Page 35 of Breaking Isolde
He squeezes my throat, not hard enough to choke, but enough to make me dizzy. “But you—” he growls. “You are better than her. Stronger. I want to break you and keep every shattered piece. You are the one they should have chosen for me from thefucking start, and now that you’re here, I have every intention of ensuring I claim you.”
I claw at his hand, nails biting into his skin. “Let go,” I gasp.
He does. My knees buckle, but he catches me before I hit the ground, cradling my head in his hands like I’m made of glass.
He laughs, but his voice is broken. “I can’t win, can I?”
I shake him off and step away, rubbing my neck. The world is spinning, the edges fuzzy.
“Go to hell,” I say.
He stands, fists clenched, and for the first time there’s fear in his eyes. Not fear of me, but fear of himself.
“I’m already there,” he says.
His chest is heaving but he’s shattered and silent, a statue among the dead plants and broken glass. He just stands there, breathing hard, eyes locked on mine, as if I’m the only thing holding him to this world.
The world comes back slow. First the rush of blood behind my eyes, then the sting of cold on my skin, then the fine tremor in my hands that I have to clench into fists to hide.
I push off the wall, shoulders squared, and stare him down. My voice is shredded, but I make it work. “You’re not the wolf anymore, Rhett. You’re just another rich fuck who won’t get what he wants.”
He laughs, but it’s hollow. “That makes you what? My bitch?”
“Call me your executioner,” I say, and watch the words land. He takes them, absorbs them, and I can see the gears grind behind his eyes as he tries to rewrite the rules of our little game.
I pull up the hood of my jacket, smooth the wrinkles out of my sleeves, and step past him.
I can feel his gaze drilling into my back as I walk. My heart’s hammering, the echo of his grip still hot on my neck, but I keep my spine straight and my eyes fixed ahead. The moment I reach the door, I pause—just long enough for him to wonder if I’ll turn around, if I’ll give him a second chance to finish what he started.
I don’t.
By the time I hit the edge of the quad, I’ve already decided what comes next.
It’s not the plan I started with, but it’s better. Cleaner. My anger is still there, a slow-roiling storm, but under it is something harder: control. He feels more than he lets on, which makes him weak. Weaker than me because I have no sadness left, only bitterness and rage.
I walk past the old stone fountain, watch the water bead and freeze on the rim.
I don’t go back to Archer House. Instead, I duck into the library, head for the stacks nobody uses, and pull out my notebook, making a mental note to get Rhett to return my other one.
I flip to a blank page, stare at the grid of blue lines, and for the first time in months, my hand doesn’t shake as I write.
1. Rhett is not invincible.
2. He feels more than he wants to.
3. He’s afraid—of me, of himself, of what he did to Casey.
I add a fourth line, in all caps:
4. HE NEEDS ME.
I underline it twice, just to make sure it sticks.
The rest of the page fills up with plans. Some are stupid, like starting a rumor war with the Feral Boys. Some are mean, like getting him expelled, or better yet, suspended from whatever shit show the Board runs here. The best ones are simple, elegant: make him fall in love, then snap the leash.
I don’t know which I’ll choose, but it feels good to have options. It feels good to know that next time he tries to choke me out, I’ll be ready.
Time loses meaning and I spend the rest of the morning running scenarios. How he’ll act, what he’ll say, how I’ll counter every move. By the time the clock in the reading room strikes noon, I’m starving, but I don’t want to risk the dining hall. Instead, I buy a protein bar from the vending machine and eat it in three bites.
