Chapter 7 Isolde #2
At the front steps of Archer House, I stop. I’m not ready to go back to my room. The air is sour with the memory of last night—his mouth on my mouth, his hands holding me down, the heat and hate and perfect, wretched need that left me hollowed out and shaking.
Instead, I drift. I do a lap of the quad. Watch the window in the Administration Building where the Board keeps their secrets in file cabinets.
I think about the way their names look when I scrawl them in red sharpie, the way the thumbtacks go in and out of the drywall, the way the yarn stretches taut as veins.
I wonder if Rhett is following me now. I wonder if he ever really stops.
I end up back at the greenhouse. Maybe I’m hoping for round two. Maybe I just want to see if he’s as good at lying as he is at hunting. I don’t expect him to be inside, but when I open the door, he’s still there.
He’s sitting on the stone bench, one leg up, elbows on his knees, staring at a clump of dead fern like he can resurrect it with willpower alone. He doesn’t look up as I come in, but I know he knows I’m there.
I close the door behind me, hard. “I don’t believe you.”
He keeps his eyes on the fern. “Well, it’s the truth.”
“I’ll tell the cops.”
This gets his attention. He turns, stands, and faces me across the gulf of broken glass and dying plants. He looks older than yesterday, like the story of my sister took something out of him that he can’t get back.
“Go ahead” he says.
Fucker is right, no one will believe me. Maybe if I switch tactics…
“You said you didn’t want to hurt me, but you don’t call forcing yourself on me hurting me.”
He shrugs. “I don’t.”
“It’s illegal to rape someone, Rhett.”
He takes a step forward, then another. His hands are in his pockets, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch against the fabric.
“I didn’t rape you, Isolde. I gave you an out, you didn’t take it.
I told you the truth about Casey,” he says.
“You just don’t like it. What more do you want from me?
You’re getting more than anyone else would with any of the others.
I’m trying to be truthful here because I want you to believe me.
To understand I’m just as much a prisoner as you, even if our stations and roles are different. ”
“You said Casey was supposed to be yours. That she was meant for you. That she died because she ran. But I saw the security report, Rhett. There were two sets of footprints. Hers, and yours. And there was blood on the rock before she hit it.”
He goes still.
I keep talking. “You were there when she died. Maybe you didn’t push her. Maybe she did slip. But you were chasing her, weren’t you? Doesn’t that make you an accessory to murder?”
His mouth tightens. He looks away, eyes tracking the ceiling like he’s counting tiles. “That’s the tradition, Isolde. We chase, we claim, you become ours, for better or worse. It’s not personal.”
“It was personal for her.”
He laughs, low and bitter. “Casey was stronger than you think. She could have made it. She could have surrendered when she was supposed to. We could be living our merry little lives right now, but whoever owns this shitty Earth decided she wasn’t the one for me. You are.”
“You said she liked you and yet, she fought to the end. Doesn’t sound like true love to me.”
He smiles, but it’s a corpse of a smile, nothing alive behind it. “She panicked, she didn’t give when she knew it was over. She couldn’t handle the ritual. You’re not like her and you can handle this. You can handle me.”
I cross my arms, every muscle in my body tight. “So what’s this, then? Am I your consolation prize? Your second chance at being the hero of your own story?”
He walks toward me, stops a few feet away. “You’re not a prize. And you’re far from second best, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Sure.”
We’re toe to toe now, the air between us charged like a fault line about to slip.
“Did you ever love her?” I ask, the words burning on the way out.
He flinches. I see it—a tiny jerk of the head, a hitch in his breath. “I don’t do love.”
“Liar,” I say, loud enough to echo off the glass.
He’s closer now, almost touching. “I wanted her,” he says. “But not like this.”
“Like what?” I spit.
He leans in, and for a moment I think he’ll kiss me again, but instead he whispers: “Like I want you.”
He’s shaking. Not a lot, but enough for me to see the control slip, the hands that always move with certainty now barely steady. I think about how easy it would be to break him right now. Just one more push.
So I push.
“Casey never wanted you,” I say. “She was scared. She called you a monster. She told me she wanted out. Never fucking mentioned you at all.”
He closes his eyes, and for a second I think he might cry, but instead he grins—a full, savage, predator’s grin. “That’s my girl,” he says. “I want you to hurt me. I want you to ruin me.”
He grabs my arm, hard, but not like last night. This time he pulls me in and slams my back against the greenhouse wall, one hand at my throat, the other pinning my waist in place.
His breath is hot on my face. I can feel his pulse through his palm. The glass is cold, biting through my hoodie, and the stone under my feet is slick with moss.
He bares his teeth. “You want the truth?” he says, voice a snarl. “I don’t feel guilt. Only disappointment. I lost what was rightfully mine, and now I’m stuck with the memory of her death. Not because I miss her, not because I still want her, but because life sucks and then you fucking die.”
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 the fucking 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.
I go back to Archer House around one. The house is empty, as always. I dump my bag in my room, strip off my jacket, and check my neck in the mirror. The bruise is already yellowing shaped exactly like the curve of his hand.
If I’m being honest, I don’t hate it and I hate that I don’t.
I stare at my reflection for a long time. My face is thin, eyes dark, mouth bruised at the corner, but I don’t look like a victim. I look like someone who’s about to win.
I open the window, let the cold in, and breathe until the air hurts. Then I grab the photo of Casey from the desk, stare at her smile, and make another promise:
Whatever path I choose, I hope I honor you, my dear Casey.
That night, I hear the knock on my window.
It’s late, hours past curfew, and the world outside is silent except for the scrape of bare branches on glass. I wait, pretend I’m asleep, but the knock comes again—softer this time, almost polite.
I get up, cross the room, and slide the window open.
He’s standing on the fire escape, hands in his pockets, hair wild from the wind. His eyes are green fire, but the rest of his face is shut down tight.
“You gonna invite me in?” he says, voice flat.
“Why?” I say. “You want to apologize?”
He shrugs. “No.”
I almost laugh. “Then fuck off.”
But he doesn’t move. He just stands there, breathing like every inhale is a question.
“I meant what I said,” he says finally. “About wanting you.”
I lean out the window, hair blowing in my face. “You don’t know what you want, Rhett. You never did.”
He’s so still he might be carved out of stone. “Maybe. But I know you’re the only thing I think about anymore.”
I feel a shiver go down my spine, but I don’t let him see it.
“I should hate you,” I say.
“You do.”
I nod. “Yeah. But that’s not stopping either of us, is it?”
He shakes his head, a tiny movement. “No.”
We stare at each other, the space between us full of everything we didn’t say in the greenhouse. I want to reach out, touch his face, see if it’s as cold as it looks. I want to punch him, too.
Instead, I say, “Go home, Rhett.”
He laughs, just once. “You’re a real piece of work, Isolde.”
“So are you,” I say. “But mine comes with a warning label.”
He leans in, just enough that I can feel his breath, warm and reckless in the winter air. “Next time you try to get me off of you,” he says, “make it hurt or I’m taking it as consent.”
I slam the window in his face, but not before I see him smile.
He doesn’t leave right away. I hear him sit on the metal landing, hear the creak of the stairs as he leans back and lights a cigarette. He stays there for almost an hour, just outside the glass, the smoke drifting in and mixing with the lavender I use to keep my nightmares away.
Eventually, he’s gone.
But I know he’ll be back.
They always come back, the wolves and the ghosts.
But this time, I’ve decided what my game plan is.
Love… make it hurt and destroy his soul from the inside out.
I crawl back into bed, curl up around the promise I made to Casey, and fall asleep with a smile on my face.