhett lead me to the living room, where I collapse onto the couch and curl into a ball. The world goes blurry. My teeth chatter, not from cold but from the shock of it all. I feel his hand on my back, steady and warm as he helps me out of my boots and my jacket.
She’s dead… I’ve never actually seen someone die before… right in front of me…
I stare at the wall and wait for the next disaster.
Caius says something to Slade, too quiet for me to hear. Slade disappears down a hallway, feet silent on the hardwood. Caius doesn’t acknowledge us; he’s too busy checking every lock andwindow, eyes flicking to the monitors, then to the frozen lake outside.
Ophelia is now standing by the fireplace, just watching me. She looks different in real life, compared to the photo I saw of her—less tragic, more real. Her face is tired, the skin around her eyes bruised by sleeplessness. She looks like the kind of woman who can outlast a siege.
I envy her… for a moment. Before I remember that she’s a product of her own hunt. Her own ritual.
She contemplates for a second, then moves. She doesn’t glide or float or do any of that uppity shit. She walks like a regular person, feet flat on the floor, one hand on her belly, the other on her hip.
She stops two feet away, stares at my face, then at my ruined clothes.
“You’re here,” she says, voice soft.
I don’t know what to say, so I just nod.
She hugs me. Full-on, arms-around-my-back, belly-pressed-to-my-guts hug. It’s so normal and human and unexpected that I start to shake. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I hug her back, gently, afraid I’ll break her or the baby.
When she lets go, she looks at Rhett, then at Caius. “She needs a shower and some clean clothes,” she says, voice all business. “Shower’s upstairs, go in the spare room, there’s clothes in the drawers that might be a close enough fit.”
Rhett nods, already in motion. He leads me down a hall, up a set of stairs, and into a bedroom bigger than my childhood home. There’s an attached bathroom with a tub the size of a small pool, a big shower head and towels folded chaotically, and an entire shelf of first-aid supplies.
I sit on the edge of the tub, staring at the marble floor. Rhett kneels in front of me, his hands shaking as he pulls off my socks.
He grabs a washcloth and wets it, wiping down the worst off the dirt in silence, eyes never meeting mine. His hands are strong but gentle. He finishes my arms, then my hands, then my face. Each touch is careful, almost reverent.
When he’s done, he sits back on his heels, staring at the dirty stains on the towel. “Sorry,” his voice is broken.
I reach for him, touch his jaw. “It’s okay,” I say, even though it isn’t.
He leans in, rests his forehead on my knee. For a long time, neither of us moves. “I’ll run you a bath, okay? Just… let me hold you for a minute.”
The world outside is silent, thick with the kind of dark you only get in places untouched by city light. The only sound is Rhett’s breathing, slow and heavy, and the faint hum of the heater.
I don’t realize I’ve almost fallen asleep, until the gunshot cracks through the night.
Rhett’s head snaps up. In one motion he’s up, shoving me behind the bathroom door. “Stay here,” he hisses, then bolts down the hallway.
The house explodes into motion. Caius’s voice is a bark, all command and anger, as he calls for Slade. There’s another gunshot, then a third, muffled but close.
I crouch behind the bathroom door, heart slamming, nails digging into my palms. I count the seconds, try to steady my breath, but it’s useless. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to fight.
I do nothing.
