Chapter 16 Rhett
There’s no dreams as I rest. Whatever was left in me is all redacted, classified, burned out in the Hunt.
Isolde sleeps beside me, one arm across her chest, the other bandaged to the elbow.
Her hair fans across my pillow, the color of drying blood.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch. I watch her breathe, count the seconds between each rise of her chest, waiting for her to turn, to wake, to say something cruel and necessary to fill the space.
I get up and have a quick shower, not wanting to leave her for too long before pulling on a new pair of boxers and hopping back in beside her.
The corridor outside my quarters is silent except for the distant groan of the ancient pipes, but I’m used to those. What I’m not used to is the sound of measured footsteps, a click-click on the tiles, deliberate and slow. There’s no knock. Whoever it is, they don’t bother with warning.
I’m already sitting upright, sheets bunched around my hips, when the lock disengages with a click. The door creaks open and a figure steps in, the silhouette lit harsh and stark by the overhead bulbs. Black robes, gloves so tight they might as well be part of the skin.
He carries a scroll. Old money, literal style.
He closes the door behind him and stands just inside, the scroll cradled in both hands, arms extended.
I don’t bother with a show of strength. I stand, and face him with my hands loose at my sides.
“The Board’s running low on subtlety,” I say.
The messenger doesn’t respond, only inclines his head the slightest degree.
I take the scroll, break the red wax with my thumb, and unroll it. The letterhead is familiar: the Board’s insignia, Westpoint’s logo.
To the Heir Apparent, Rhett Grey:
You are hereby summoned, together with your claimed, to appear before the Board at the appointed hour of 8pm. You will present the Hunted, Isolde Greenwood, for the ceremonial acceptance and branding, as tradition and legacy require.
Upon completion, you will be invested with all rights and obligations of the Chair.
Failure to comply will result in forfeiture of claim and immediate erasure.
I read it twice, even though I could have guessed every word before I broke the seal.
I roll the parchment back up and glance at the messenger. “You can tell Abelard I’ll be there. And to try something new. The threats are getting boring.”
A flick of his chin, then he turns and leaves, door closing behind him with a click.
I toss the scroll onto the desk and look at Isolde. She’s awake, eyes wide and unblinking, staring at the space where the messenger was. The pale of her skin is brighter than usual. She blinks once, then sits up, the sheet slipping to her waist.
“What did it say?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away. I need to consider how much to involve her in Board politics. “The usual. They want to brand you as mine. And make me swear fealty.”
“And if we don’t go?”
“They kill us both,” I say, and I don’t bother softening it.
She shrugs, but the movement is stiff. “Figures. So what? Are you gonna brand me?”
“Nah.”
We don’t talk after that. There’s nothing to say.
She limps to the bathroom and slams the door. I hear water running, the clatter of bottles. I use the time to get dressed. I choose black, but today it’s the good suit, the one tailored to fit. The tie is silk, narrow, the knot tiny and perfect.
I dig through the drawer for the Westpoint cufflinks, two circles of onyx rimmed in silver, with the school crest stamped in the center. The crest is worn smooth from generations of Greys; these are mine now, as much as the scars on my chest or the anger in my blood.
Unlike Caius, I didn’t come from an old money family. No, my past is built on generations of sneaking in the shadows, making deals, building empires and running legacy schools that feed into the machine.
My great-great-grandfather helped found Westpoint, and after my father died, the Board had to wait for me to ‘grow up’ and take my place beside them.
Caius jumping ship just put me in a more favorable position. With no golden-spoon child to compete with, the Chair was a shoo in.
The bathroom door opens. Isolde steps out, wrapped in a towel, hair still wet, face blank. She moves slow, careful of her feet. She’s taken off the bandages and replaced them with fresh ones from my kit. Her hands look worse, if anything, but she doesn’t say a word.
She just goes to my closet and pulls out one of the dresses I had bought for her. It’s white. She holds it up, stares at it for a long minute, then slides it on over her naked body.
She doesn’t ask for help with the zipper. She doesn’t look at me while she does it.
I go to the mirror, tie my tie, and watch her reflection in the glass. She stands at the far end of the room, staring at the door. Her lips are pale, almost blue. Her hands shake as she pulls on the new shoes I had delivered a few days ago. White runners with purple laces.
She looks mismatched, but I like her like this. It’s real, when nothing else is.
I catch her eyes in the mirror. There’s nothing there but calculation and dread. She’s running through her options, and finding them all shit.
I finish the knot, smooth the front of the jacket, and turn to her.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods, and for a second, she almost smiles.
I cross the room, close enough to smell the soap on her skin, the tang of fear beneath it. I reach for her hand and she lets me take it. Her fingers are cold, so cold I can feel the chill through my skin.
I lean down, close, and whisper in her ear: “Whatever happens in there, remember you’re mine now. I won’t let them hurt you.”
She laughs, one short bark. “Mhmm,” she murmurs back, but she doesn’t let go.
We walk to the door together, hand in hand, the ruined prince and his unwilling princess.
Grabbing a warm coat off the coat rack, I help her into it, ensuring she will stay warm against the winter chill before we head out and down the steps.
We walk down the hall slow, heading towards the West quadrant before going up those steps, one at a time.
The guards stand in shadow, hands behind their backs, eyes on everything and nothing. They don’t stop us, not even a glance.
The boardroom is on the top floor. She walks like she’s being escorted to the chair, head up, back straight, but every step is a test of will.
At the landing, another set of guards. They open the doors for us.
Inside, it’s creepier than I remember. We look up at the platform, at the walls, at everything and everyone who will determine our fate. The table is long, the grain so deep it looks like a record of every ugly meeting that ever happened here.
Twelve chairs, twelve figures, all in hooded robes.
They sit at exact intervals, hands folded on the table, faces shrouded except for the shine of old eyes and expensive dental work.
Beneath the platform, a furnace. In front of it, a wrought-iron stand holds a branding iron, the sigil of the Board at its tip. The iron’s already red-hot.
Dr. Abelard stands at the head. He’s not in a robe. He wears a suit, black as midnight, tie so tight I willed it to cut his vocal chords. His hair is even whiter in this light, his smile an ugly smear.
To his left, Valence. She’s in a velvet blazer and a skirt. Her glasses catch every flame, but her eyes are the real knives. She sits, not stands, as if she knows her power is rooted and doesn’t need to strut.
At the far end, waiting for us, is the empty chair. I guide Isolde up the platform to the spot. She sits, hands folded, refusing to meet the Board’s gaze. I stand behind her, hands at my back.
Abelard clears his throat and addresses the room, not us. “The Hunt is complete. The Heir Apparent has made his Claim. The Greenwood line has been absorbed into the House of Grey.”
One of the hooded figures makes a note in a ledger.
Abelard turns to me, voice lower. “Rhett Grey, you stand here by the right of conquest and vacancy left behind by Caius Montgomery. Do you accept the terms of the Chair?”
I nod, once. “I do.”
He gestures at the table. There’s a contract, parchment as thick as cardboard, covered in legalese and Latin and blood-red wax. A ceremonial quill and inkpot wait beside it.
“Sign,” Abelard says.
I take the pen. The weight is wrong, too light, but I do it anyway. My signature is ugly, a series of jagged slashes. The ink dries black.
Abelard watches me, then lifts the next page.
“And the terms for your Claimed.”
Isolde stiffens in the chair. I can see the tremor in her fingers.
Abelard’s voice is smooth, rehearsed. “Per tradition, the Greenwood will be branded, in flesh, and bound to the House of Grey. Her firstborn child will belong to the Board until such time as they are sorted into their rightful place among us.”
Valence shifts, an almost-smile ghosting over her lips.
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Isolde tenses under my hand.
“What the fuck, Rhett?” She screams. “No!”
The hooded figures look up, startled. No one says a word, but I see the ripple, the shift in the air as a dozen predators catch a new scent.
Abelard blinks, slowly. “You refuse the ritual?”
“I accept the Chair,” I interrupt her before she can speak, “but Isolde is mine without your mark. She will not be branded.”
Gasps, small and sharp, fill the air.
Valence leans in, her eyes bright. “That is not the way.”
“It is now,” I say.
Abelard’s smile turns dangerous. “You dare to break centuries of order? Of the Law?”
I meet his eyes. I let him see the monster I am, the one he built piece by piece.
“I do,” I say.
The room explodes in whispers, voices overlapping. Some are furious, some intrigued, all of them hungry for chaos.
Abelard slams the table with his fist. The candles shudder.
“You overstep, boy. All women of Westpoint are branded.”
I step forward, close enough to smell the cologne on his collar. “Try me.”
He stands, slow, every inch of him vibrating with threat. “If you refuse, the debt transfers. The penalty will fall on your own head. You will forfeit your right to succession. We won’t just take your firstborn, but all your children. We demand you uphold the covenant of the Law!”
I don’t blink. “You need me more than I need you. You want order, or you want a war?”
Valence tips her head, studying me. “Interesting.”
Abelard turns to her. “You support this madness?”
She shrugs, the movement elegant. “Sometimes madness is just innovation in ugly clothing.”
He scowls, then looks back at me. “Very well. But know this: the Board always collects. If not from her, then from you. If not from you, then from what you love.”
I know the threat. I’ve lived with it every day since I was old enough to walk these halls.
I turn to Isolde. She looks up, blue eyes burning with terror and rage.
I rest my hand on her shoulder.
You’re safe, wildcat, just trust me a little longer.
Abelard sits, shoulders stiff. “Don’t think this is over, Grey,” he says, waving his hand.
I help Isolde up, take her hand as we walk down the steps. Her fingers feel so small in mine, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there’s nothing they can do to me that isn’t worth turning this shit show on it’s head.
He gestures to the guards. The doors open.
“Get out,” Abelard spits.
We leave, and I feel like I’ve actually won something.
Until she starts screaming at me the minute the doors close behind us.