Page 44 of Breaking Isolde
“I tried it your way, Isolde. Now we do it mine.”
Her breath shudders. She squeezes her eyes shut, fingers clawing my sleeve.
I shift, maneuvering her to the hard floor between my legs.
“Kneel,” I say, this time louder.
She hesitates, trembling, but slides off my lap to her knees, the white dress pooling around her. For a second, she hides her face behind her hands.
I force her arms down, making her look up at me. “That’s better.”
The old men watch, delighted. Someone claps, another hollers.
I grip her by the hair and stroke it, slow and deliberate. I make a show of presenting her, my trophy, my acquisition, my prey.
“To the future of Westpoint,” I say.
Someone raises a glass. “To the success of your claiming,” comes the echo.
I keep her there for an hour. Every so often, I force her to fetch drinks, to pour for the donors, to kneel again at my feet. When someone asks about the upcoming Hunt, I make Isolde answer. She does, voice flat, never missing a word.
At one point, a retired senator in a mask of beaten gold leans down and strokes her cheek. “You’ll make fine stock,” he tells her. “The best always do.”
She doesn’t move. I watch her, waiting for the break.
When it comes, it’s almost invisible: a single tear, down the left cheek, gone before anyone else notices. I brush it away with my thumb.
“There’s my girl,” I suck the tear off my finger.
The party dwindles. The Board files out, satisfied, and the Boys drift to the smoking terrace, leaving us alone.
I haul her to her feet and steer her toward the back. No one will disturb us here.
She slumps against the wall, arms wrapped tight across her chest.
“Why are you doing this?” she says, voice barely more than a thread.
I lean against the wall beside her, arms folded. “Because you made it necessary.”
She blinks, eyes wild. “I never—”
“You rejected the only part of me that was human,” I say. “You didn’t want me when I was kind to you, when I confessed. You spat on it. So this is what’s left.”
She shakes her head, tears welling again.
I close the distance, trapping her against the wall. “You can fight me all you want,” the words are a snarl. “But you’ll never escape. You wanted the monster? Now you have him. And the rules are simple: you obey, or you suffer. If you want to negotiate, you know what you have to do.”
She shakes, lips trembling. “I hope you fucking die.”
“You’re mine, Isolde, all you have to do is submit.”
She tries to look away. I grab her chin and force her to meet my gaze.
“I’ll give you this one mercy,” I say. “If you ever want to change the rules—if you want to make it stop—all you have to do is admit I was right. Admit you believe what I told you about Casey. Admit you belong to me.”
She shudders, but says nothing.
I let her go, then smooth her hair back into place, fixing the bent stalks of lavender in her crown.
