Chapter 8 Rhett #3
I haul Isolde out of my lap and march her towards the one chair in the room that has the spotlight on it.
There’s nothing else around it, but previous events have used this spot for humiliation rituals.
Passages of Rite. This is the one I will use to force her into submission.
Sitting, I settle in, legs spread. She hovers at my side, not daring to look up.
I pat my thigh. “Sit.”
She blinks, uncomprehending. For a second, I think she’ll refuse.
I grab her by the waist and pull her across my lap, dress bunching indecently high on her thighs. The movement snaps her spine straight, face going red beneath the remains of her mask. Her hair is tangled, flowers askew.
The room quiets.
I stroke her cheek with the back of my hand. “You’re doing so well,” I say, loud enough for the nearest donors to hear. “Almost like you’ve done this before.”
She starts to stand, but I clamp down, locking her in place. She makes a soft, wounded noise. I smile, showing teeth.
Ms. Valence glides over, her smile thin as a scalpel. “Our dear Mr. Grey,” she says, voice bright as frost. “I must say, if you break this one, you do Westpoint proud.”
I incline my head. “Just following tradition.”
She turns her gaze on Isolde, assessing. “You take to your role with surprising ease, Miss Greenwood.”
Isolde doesn’t answer. Valence presses a hand to her shoulder, not gentle, then floats away.
The guests edge closer, hungry for whatever comes next.
I lean in to Isolde’s ear. “You have a choice,” I whisper.
“Kneel now, or I’ll spank your bare ass and have you on your knees in a way they’ll never let you forget.
I’ll fuck your throat in front of every donor here, and I’ll come on your face like you’re nothing, and then I’ll make you thank me for it. ”
“Please…”
“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.
“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.