Chapter 8 Rhett #2
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.
“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.
Colton tilts his glass. “You’re really pushing it, Rhett. The Board’s watching.”
“They love a show,” I say.
And they do. Dr. Abelard and Ms. Valence stand at the far end of the room, just close enough to see every gesture, every calculated move. Abelard’s face is carved out of stone, but Valence watches me like a fucking hawk.
I shift my grip to Isolde’s hip, digging my fingers in until she hisses.
Leaning into her, I snarl, “You’ll smile, you’ll drink, you’ll act grateful. Or I’ll make it worse.”
She bares her teeth, but there’s no bite.
Bam pours us some whiskey and hands us each a glass before downing his in one go.
I raise my glass. “To the Night Hunt,” I say, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear. “To survival of the fittest. May we be fruitful and multiply”
Isolde lifts her glass with a shaking hand. Her voice is steady, though: “To extinction.”
Jules laughs, delighted. “I like her.”
I press the rim of my glass to her lips. “Drink.”
She obeys, draining half in one go.
“Good girl,” I murmur. I know it will make her want to rip my throat out.
I keep her pinned to my lap while the Boys exchange war stories: whose father bribed which Senator, which city the next ‘expansion’ is in, who’s currently on the Board’s shit list. I watch Isolde absorb it all, turning information into future weapons.
She shifts, once, as if to bolt for the doors. I grab her wrist, squeezing until she makes a small, helpless sound.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I say.
She lifts her chin. “You afraid I’ll embarrass you?”
“No. I’m afraid you’ll embarrass yourself.”
I slide my hand up her thigh, just under the tablecloth. She freezes, skin gone white.
“You wouldn’t,” she whispers.
I slide my fingers higher. “You want to test that?”
She tries to jerk away. I clamp down, nails digging into flesh.
She breathes fast, then forces herself to relax.
Jules sees the tension and raises his brows. “Everything good over here?”
I smile. “Just fine.”
Bam drains his drink, slams it down. “Get a room.”
I shake my head. “No fun in that.”
Colton watches Isolde, unreadable. For the first time, he seems almost sorry for her.
The donors circle the table, making idle conversation, trading thinly veiled insults and favors.
Every time someone stops to talk, I introduce Isolde as “my date.” She corrects me once, calls herself “the latest acquisition.” The guests laugh, delighted.
The phrase circulates, and soon everyone is using it.
She is a trophy, and I make sure she knows it.
When the dancing resumes, I drag her onto the floor. The orchestra plays a waltz, but I move her through the steps with none of the traditional grace. I hold her too close, fingers digging into her back, forcing her to follow my lead.
“You can let go now,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Not happening.”
She steps on my foot, deliberately. I squeeze her ribs in return, making her gasp.
We rotate around the floor, every pair of eyes tracking us, waiting for her to crack.
When the song ends, I don’t let go. I lead her off the floor, toward the shadowed alcoves at the side of the room.
She tries to pull free. I slam her against the wall.
Her mask cracks. Not literally, but in the way she stops hiding her expression.
“Why are you doing this?” she says. There’s a tremor in her voice, the first hint of real fear.
I stare at her, mask inches from hers. “Because you asked for it.”
She shakes her head, mouth trembling. “No. I never—”
“You wanted the truth. You wanted to know what I am. This is it. This is all there is. You didn’t want me when I told you what happened to Casey, when I tried to be fucking nice to you, so welcome to the person you thought I was.”
She goes silent, lips parted.
I push her harder into the wall. “Do you like him? The monster? Or would you rather I lie?”
She’s shaking, but she holds my gaze. “I’d rather you let me go.”
I drag my hand up her side, across her ribs. “You’re not leaving. Not tonight. Not ever.”
She tries to spit in my face. I see it coming and turn, so it hits my cheek.
“Bad manners,” I say.
She tries to knee me. I block it, pin her with my thigh.
She bites, hard, at my hand. I grab her chin and squeeze, not hard enough to bruise but enough to send a message.
Her eyes fill with water, but the tears don’t fall.
I brush a thumb across her cheek, smearing the moisture.
“You can cry,” I say. “It won’t change anything.”
She sucks in a breath, shakes her head again.
“I don’t cry for you,” she says.
“That’s a lie.”
I release her just enough to let her breathe. She doesn’t collapse, just slumps against the wall, trembling.
I fix her mask, tucking the flowers back in place.
“You’re not weak,” I say, almost gently. “You’re just outnumbered.”
She swallows, throat working. “I hate you.”
“You’re not the only one. Maybe if you hated me less, we could be something, but you chose this, now you get to lie in it.”
I keep her there, caged between my arms, for another minute. Then I guide her back to the ballroom, hand on the nape of her neck.
She moves like a puppet, limbs limp. Her mask is gone, lost somewhere in the struggle. The flowers are wilting in her hair.
She’s perfect.
Isolde stands silent, lips swollen, eyes dead. She’s a ruin, but she’s mine.
I walk her back to the platform, make her sit in my lap while I field questions from the Board.
Julian leans in, voice low. “You’re really going to break her, aren’t you?”
I stare at Isolde, her head bowed, hair covering her face.
“If she won’t learn her manners, then yes, I will force them down her throat until she chokes on them,” I say.
Colton doesn’t speak, but his eyes linger on her, softening at the edges.
Bam just grins. “She’ll make you work for it.”
I nod. “That’s the fun.”
The last act is always the hardest. Not because I lack the stomach for it—there’s nothing in me that recoils from cruelty—but because breaking something perfect always risks shattering it beyond repair.
The donors are thinning, last of the Board drifting toward the open bar, but the ones that matter are still here. The big names, the ones who hide in the shadows behind muscle and high gates.
Abelard has retreated to a velvet settee near the speaker’s podium, where a rotating cast of old men in tuxedos and women in dresses older than most of the student body hold court. They watch the floor with predatory patience, waiting for spectacle.
I give it to them.