Page 95 of Breaking Isolde
“You’ll be safe here… for a while,” he says, and it’s not a platitude.
“There’s one other thing.”
Caius arches an eyebrow. “Name it.”
“Do you still have the old tattoo kit?”
Caius laughs. “Was wondering when you’d ask.”
He crosses to the far side of the study and opens a wooden cabinet. He slides open a drawer and pulls out a battered leather case. The thing looks like it belonged to a 1920s sideshow artist—worn, scuffed, but every buckle still sharp. He sets it on the desk and flips it open.
Rows of sterilized needles, two power supplies, vials of ink in black, red, and blue. There’s a set of gloves, surgical scissors, a bottle of hospital-grade antiseptic and clear skins.
I take the kit, thumb the catch on the lid. “If they want to mark her as property, I’ll do it myself. On my terms.”
Caius nods, not quite proud but definitely impressed. “She’ll know it’s yours.”
I meet his eyes. “She already does.”
Slade snickers. “Careful, Grey. You’re starting to sound romantic.”
“Fuck off, Slade.”
He salutes me with his lighter, then turns to the window and watches the trees.
Caius stands there, hands in his pockets, gaze steady. “You’re really not coming with us, are you?”
“Doubt it.”
He studies me for a long time, then offers a hand. I take it, because this is the only real ritual that ever mattered.
“If you need anything else,” he says, voice gruff, “you know where to find me.”
I nod, then leave the study, the weight of the kit in my palm. In the corridor, I pause for a second and look back through the door. Caius is already pouring another drink, already planning the next move. Slade lights his cigarette and flips me the bird.
It’s almost funny.
I walk down the hall, clutching the tattoo kit.
There’s only one thing left to do.
Everything is silent. I cross the main hall and find her curled on the kitchen bench, asleep with her arms folded around her chest, knees drawn up to her chin. Her head rests on a stack of paper napkins, hair wild and matted, lips parted in a way that betrays the child she used to be before all of this.
In sleep, Isolde looks defenseless—until you notice her right hand, curled into a fist even now, knuckles white, ready for the next attack.
For a moment, I stand there, just watching. The moonlight outlines her cheekbones, the faint scar under her jaw, the birthmark that hides in the shadow of her left collarbone. I want to touch her, but I don’t. I want to wake her, but I wait.
This is the real problem: I know what it means to want, and I know what it costs to get it.
I set the tattoo kit on the table and clear my throat.
She wakes instantly, eyes wide, shoulders tensed. Her left hand darts out, searching for a weapon that isn’t there, before she realizes it’s me. She relaxes, but only by a hair. “What time is it?” she mumbles, voice rough from sleep.
“Almost four. Sorry.”
She shifts, rubbing her eyes. “Sleep now?”
I shake my head. “Not until I do something.”
