Chapter 9 Isolde
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.
Dr. Abelard waits for me at the desk, white coat starched, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. His face is pure bone, every angle sharper than the last, and his eyes move like he’s slicing you open before you speak.
“Miss Greenwood.”
“Isolde,” I snap. “Why am I here?”
He smiles, teeth bright and wrong. “A routine health assessment. Nothing more.”
“You told me this was about Casey.”
“It’s a requirement for all high-priority candidates. Surely Rhett explained.” He ignores my statement.
The name hits like a sucker punch, but I keep my face blank. “What does any of this have to do with Casey?”
He looks up, all innocence. “Your sister completed her assessment as well. I thought you’d want to be thorough and see what she went through for her big debut.”
He gestures at the exam room, the door already open behind him. “Through there, please. Ms. Valence will assist and the I will be in shortly.”
I step past, and the inside of the room is all surgical white and chrome, every surface wiped so clean it smells like hospital hell.
There’s a rolling cart with syringes and vials, a weighing scale, the usual blood-pressure torture.
But the centerpiece is a gurney bolted to the floor, with four leather restraints fanned out like a starfish.
A camera—actual, old-school camera—sits on a tripod, lens pointed at the gurney.
Ms. Valence stands beside the gurney, lips pinched in a smile, fingers laced at her waist. She’s wearing a navy suit and black gloves, her white hair pulled tight into a knot. Her glasses catch the light, so I can’t see her eyes.
“Welcome, Miss Greenwood,” she says, fake warmth like a plastic plant. “Please have a seat.”
I hesitate, but there’s no way I’m running now. I sit at the edge of the gurney, metal cold through my jeans.
Abelard closes the door, then moves to the rolling cart. He unwraps a length of tape and clicks his pen.
“Let’s get started. You may remove your top, please.”
I snort. “You can fuck right off with that.”
He shrugs, like it makes no difference, and turns to Valence. “Assist, if you will.”
She steps in, gloved hands cool on my shoulders. She tugs at the zipper of my hoodie, pulls it down with agonizing slowness. I resist, but she flashes me a warning look, and within seconds my hoodie is peeled away, leaving me in my tank top and bra.
“Shirt, please,” Abelard says. He doesn’t even pretend to look away.
Valence takes the hem of my shirt and yanks it over my head. The air is freezing. My skin goosebumps on contact.
Abelard makes a note on his clipboard. “Scarring on the left upper arm, origin?”
“Dog bite,” I lie, because he doesn’t deserve the truth. “Are you even a fucking doctor?”
He jots it down, then steps forward and grabs my wrist. He checks the inside of my elbow, then wraps a pressure cuff around my bicep. It bites into my skin.
“I am indeed, a real doctor. Once upon a time. Usually I have a third-party medical team complete these assessments, but given the knowledge we already have of your past history from Casey, I decided we could complete everything but the last step. Though, if you choose to be difficult, I can ask the guards to subdue you.”
He takes my pulse, then my temperature, then draws two vials of blood without warning. The needle hurts—he stabs, not slides, like he enjoys the sting.
“Pants.”
“No.”
Abelard lifts his brows. His fingers hover over a device with a red button on them and as he’s about to tense, I sigh and slip out of my pants.
“There. Happy?”
“Obedience looks good on you, Isolde. Next time try being a bit faster.” He smirks.
Valence brings out a tape measure, circles my ribs, my waist, my hips. She clicks her tongue. “Significant improvement over the previous candidate,” she says.
“Meaning what?” I snap.
She tilts her head, considering. “You’re in better shape than your sister was. More shapely.”
Abelard laughs, a dry little cough. “Let’s not flatter. We all know she’s a replacement.”
I want to claw their eyes out. Instead I bare my teeth and say, “Maybe next time just order a robot.”
Valence smiles. “That’s the spirit.”
They turn me, back and forth, taking photos. The flash blinds me. Every click is another nail in Casey’s coffin, another way to prove I’m not her. They make me strip to my underwear for the last set, and Valence circles me with the camera, pausing at every angle.
“Arms up,” she instructs. I do it. The cold burns my skin, the exposed air eating away at what little dignity I have left.
Abelard never stops writing. “Note the shoulder structure. Wider than the sister’s, but more symmetrical. Please photograph the tattoo on the right hip.”
Valence lifts the waistband of my underwear. “Interesting placement,” she says.
I don’t dignify that with a reply.
“Please put on this gown.”
“Why?” I ask Valence.
“For the next phase or you could do it naked, if you so choose,” she says. “Physical aptitude.”
I snort. “You’re shitting me. What is this, a boot camp?”
She doesn’t answer and I slide the flimsy gown on.
They lead me to a physio room two doors down. The walls are mirrored, the floor covered in blue matting. There’s a treadmill, a rowing machine, a set of free weights, and a metal pull-up bar bolted to the ceiling. A camera is already rolling in the corner.
Abelard holds out a stopwatch. “First, ten push-ups. Full extension. No knees.”
I kneel, palms down, and go. The mat is cold and sticky, but I grind out ten, then twenty, just to show them.
He makes a checkmark.
“Rowing machine,” Valence says, sounding bored. “Five hundred meters, as fast as you can.”
I grip the handles. My hands are shaking, but I row until my lungs scream. I finish in two minutes, thirty-four seconds. Abelard nods.
Next, the treadmill. “Sprint. One minute. Level eight.”
I run. My feet slap the belt. My lungs burn.
At the end, he hands me a towel and tells me to stretch.
Valence circles, camera aimed at my legs, my ass, the sweat on my brow. “Very good, Isolde. You’ll make a strong mother.”
The words hit like a slap.
I freeze, towel halfway to my face. “What the fuck did you just say?”
She grins, slow and toothy. “It’s about breeding, dear. The Night Hunt isn’t a game. It’s a selection process.”
I look at Abelard. He’s watching me, eyes bright. “We need to ensure you’re viable for the chase and of good virtue for the ceremony. Rhett can’t afford a repeat of last year’s tragedy.”
I want to scream. “So I’m cattle? Just something for him to fuck and knock up?”
Valence doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re more than that, of course. But your primary function is reproductive.”
I grab the nearest weight, a dumbbell, and hurl it at the mirror. The glass shatters, raining down in a million splinters. I turn and run for the door.
It’s locked.
Abelard sighs, then presses the button in his hand. Two men appear—orderlies, I guess. Both in white, both masked. They block the door.
“Let me go,” I scream.
They advance, arms out. The first grabs my wrist, twisting it behind my back. I kick him in the shin, then elbow him in the gut, but he doesn’t let go.
The second grabs my legs and lifts. Together, they carry me back to the exam room.
A nurse is waiting, gloves on. Abelard sets out a tray of tools—speculum, swabs, a plastic duckbill that makes my stomach turn.
“Don’t touch me,” I shout, but they pin me to the gurney. The straps go tight over my ankles, my thighs, my shoulders, my wrists.
Valence leans over me. “This will be easier if you relax.”
I spit at her again. This time, she just laughs.
Abelard lifts the hem of my gown. I thrash, but the straps don’t budge. He cuts off my underwear with a pair of scissors.
“Subject is unshaved,” he notes.
The nurse kneels between my legs. “You should feel some pressure.”
I do. The metal instrument is freezing. She cranks it open and I scream.
The whole time, Abelard narrates. “Cervix appears healthy. No lesions. Depth and dilation normal. Note the inflammation at—”
“Shut up!” I howl.
He ignores me.
The nurse collects swabs, puts them in tubes, labels them. She takes a photo—flash right in my crotch.
I cry until my throat bleeds.
When they’re done, they loosen the straps. My arms flop to my sides. I curl up, shaking, the paper sheet soaked in sweat.
Abelard snaps the file shut. “You’ll get over it. They always do.”
Valence wipes my cheek with a tissue, almost gentle. “You did better than most.”
They leave me alone, naked and trembling.
After a while, I get up. I dress. My hands shake so hard I can’t pull up my pants until my breathing slows. I leave the hospital gown on the floor.
I walk outside. The sun is up, but I don’t feel it.
Every step echoes in my head: “You did better than most.” “You’re just a replacement.” “Strong mother.”
I want to tear the world apart.
But I settle for the next best thing: revenge.
I walk the quad, slow. I force my lungs to take air. I focus on the little things—the crunch of gravel, the taste of copper in my mouth, the wind on my skin.
They can’t have all of me.
I won’t let them.
And when I see Rhett next, I’ll show him what they turned me into.
I hope he likes it.