Chapter 14 Rhett
We walk up the embankment together, hand in hand, as if the entire world isn't watching our every step. Isolde is naked except for a crown of mud and tangled hair. Blood runs down her thigh, dirt smeared up her ribs, one breast streaked raw from the gash where the branch bit her earlier. She limps, but refuses to lean on me. There’s no shame in her body.
She could walk into a Senate chamber, bare and battered, and make half the gallery flinch.
We crest the rise above the amphitheater. The torchlight halos her head and for a half second I see Casey in her—the same defiance, same wild eyes, same refusal to bow even when the world is loaded against her. The difference is, Isolde is all fire and gasoline, and Casey was gentle in spirit.
She was never going to make it in our circles, but Isolde will.
She has to.
The assembly has never been this silent. Not for me, not for anyone.
A respectful distance away, the Feral Boys have regrouped: Colton, Bam, Julian. None of them move an inch. Colton gives a slow nod of respect, something almost like a salute. Bam leans back against a tree, licking his lips, eyes never leaving Isolde. Julian watches with his own hunger.
On the platform, the Board is arranged in a precise half-circle—twelve pairs of hands, all folded at exactly the same angle. Abelard stands at the center, his face the only visible emotion: total, unvarnished shock. Valence’s gaze tracks Isolde, but she does not move, does not speak.
The funders are more honest. I can taste their disgust. The ritual tradition abandoned in the mud is a bigger scandal than the blood on Isolde's thighs. A few men in tuxedos avert their eyes. A woman in a fur stole makes a small sound, chokes it down. No one says a word.
Isolde pulls ahead, steps to the base of the altar, and looks up at the Board. Then she laughs. Loud, unhinged, a cackle that bounces off the stone and rolls through the seats like an aftershock. She bows, arms open, as if presenting herself for judgment.
"If you want a show, you're gunna get one!" she yells, voice hoarse, and throws her head back to howl at the sky.
The sound rattles the Board. Abelard blinks first, hands falling from their perfect formation. Valence looks at me, a silent accusation, but I just smile and guide Isolde up the small hill to the ancient boulder. She steps in the sand circle and wiggles her feet.
I sweep the ritual daggers and white linen off the rock with one arm, letting them scatter in the dirt below. She climbs it herself, dragging herself up the rough face, without so much as a wince. At the top, she turns, looks at the faces watching, then at me, and waits. I reach for her.
She doesn't resist when I push her back onto the stone. She sprawls, arms wide, legs splayed. She laughs again, quieter this time, and runs her tongue along her teeth, baring them at me like an animal.
I kiss her. Hard. I bite her bottom lip until she bleeds. I squeeze her breast, hard enough to make her hiss, then run my palm over the ridge of her ribs, counting each one. Her heart is pounding, fast and uneven, but not with fear.
I leave a hickey on her neck, then another just below her collarbone. The marks overlap—my signature in red and purple, layered over the bruises from the chase. The assembly doesn’t matter anymore. They could riot, scream, set the stands on fire, and I wouldn't stop.
All I want is to devour her.
She tries to arch up, to bite my face, but I pin her down and grind my knee between her legs. I can feel her, slick and hot, despite the cold. She writhes, moans, shoves at my shoulders, but I hold her down. The stone is freezing, and her skin pebbles under my hands.
I drag my teeth down her sternum, then lower, and bite a fresh bruise just above her nipple. She gasps, claws at my hair, yanks me up to kiss her again. Her lips are swollen, but she doesn't care. She wants it raw.
The Board is dead silent. I can feel the Boys watching, but they're background noise—less real than the pulse in Isolde’s throat or the shallow, panicked gasps as I squeeze her hip until the blood comes back in my fingerprints.
I unzip my pants. The sound is loud, and a few of the donors flinch.
I press my cock against her thigh, slide it through the blood and dirt, and rub the head against her clit before slapping it. She tries to clamp her legs together, but I force them apart and settle my weight on her chest.
"Say it," I tell her, voice low enough only she can hear. "Say you want me."
She shakes her head, giggling. "Fuck you," she whispers.
I push two fingers into her, slow, and twist until she gasps. "Say it."
She whimpers, fights to keep her face blank, but the tremor in her voice betrays her.
"You want this, Isolde," I say. "You want me to ruin you."
Her eyes go glassy. She bites her lip, sliding it through her teeth, then finally hisses, "Just do it. I want it."
"Not good enough," I say, and pull my fingers out. I grab her by the chin, dig my thumb into her jaw until she opens her mouth. "Once this is done, you're mine. Say it."
She holds my gaze for a long time. Her voice is ragged when she finally speaks. "I'm yours as long as you save me from this nightmare."
I grip her harder, just to feel her bones shift. "I will," I say.
I line up and push inside her. She’s tight, so tight, hot enough to melt the ice off the stone beneath her. I bury myself to the hilt, then hold still, feeling her body adjust around me. She claws my arms, leaving indents in my skin, then drags her nails down my chest.
I fuck her slow, deep, dragging it out so every thrust is a branding, a new mark to overwrite the old ones.
Her hair fans out on the boulder, a red halo in the torchlight.
Her lips part, but she makes no sound. I kiss her again, softer this time, and she bites my tongue, sucking it as I pull back to watch my cock piston in and out of her.
I pick up the pace, slamming into her so hard the rock grinds against my knees.
Her fists beat at my chest, at my face, but it’s nothing—little sparks against the bonfire in my veins.
I lean in, fist a clump of muddy hair in one hand, and use the other to spread her open, thumb working relentless circles on her clit.
She’s sobbing now, but it’s not from pain.
She’s so wet the sound is all I hear, sucking me in deeper every time I bottom out.
The crowd is a smear of shadows and hunger, but all I see is the blue, glass-cutter edge of her eyes watching me, daring me to be what she never let herself ask for.
Leaning forward, I spit in her mouth, watch it trail down her chin, and say, “You’re not getting away from me, wildcat.
Ever.” She shakes with it—fighting, not yielding, not until the last second.
She breaks first. Her back arches clear off the stone, whole body tensing as she comes hard, muscles clenching around me, clamping as if to pull the soul out of my dick.
Her teeth snap at my jaw, her thighs tense as she tries to close her legs, but I’m not going to stop.
I want to see her ruined, want her to wake up tomorrow and know every inch of herself belongs to me.
I fuck her through the twitching, the aftershocks, until she’s limp on the altar, gasping air like a landed fish.
When I finally come, it's with her name in my mouth, her blood under my fingernails, and her body shaking beneath me.
I don't pull out.
It’s is so silent I can hear the wind in the pines and the soft, sticky sound of my cock inside her.
I watch her face as she blinks, slow, the anger draining out until nothing is left but a weird, trembling satisfaction.
She won.
Or maybe I did.
Or maybe we both lost, and that’s why it feels so fucking perfect.
I stay inside her until the cold is something I feel again, until the audience stands and shuffles out in a black procession.
She gets up on one elbow and the motion makes her tits jiggle and looks down at where we are joined, a small smile on her face. My cock is getting hard again, buried in her pussy, but I tuck her head under my chin and whisper, "You're safe now."
I want to say something more, some line to pin her here, with me, and never let her float away. But I am empty. The words are gone. There's only the pressure of her chest against mine, her rib cage fluttering as I hold her to me.
She blinks, slow, and finally looks at me. Something shifts and her brow furrows.
“Do you wish I was her?”
"I couldn't save her," I tell her. The words claw their way out, raw and bloody. "Your sister. I should've—"
She slaps my face. Not hard, but enough to sting.
"Do you wish I was her?" She asks again.
I shake my head.
"But I couldn't save her," I say again, softer this time. "And I can't lose you too."
She laughs, wet and broken. "You don't even want me. You just want her ghost."
This, of all things, makes me furious.
I grab her wrists, pin them to the rock, and slam my hips into her, hard enough to knock the wind out of her lungs. "Is that what you think?" I snarl. "You think I want a fucking ghost?"
Her body jerks under me. "Let me go," she rasps.
I don't. I fuck her harder, every thrust a denial, a punishment, a prayer. I watch her face for any sign of surrender, but it's not there. She meets me glare for glare, tears streaming down her temples.
"You're not a replacement," I say, slamming into her with everything left in my body. "You're not a consolation. You're my girl. You always were. We just hadn’t met yet."
She claws my back, leaving long red streaks. She screams, not in pain, but in rage, in freedom.
"Then show me," she screams, "show me I'm yours."
So I do.
I grab her hair, force her head back, bite her throat until she sobs. I lick the tears off her cheeks, taste the salt and the hate and the need.
She wraps her legs around my hips, hooks her heels behind my ass, and pulls me deeper. Her cunt squeezes around me and I fuck her until I'm dizzy. I lean over her, forehead pressed to hers, and fuck her so slow and deep it hurts.
I want her to break.
I want her to become something new.
She shudders, every muscle tensing, and for a second I think she'll shatter. But then she laughs—soft and triumphant—and I know we’re going to be okay.
She whispers, "I hate you," and I whisper, "I know," and then I come, flooding her, marking her, making her mine once again.
We stay locked together, joined by blood and semen and something harder than fate.
Above us, the sky is turning gray, dawn clawing at the edge of night. I hear rustling in the woods, but I don't care who watched, who stayed, who left.
All that matters is the girl in my arms and the way she breathes, slow and stubborn, refusing to give up.
I hold her until the sun comes up.
I hold her until my own rage burns out.
And when I finally let go, she doesn't run.
She just sits up and hops off the rock, our cum seeping down her thighs and dripping onto the dirt and sand and frost below.
A low whistle drags us out of the moment. Colton hollers. "Damn, that was hot as fuck. Hope my girl’s got that in her."
Julian laughs, not even trying to hide it. Bam grunts, "Still don’t think she’s gunna make it."
I flip them off, “Sick fucks, now fuck off.” They laugh again, and then they're gone, the slap of their boots fading down the path.
Isolde stands tall beside me, her body a ruined masterpiece. My fingerprints bruise her hips, bite marks bloom on her neck. She is exhausted, every muscle slack, but her hands never let go of me.
I brush the hair from her face. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, rimmed with red.
She looks at me, really looks, and her lip quivers.
"You won't leave me?"
I shake my head, stroke her cheek with the back of my knuckles. "Not ever."
She nods, as if that's enough, but her hands start to shake. She wraps her arms around my waist and buries her face in my chest.
"Keep me safe," she says. "Please."
I bend down, kiss the crown of her head, press my lips into her tangled hair until I can feel her pulse against my mouth.
"Until my last breath," I promise.
Isolde sighs and closes her eyes, still clinging to me.
I lift her, cradle her in my arms, and carry her down the path, away from the altar, away from the blood and the past.
She shivers, and I hug her a little tighter.
I walk us back to the dorms, through the empty quad, my jacket wrapped around her naked body. Her head rests on my shoulder, weightless.
We make it to my room and I lower her onto the bed, careful of her wounds. I find a clean towel, make it damp, wipe her down, bandage her cuts. It takes the better part of an hour and numerous towels that I will need to throw out, but she’s too exhausted to bath. She watches, silent, as I work.
Her stomach growls, but I have a more pressing issue to deal with.
“We need to warm you, your feet aren’t looking so hot.”
She rolls her eyes, “Yeah, that’s what happens when you force a girl to run around in the frost.”
“Mmmm, yeah, and it looks like you might have frostbite. I’ll warm your feet slow to try minimize damage.”
She laughs, “Wouldn’t that be a cute story to tell our kids? ‘Mommy why’s your toe missing?’”
I laugh despite how dark the joke is and get to work slowly warming her. By the time I’m done her feet are back to being pink, even if they’re cut and bruised to shit.
When I finish, she pulls me onto the bed beside her, tucks herself into my chest, and falls asleep.
I watch her, every breath, every tremor, and know that whatever comes next, it will be war if they try take her from me.
Maybe Cai was right.
Maybe we should skip this shit and bounce.
We will see what tomorrow brings.