Page 39 of Breaking Isolde
She looks away, hands white-knuckled on the rail.
I slide closer, my hip pressed against hers. “You hate me,” I say, “but you love the game. You love being wanted. You love being prey.”
She turns, her mouth inches from mine before she steps back. “I hate you more than I love anything.”
“That’s a start.”
We stand like that, bodies aligned, not touching but closer than strangers should be. The wind rises and dies, the noise from the party dull in the background.
I reach up and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t flinch, but her breathing changes—shallower, faster.
“It’s time.”
She doesn’t argue.
Inside, the second wave of arrivals has begun. Some of the more aggressive donors have already gotten drunk enough to start circling again. Isolde’s presence on my arm does nothing to discourage them. If anything, it marks her as a challenge.
We make the rounds. I introduce her to everyone: faculty, the rest of the Board, alumni. She doesn’t try to hide her contempt,but she plays nice. She’s brilliant at it, sharper than the knives they use to cut the appetizers.
The ballroom is a ring, and I lead her through every quadrant. She’s recognized everywhere, the dead Greenwood sister floating behind her like a ghost. Every introduction is another little murder.
After twenty minutes, she’s ready to snap.
I pull her aside, into the shadow of a pillar. “You’re doing great.”
She looks at me, eyes gone icy. “Go fuck yourself.”
“I’d rather fuck you.” Anger surges through me. “But that can wait.”
She starts to retort, but then she sees the line of Board members approaching, Ms. Valence in the lead. She goes still, all her hate collapsing into one perfect, controlled breath.
Valence doesn’t smile. “Isolde. Lovely to see you.”
Isolde’s mask doesn’t move. “Can’t say the same.”
Abelard hangs back, staring at me. I give him nothing.
Valence turns to me. “We appreciate your efforts to integrate Ms. Greenwood. It’s important to show unity.”
I nod, mask in place. “She’s one of us now.”
Isolde’s body locks up at the words. She bristles, a spasm down the length of her arm. If she could, she’d deck this old biddie in the face.
Valence hands her a glass of champagne. “To the Night Hunt,” she says.
Isolde doesn’t drink. She raises the glass, stares at the bubbles, and then pours it into a potted plant.
“Sorry,” she says, “I’m allergic.”
Valence’s lips curve, a micro-smile. “How unfortunate.”
“Mmmm, yes you look simply devastated.”
“You better get her under control, Grey, or we will have to do it for you.” Valence’s eyes cut to me, then back to Isolde. “Enjoy the evening,” she says, and they move off, melting into the sea of masks.
Isolde leans back against the pillar, hands clenched in the fabric of her dress. Her whole body vibrates with tension.
“Can I go now?” she says.
