Page 45 of Breaking Isolde
“You’re beautiful like this,” I say.
She says nothing, just stares at the carpet.
I take her hand and walk her out, guiding her through the emptying ballroom. Every donor, every Board member, anyone left in the hall sees her and knows.
She is mine.
The night air outside is brittle, the cold slicing through the silk of her dress. I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders.
“Chivalry?” she spits, but her teeth are chattering.
I tuck a hand under her jaw, holding her head steady. “Don’t mistake kindness for weakness, Isolde. I’m done playing your games.”
I walk her across the quad, up the steps to Archer House. She doesn’t fight, just lets me steer her to her room.
At the door, I cup her face, forcing her to look at me.
“The only way out is through me,” I say. “Remember that. See you in class tomorrow.”
I kiss her, slow and savage, then leave her at the threshold.
She closes the door behind her.
I stand in the cold, pulse steady, every muscle in my body humming with victory.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll send her some flowers.
White roses, with lavender.
For our debut in three days.
Chapter 9: Isolde
AllIwanttodo is sleep and ruminate on how to kill Rhett when I find the note at 2:16 AM. It’s not folded, not even sealed—just a rectangle of paper, edges scissored raw, ink bleeding through cheap copy stock. Someone must have slid it under my door and I almost ignore it, but the words on the outside catch me: “Casey. Urgent.”
I pace. My eyes are itchy and rage burns through me from the humiliation I was put through, but I think I understand the game now. Submit, get claimed, win the Night Hunt. Submission isn’t written into my DNA, but maybe it’s my best play.
Have him fall in love with me and rip his cock from his body and watch him bleed to death.
It’s the only thought that keeps me going as I debate on whether to open the note.
Ugh, fuck it. How can this get any worse?
The note is unsigned. Inside:
“Westpoint Medical. Room 209. 2:30 AM. Come alone if you want the truth about your sister. Don’t be late.”
I don’t waste time debating. If this is a trick, it’s one I’d already fallen for the minute I stepped on this campus. If it’s not, maybe I get answers, or at least a reason to sharpen my hate.
I pull on jeans, hoodie, the boots with the thick rubber toes. No makeup. I twist my hair into a bun, finger-comb it until it looks semi decent. My hands shake, just a little, so I slap them against my thighs until they sting.
The quad is black, every lamp gutted by the wind, the path iced with frost that crunches underfoot. The Medical Building looms at the far edge of campus, four stories of windowless stone with a roofline like broken teeth. I walk fast, shoulders hunched, counting steps to keep from losing my nerve.
The automatic doors don’t open. Someone waits behind the glass, a shape in silhouette. He waves me in with a flick of his wrist, then disappears down the corridor. I push at the door and it clicks open on the first try.
Inside, the lights are half-dead, fluorescent tubes humming with that sick blue meant to sterilize feeling. There’s no one at the desk. No one in the waiting area, either. I follow the silhouette—his shoes squeak, even on the industrial carpet—and trail him up the stairs.
Room 209 is at the end of a side hall, the door propped open with a plastic wedge. There’s a sign taped above the knob: “PATIENT INTAKE—AFTER HOURS.” The only light is from a lamp on the far counter, yellow and cheap, so every shadow looks like a bruise.
