Chapter 13 Isolde #2
The donors, the Board, all of them eating it up like this was just another line in the family history book. My humiliation, my blood, my rage—proof of the tradition’s power.
Now I’m running for my life, hand throbbing, dress stained, with nothing but that memory to keep me company. The lanterns marking the edge of the woods are far behind me now. There’s only moonlight, filtered through bare branches, making every shadow into a trap.
It hits me then, what Casey must have felt the night she died.
How the fear doesn’t come from the footsteps behind, but from the silence in front of you—the certainty that if you stop, you’ll be devoured by the dark.
I want to believe I’m better than her, that I can outlast the monster at my back.
But every step is slower than the last, the dress heavier, the branches grabbing for me like hands.
I hear the horn in the distance. It echoes through the trees, a sound so ancient it makes the hair on my arms stand up.
They’ve let him loose.
The air shifts. The cold cuts deeper. I force my legs to move, sprinting through the trees, lungs screaming. I try to think of a strategy—climb a tree, dig a pit, lure him into a swamp—but the woods are unfamiliar, the terrain against me. I double back, then circle.
The dress snags on a branch. I rip it free, tearing a hole up the side as I trip and crash into the ground. My knees are bleeding now, the skin raw from falling. I taste blood in my mouth but I don’t remember biting my tongue. I don’t stop.
My only advantage is that Rhett is predictable. He wants to win, wants the show, wants the ritual to mean something. He’ll try to scare me, herd me, make me crack before he even touches me.
Then he has to claim me. Publicly. With God knows whoever watching.
I slow, then stop, ducking behind a fallen log. I press my back against the bark, try to muffle my breathing. The woods are quiet. I look around, blinking against the cold, and see nothing. Just shadow and mist and the distant glow of the campus lights.
I count to sixty. Then I stand, try to run again, but my ankle turns and I crash down hard. I bite back a scream.
When I look up, I see him.
Rhett is ten yards away, a black silhouette against the gray. The white mask gleams, eyes reflecting the moon. He’s not even breathing hard.
“Nice try,” he says, voice flat and deadly. “But you left a trail.”
I scramble to my feet, ready to fight, but he doesn’t charge. He waits, head tilted, watching to see what I’ll do next.
I bare my teeth, hands clenched. “What, you’re gonna monologue me to death?”
He laughs. “You’re the one who wanted a fair chase.”
He moves then, fast, clearing the distance in three steps. I duck, try to slip past him, but his hand finds the back of my neck and yanks me off balance.
He doesn’t hurt me. He doesn’t have to. He’s stronger, faster, built for this. He pins me to the ground, one hand on my back, the other pulling my wrists behind me.
“You’re not even trying,” he whispers, voice in my ear. “Fight harder.”
I buck, twist, try to headbutt him, but he just tightens his grip. My breath comes in gasps, vision swimming.
I start to cry. Not because of the pain, but because it’s exactly what he wants.
He drags me to my knees, rips the mask from his face, and looks down at me with those annoyingly beautiful green eyes.
He runs a blood-stained finger down my jaw, across my lips. “This is the part where you beg, Isolde.”
I spit in his face. It lands on his cheek, a perfect hit.
He wipes it off, then wipes his hand on the front of my dress, smearing blood and spit together.
He smiles, slow. “Better.”
He stands, hauls me up, and slings me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I kick, thrash, but it’s useless.
He walks, steady, deeper into the woods, not even winded. I hang there, upside down, dress over my head, hair full of leaves.
After a minute, he sets me down. We’re in a clearing, moonlight bright and harsh. There’s a stone bench at the center, slick with frost.
He sits, pulls me onto his lap. I try to resist, but he holds me there, arms like steel.
“I’m going to give you a second chance to run in a minute, because I’ll be honest, this was lame. But first, I want to tell you a secret.” He tilts my chin up. “Do you know what the real point of the Hunt is?”
I shake my head, jaw tight.
He leans in. “It’s to see if you’re worthy of being claimed. If you can’t fight, you don’t deserve to win. Only the strong can survive in the grand scheme of things.”
I glare at him, hate burning out every other feeling. “Fuck you.”
He grins. “That’s more like it, wildcat.”
He kisses me, hard, blood and spit and cold all mixing together. I bite his lip. He doesn’t pull away.
When he breaks the kiss, he wipes his mouth and says, “Last chance. Run.”
I stagger to my feet, vision doubled, and sprint for the trees.
This time, I hear him behind me, footsteps steady, never rushing, never slowing.
He’s letting me think I can escape.
I run until my lungs are on fire, until the dress is torn to shreds and I’m covered in mud and blood and tears.
The Hunt isn’t over.
But now I know what’s waiting at the finish line.
I wipe my mouth, taste his blood and mine, and keep moving forward.
I’m not done yet. Not even close.
I crawl, then stumble, then crawl again. Blood runs down my wrist, the cut from the altar reopened. My lungs are burning. My brain is on fire, static everywhere.
For a while, I lose track of time. Every second is the same as the last—breathe, move, don’t let the ghosts catch up.
There’s no footsteps behind me, maybe he’s taking a smoke break, but either way, I keep going.
My stomach flips. I try to double back, but my sense of direction is gone, and I crash through a thicket of brambles into a shallow creek.
The water is black, full of mud and fallen leaves, but it numbs the pain in my legs.
I wade through, feet numb, then stagger up the other side, where the trees are older and closer together.
The moonlight barely reaches the ground here.
Everything is shadows and movement at the edge of vision.
I blink and see flashes of white in the dark—at first I think it’s Rhett, but then I realize the figure is too small, too frail.
It’s Casey. She’s everywhere, a flicker of color behind the trunks, a shudder in the reflection on the water, a cold hand at my shoulder urging me forward. I try to shake her, but she won’t leave. She wants to see how it ends this time.
I trip, fall, roll through mud, come up gasping. My teeth chatter, not just from the cold but from something deeper—a fear I can’t name, a certainty that I’m not meant to survive this.
At the edge of the next clearing, I collapse behind a tangle of roots and let myself rest for half a second.
My hands are shaking. My knees are cut to ribbons.
I press my palm to the wound on my leg, trying to stop the bleeding, but the blood just pools between my fingers, hot and sticky and stubborn.
I hear footsteps. Not running, just a slow, deliberate crunching of leaves and twigs.
He’s not even pretending to be quiet.
I hate him for it. I want him to sweat, to fear me, to believe I can turn the tables, but he just moves forward, steady, patient, as if there’s no doubt in his mind how this ends.
I pull myself to my feet, dig my nails into the bark of the nearest tree, and haul myself up. The dress is torn nearly in half. My left breast is almost out, but I couldn’t care less.
“Come on,” I whisper, voice hoarse. “Let’s finish this.”
I run, slower now, but with more purpose. I want to draw him in, make him work for every inch. I circle back, moving perpendicular to where I heard him, then cut toward the clearing he took me to.
The incline is hell. The ground gives with every step. My calves scream, but I force myself up, grab the top of the ridge, and drag myself over.
On the other side is the other side of the clearing, lit almost perfectly by the moon, the ground smooth and unbroken. In the center is a massive fallen tree, hollow and ancient, a grave marker for a hundred years of rot. The bench is far off.
Guess I covered more ground than I thought.
I go to it, crawl inside, and hunker down, listening.
The footsteps come again. Closer, closer, then stopping at the edge of the clearing.
I hold my breath, waiting.
He’s there. I can see the black of his suit, the cut of his jaw, his face now splattered with mud and blood.
He waits, not moving. For a second, I think he’s lost my trail, but then he just tilts his head back and sniffs the air, like a fucking wolf.
I want to laugh, but the sound won’t come out.
He circles the clearing, looking for signs of movement, then kneels by the log. His hand, covered in blood and dirt, reaches for the hollow where I’m hiding.
I bite down on his fingers.
Hard.
He howls, yanks his hand back, and for the first time all night, I feel a surge of victory.
I leap out, swinging the jagged end of a branch I broke off inside the log. It’s not a weapon, not really, but I swing it at his face anyway.
He knocks it away, barely, but the force knocks him backward. I keep going, driving the branch into his stomach, then his side.
He grunts, trying to grab it. He twists the branch out of my hands, then grabs my hair and pulls me to him, our faces inches apart.
“Your nickname suits you,” he rasps.
“Better than some stupid like babe or doll,” I spit back.
He laughs, blood on his teeth. “Goddamn woman, you’re perfect.”
He kisses me, hard, teeth clashing, blood and spit and tears all mixing together. I bite him, again, drawing more blood, but he doesn’t stop.
He shoves me to the ground, pins my wrists with one hand, the other pulling up the hem of my dress. The fabric tears away. The cold burns against my skin.
He kisses down my neck, bites my shoulder, then licks the blood from my hand.
“You belong to me now,” he says.
I shake my head, spit in his face again. “Go to hell.”
He just smiles, then runs his hand between my legs. I try to clamp my thighs together, but he’s stronger. He holds me open, presses his fingers inside, slow and rough and claiming.
I hate that my body reacts. I hate that I’m wet, that every nerve is alive, that the pain and the pleasure are indistinguishable.
He leans down, mouth at my ear. “Tell me to stop,” he says.
I want to. I do.
But the words won’t come.
He fucks me with his hand, relentless, until I’m sobbing, half from rage, half from something I refuse to name.
He pulls his hand out, wipes it across my mouth, then stands, looking down at me.
“You fight harder than anyone I’ve ever known,” he says. “That’s why you’re mine.”
He stands, waiting for me to give him something.
I think of Casey, and I know she’s watching.
I get up, strip off the remains of the dress, and use my blood to draw lines on my chest, my arms, my face.
I am not prey.
I am the storm.
“If you’re going to claim me…” I pause, “If Im going to LET you claim me, we’re not gunna do it with just your creepy friends watching. Yeah, HI BOYS, I SEE YOU.”
Rhett cocks his head, watching me. “Oh? Then how do you wanna be fucked, Issy?”
“Over the boulder where they spilled my blood.”
The answering grin is dark and menacing and finally I understand.
This game isn’t about old money’s power… it’s about the new. Finding strength in brokenness and power in struggle.
If they want a show, I’ll give them one.
If they want a monster, I’ll become one.
Rhett offers me his hand, “Let’s get going then, my wild Goddess.”
I take it and we start walking.