Chapter 17 Isolde
It’s the second the door clicks shut behind us that I lose it. Not in the glamorous way of old movies, with a single tear or a slap across the face. I explode. All the words I had been saving up—every razor in my throat, every shard of betrayal—come out at once.
“How the fuck can you offer them our firstborn?”
My voice ricochets off the corridor. I barely recognize it as mine.
It’s all screech and edge and years of being told to hush up, to mind my tone, to accept what’s given.
Rhett says nothing, not even a muscle twitch.
Just watches me with those dead-green eyes and lets the blast hit him square in the chest.
I want to kill him. I want to drag my nails across his jaw and open him up from cheek to Adam’s apple. I want to take his precious contract and set it on fire, then stuff the ashes down his throat. I want—I don’t even know.
I want it to stop hurting.
I thought…
I thought he loved me. Or I dunno, at least liked me.
“You didn’t even blink,” I roar. My hands won’t stay still. They’re shaking, so I shove them through my hair, almost rip the scalp off, just to get the feeling to go somewhere. “You just sat there and—”
“And what, Greenwood?” His voice is calm, too calm, so I hate him even more. “Saved your life? Made sure they don’t skin us alive and bleach our bones for the next twelve generations?”
He’s trying to be reasonable. That’s the worst part. He thinks he’s the only adult in the room.
“Fuck you,” I say, because anything else would come out as a scream. “Fuck you for making it sound like you did me a favor.”
He steps toward me. Not aggressive, but solid, like a wall getting closer.
I flinch anyway. Coward.
He stops. “You want to run? Go ahead. I’ll catch you… anywhere you go, Isolde. Make no mistake.”
I do want to run. So I do.
I shove past him, hard enough that my shoulder crunches into his chest. I don’t wait to see if he follows. I take the stairs two at a time, hand sliding on the polished banister, my feet hitting the marble so hard I swear I’ll break an ankle.
The main hall is empty. All the sheep are still at dinner or hiding in their rooms. I power through the lobby, the cold punch of January air a slap in the face as I hit the quad. No plan, just the raw animal need to escape.
I don’t even know where I’m going until I’m there. Archer House, my tiny shithole sanctuary, the only place I can breathe. I shoulder through the door, up the steps, and down the hall to my room. The key stabs the lock three times before it catches.
I slam the door and lean against it, fighting for breath. My lungs burn, my eyes sting, but I won’t let myself cry. I can’t. If I start, I’ll never stop.
Instead, I go to the closet. I pull out my suitcase, the shitty Target one with the broken wheel, and set it on the bed. Then I start packing like a woman possessed.
Clothes first. Everything I can reach, every item I own that isn’t stamped with the Academy’s insignia. I don’t fold, I stuff. Jeans, hoodies, all the socks I can grab. T-shirts I’ve stolen from the laundry room. The dress I wore to Casey’s funeral, wrinkled and black. It all goes in.
My hands are shaking so hard I can barely grip the zipper. It snags on the first try, so I yank it, harder, until the teeth tear through the fabric and the suitcase gapes open like a busted mouth.
FUCK.
That’s okay. This is okay. It’s fine. Keep moving.
Next: toiletries. I sweep them off the shelf, knocking half to the floor, and jam the rest into a plastic bag.
Toothbrush, hairbrush, the little bottle of perfume I bought for myself last Christmas, hoping I’d have somewhere to wear it.
I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink and almost laugh.
I look rabid. Eyes huge, hair a wild halo, mouth set in a line that makes me look like my angry third grade teacher.
Feral.
I go to the desk, the mess of notebooks and pens and overdue assignments. I grab what matters: Casey’s framed photo. Next, my phone, and the charger with the kinked cable.
I’m almost done. All that’s left is the box under my bed.
The one with the letters, the old key to our childhood home, the five twenties and a cheap necklace with Casey’s name etched on it.
I dump the box upside down into the suitcase, then sit on the bed and try to zip it closed.
The teeth refuse, so I wrap the entire thing with duct tape from my drawer.
It looks like a hostage, and maybe it is.
My brain is running at a million miles an hour.
I’m muttering under my breath, rehearsing my escape route.
If I cut through the south woods, I can make it to the train station before dawn.
I can hop the first Amtrak to the city and disappear, just like Casey always wanted to.
Maybe I’ll dye my hair, maybe I’ll change my name.
Maybe I’ll die before they find me.
I don’t care. Anything is better than sitting still and waiting for them to destroy my life.
My baby.
I can’t believe I just thought that.
My baby.
It’s not even real yet. I’m not even sure I’d want it, even if it was. But the thought of the Board reaching their fat hands into my stomach and pulling it out is enough to make me retch. I double over, dry-heaving until my abs cramp, then sit back up and punch the pillow as hard as I can.
Something cracks in my knuckles. I welcome the pain.
The entire room stinks of adrenaline and panic. I’m about to throw up again when I hear the door creak.
I whip around, fists raised. “Who the fuck—?”
It’s Charlie.
She stands in the doorway, expression unreadable, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair is in two braids, neat as always. Her eyes are red, but not from crying.
She looks at the suitcase, then at me.
“Planning a trip?” she says.
“Oh, so now you wanna talk, huh? Thanks for all the help, CHARLOTTE, but I don’t really need your friendship now.”
Charlie walks in, shuts the door behind her, and leans against it. She takes in the chaos, the shredded suitcase, the mess on the bed. Her eyes land on Casey’s photo, then flick away.
“You know, if you run, they’ll just find you.”
“You have no idea what’s going on.”
She shrugs. “Don’t I? You think you’re the first girl they’ve fucked over?” She walks closer, every step slow and careful, like I’m a stray dog she’s trying to lure out from under a car. “You think you’re the first one to try and get away?”
I want to scream at her. I want to tell her to fuck off, to leave me alone, to go back to whatever bubble she came from.
Instead, I say, “You have no idea.”
She sits on the bed, hands folded in her lap.
“Last year, my best friend got picked for the Hunt. As prey, as a bride for one of the Board’s sons.
She was committed before I even knew she’d been chosen.
She was on cloud 9, thinking this boy loved her.
She spent weeks wrapped up in him. Until the night of the hunt. ”
I stare at her. “You’re lying.”
She shakes her head. “After the ceremony, she was different. Hollowed out. She lasted three weeks before they killed her. They buried it, said it was an accident. But poof… she disappeared. I still have her toothbrush.” She laughs, a horrible, empty sound. “As if that could keep her close.”
I want to say something, anything, but my throat is full of knives.
Charlie watches me, eyes dark and empty. “You’re not special, Isolde. They do this every year. The Hunt is just window dressing. The real game is about heirs. Producing enough that if one doesn’t cut it, another can take his place. Like Caius and Rhett.”
I start to cry. Not pretty tears, but ugly, snotty sobs that shake my whole body. I cover my face, wishing I could disappear. Wishing I could be anywhere else.
Charlie doesn’t touch me. She just sits, staring at the floor.
“They’ll find you,” she repeats, voice soft this time. “But if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get to kill yourself before they do.”
I hate her. I hate how calm she is, how matter-of-fact. I hate that she knows more than I do. I hate that I want her to stay.
I wipe my nose on my sleeve, then look up at her.
“Why are you here?” I whisper.
She shrugs again. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d actually do it.” Her hands twist in her lap, worrying at something. “Maybe I wanted to say goodbye.”
I look at her wrists, at the little charm bracelet she never takes off. I never noticed it before, not really. Now I see the tiny silver heart, the engraved initials.
“Was that hers?” I ask, nodding at the bracelet.
She nods.
We sit in silence. It all feels so heavy, like a storm about to break.
I want to ask if she’ll help me. I want to ask if there’s a way out.
But all I can do is sit on the edge of the bed, hugging my knees, and try not to break.
I think about the nonexistent baby. About what it would mean to bring a life into this mess. About how much I want to tear the whole system apart.
I wonder if Rhett is in his room, waiting for me to come back. I wonder if he even cares.
I am not my sister. I am not Charlie’s friend. I am not a fucking pawn in their twisted game.
If they want my blood, I’ll make them fight for every last drop.
I stare at the window. The quad is dark, but the lights are still on in the admin building. Somewhere in there, the Board is congratulating itself. Counting its wins.
“I need to go.”
“You’re not getting out,” she says softly.
There’s no judgment on her face—just this blank acceptance, like she’s seen the whole thing before.
“I don’t need—” but I do. I sag, defeated.
“You ever hear of the Vicious Kings?” she asks.
“Is this another Board fairy tale?” I’m too tired for this shit.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s real. They’re the Board’s private enforcers. Guys who track down anyone who tries to run. They hunt you. And not in the fun, game-show way. They break your legs, drag you back, and sometimes… people don’t come back at all.”