Page 11 of Breaking Isolde
I consider it. “Yeah, actually, would you mind?”
Her fingers flex. She wants to hit me. Instead, she goes still, drawing herself up to her full height—not insignificant, especially in those boots—and fixes me with a look that could strip paint.
It doesn’t work, but I do find it endearing.
She tugs the shirt away from her chest, wincing as the fabric peels off her skin. The flush deepens, no longer just embarrassment but something else. She’s angry, humiliated, but under it all—she’s excited. Her eyes flicker from my face to my hands, back to my face again.
“You get off on this?” she says.
I lean in, just enough to crowd her space. “You tell me.”
For a moment, we’re eye to eye. Her breath catches. The muscles in her neck tense, then relax, as if she’s forcing herself not to step back.
She holds the line.
The moment stretches, too tight to be comfortable. Finally, she breaks it with a single word: “Who are you?”
It’s not the question she wants to ask. The real question is “What are you?” She already knows the answer, but she needs to hear it, needs to make it a rule she can break.
“Rhett.”
Her mouth twitches. “Of course. Feral Boy number two. I knew I recognized you. Shitty job you’ve done stalking me this week. Hope you found out something useful.”
I’m impressed. We aren’t usually front page news. Our society is more of a ‘in the shadows type.’ “You’ve done your homework on us.”
She snorts. “Don’t think I’m stupid,Rhett. I know all about your little games.”
“They’re so much fun,Isolde.Maybe you’d like to play one with me someday. I have some duct tape and rope in my truck. Or maybe you’re more of a mask girl who deserves to be choked and told what a good little princess she is.”
She shakes her head, and the movement sends a drop of coffee down to the waistband of her skirt. She swipes at it, frustrated. “Figures. They said this place was bad, but I didn’t realize it was run by actual sociopaths.”
I smile, slow and deliberate. “You’re cute.”
She bares her teeth in a parody of a smile. “I bite.”
Her composure is a marvel. Every other transfer I’ve ever met crumpled under the first hit. She’s holding together by pure will.
I decide to press. I step closer, my shadow falling over her, close enough that I can smell the muted perfume on her skin. “You should get cleaned up before it sets. Coffee’s a bitch to get out.”
She glances down, then up, calculating the angle. “You going to follow me to the bathroom, or is this where the creepy part ends?”
I let the silence drag.
Finally, she shakes her head and pushes past, brushing my arm with hers as she goes. The contact is electric, enough that I almost reach for her wrist. Almost.
She disappears into her building, and I stand there, watching the door swing shut behind her.
I catch her again, skulking down the halls, two hours later. She’s wearing a different shirt, some band one with faded lettering. Not becoming of an Academy student, but I don’t give a fuck. Her hair is damp, curls twisting at the temples, and the blush has faded to something cool and hard.
She sees me and hesitates before continuing on down to the study hall, then makes a show of ignoring my presence, sitting at the end of a bench with her back to the rest of the room. She opens her notebook and pretends to read, but I can see her eyes darting to the reflection in the window.
She wants to know if I’m still watching.
I am.
Halfway through the hour, I pass her table. She doesn’t look up, but her breath stutters in her throat. I stop, lean over, and tap the table once.
“Following me?”
