Page 40 of Breaking Isolde
“Not yet.”
She sighs, head tipping back to stare at the ceiling. “I hope you choke on your own ego, Rhett.”
I step in, crowding her. “You’re making this too easy.”
She huffs and then turns, heading down the hall, opposite the party. I roll my eyes and head back to find a drink before going to look for her.
It takes fifteen minutes to find her. She’s hiding in the service corridor behind the ballroom, lights flickering overhead, two empty bottles of Veuve beside her on the floor.
She sits slumped against the wall, mask askew, the white silk of her dress stained at the hem from puddled meltwater. Her eyes are closed, but her whole body is coiled, vibrating with the tension she keeps on a short leash.
I step over the bottles and squat in front of her, hands on my knees.
“I said the party wasn’t over,” I tell her.
She doesn’t open her eyes, just flattens her palms against the stone and says, “Go away.”
I reach for her mask. She bats my hand away, a crackling snap of motion.
“Get off me,” she says. “And fuck off.”
I laugh. “If you wanted me to listen, you would have said please.”
She blinks, then meets my gaze. Her pupils are so wide there’s barely any blue left. She’s not drunk—adrenaline is the only chemical here, and I admire the purity of her refusal.
I tap the side of her mask. “You look good in white.”
She bares her teeth, half-snarl. “Suits the occasion, doesn’t it?”
“Always did.” I grip her elbow and haul her up. She’s heavier than she looks, but not enough to put up real resistance. The contact electrifies her. She jerks, tries to twist free. I don’t let her.
“Let’s make it simple,” I say. “You can walk, or I can carry you. It’s your call.”
She spits at my feet, but follows. Every step, she drags her heels. She’s trembling, but the energy isn’t fear. It’s rage, layered and hot.
I walk her straight through the main doors of the ballroom, the same doors the Board is using to ferry the next round of donors inside.
Everyone notices. That’s the point.
I pull her up to the platform where the Feral Boys are sitting at our table, half hammered. Jules sees us first, his lips twitching. “Look who got domesticated,” he says.
I ignore him and take a seat. Isolde is content to stand, but instead I wrap my arm around her waist, pinning her to my lap.
“You look like a mess, Isolde,” I whisper, mouth grazing her ear. “Perfect for them to see what’s mine.”
She claws at my hand. “I’d rather die.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, squeezing until she whimpers, “you might.”
She’s silent, but I can feel the heat coming off her, anger and humiliation mixing into something that smells sweeter than the roses in her hair.
Julian picks up the whiskey bottle off the floor beside his chair and pours himself another, leans over. “Did you make her say please yet?”
I smile. “She’s still learning.”
Bam snorts. “Not much to learn. You grab, you claim, you keep. Right, Greenwood?”
Isolde glares at him, but doesn’t speak.
