Chapter 18 Rhett
The bleeding slows. The pain doesn’t. Isolde presses her palm to mine, blood slick and sticky, and I want to freeze the moment—just us, no witnesses, no future, no Board, no past to catch up. Only the truth of skin and scar and salt.
Then the knock comes.
I don’t move at first. I let the echo of it thrum in my jaw, let the weight of her hand in mine be the only anchor. Another knock. Harder, faster, like whoever’s on the other side has never been refused anything in their life.
Isolde looks at me, wildcat blue eyes gone midnight with exhaustion and dread. I nod, just once, and she slips off the bed, crossing to the far wall and putting her back to it, arms wrapped around herself.
“Stay there.” I murmur as she nods.
I walk to the door slow, rolling my shoulders, stretching each muscle until the ache turns to readiness. I don’t bother with a shirt.
I open the door.
Dr. Abelard stands in the corridor, flanked by Ms. Valence and two men in black.
Of course they bring in the Kings.
They’re the dicks of this world. The kind who kill for fun and eat the evidence for breakfast. They wear tactical gear, midnight-black, sidearms on each hip. Their faces are blank. Not bored—just dead inside.
Abelard’s suit is perfect. His tie is ironed so flat I could shave with it. His hair is white and glassy in the fluorescent light. He smiles, that subtle sadist’s flicker, and steps forward.
“Evening, Rhett,” he says. “We need to speak with you. Now.”
I lean on the frame, blocking the door. I keep my voice flat. “It’s late.”
Valence surveys the room with one eyebrow arched, like she’s cataloging an exotic fungus. Her hair is up in a chignon, not a strand out of place. Pearls at her neck, the size of a thumbprint. She doesn’t smile.
Abelard tries again, smile wider. “We require your compliance. Bring the Greenwood girl here, immediately.”
“She’s not a dog,” I say, slow and clear. “And you’re not the police.”
“Board directive. Effective now,” Abelard says. “Failure to comply will be considered open rebellion.”
I look him up and down. “You want to declare war on my name?” I drop my eyes to the floor, take in the polished boots of the Kings, the way one of them flexes his right hand, ready for a weapon, maybe a garrote or some new toy they brought just for me.
“She belongs to me now,” I say, baring my teeth. “You had your show. The Hunt is over.”
“Correction,” Valence says, voice smooth as silk over razors, “The Hunt is not over until the Board signs off and you produce an heir. Consider this your final audit.”
I almost laugh. “Is this about the branding? I already told you: not going to happen. Westpoint was built by Greys. Try to brand what’s mine, and I’ll cut the hand off the body.”
One of the Kings steps forward, shifting his weight. I don’t move, but I tense, every muscle ready for the break. I study his hands: he’s left dominant, scars up the fingers, old knife wounds. The other one is taller, but slower. Neither of them have what it takes to get past me, not tonight.
Abelard drops the mask. “Rhett. Bring her here. Now.”
I shake my head. “Go home, Abelard. You’re drunk on power and it’s not a good look.”
Ms. Valence leans in, peering at me through her cat-eye glasses. “You’re not thinking clearly, Mr. Grey. Your father understood order. He knew his place.”
“He drank himself to death, probably listening to your bullshit,” I say.
Something shifts. For the first time, Abelard’s eyes flash—just a hint, but it’s there. He’s angry. He didn’t come here for a negotiation; he came here for a kill.
He nods at the Kings. “Bring the girl.”
That’s it, then.
I reach for the knife at my belt, slow so they see it coming. The bigger King puts a hand on his own weapon, but I just hold the blade, not threatening, just showing. “Try it,” I say.
He doesn’t. He holds his ground, waiting. It’s a smart move, really. Abelard may be at the head of the Board for now, but that space belongs to me.
Abelard is losing patience. “Rhett, you’re not special. You’re a tool. An animal. Don’t think for a second we won’t replace you.”
“Who’s left?” I ask. “Caius is gone. Colton’s an idiot. Bam is barely human. Julian is just a pretty boy. My family built this Academy.” I grin, feral. “And you know it. My grandfather would be very displeased with your shenanigans.”
Silence.
Then Ms. Valence speaks, but not to me. “If you care for her, Mr. Grey, you will surrender her now. The Board’s offer is not up for negotiation.”
I stare straight through her. “She’s mine. And I don’t share.”
Abelard shifts gears, voice softening. “Think, Rhett. You’re bright, but you’re not invincible. We’re only here because the Board respects tradition. If you force our hand, there are other options.”
I flick the knife in my hand, make the edge catch the light. “I’d love to see them.”
We’re at an impasse. The tension is so thick I could bite it in half.
Finally, Abelard steps back. “You have until midnight tomorrow,” he says, eyes flickering into Isolde’s living space. “After that, we come back. And we bring the rest of the Kings.”
Valence gives me one last long look, then turns, walking away without another word. Abelard follows. The two Kings bring up the rear, but not before the big one leans in, close, and whispers, “Don’t sleep tonight, boy.”
I watch them go, listen to the echo of their boots on the tiles. Only when they’re out of earshot do I shut the door, slow and deliberate.
Isolde is where I left her, hands clenched so tight the knuckles are white. Her eyes are wild, but not scared.
She says nothing. She doesn’t need to.
I cross the room and pull her to me, crushing her against my chest. I let the knife drop, and the sound of it clattering on the hardwood is the only thing that reminds me I’m still here, still breathing, still capable of rage.
She leans in, her breath hot on my neck. “They’re going to come back,” she whispers.
I nod, once.
She looks up at me, studying my face like it’s the only thing she has left. “What are you going to do?”
I think about it, really think. I see all the angles, all the ways this could end. None of them good. But I don’t care. Not anymore.
I look her in the eye. “Whatever it takes.”
She smiles, bloody and fierce, and I realize that for the first time in my life, I’m exactly where I belong.
War is coming.
I hope the Kings bring friends.
“Come, let’s go to my place. I have an idea and it involves a phone call.”
The clock in the Feral Boys hall ticks loud and insistent. Every second is a threat, a reminder that time’s running out and I’m fresh out of lifelines. All except one.
I pace the length of hall, hands dug into my hair until the scalp burns. Isolde sits on the couch, knees tucked to her chin, watching me with that flint-eyed determination that makes me want to break things. Or fix them. Or both.
I check my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. There are no rules, no roadmap, only the certainty that if I miscalculate, they’ll kill her. Or me. Or both.
I hit Caius’s number. The line rings, once, twice, then connects. His voice is static. “Grey. This is a bad time.”
I keep my tone even, but it wavers. “Need a favor.”
A pause, then a sigh. “What kind?”
“I need sanctuary. For Isolde.” I glance at her, and she meets my eyes without blinking. “The Board’s coming down on us. Hard. They want to erase her, Cai. Not just from Westpoint—permanently.”
The silence stretches, thin and tight. Caius doesn’t answer right away. I know he’s doing the math: risk to himself, to O, to the future they’re building out there, wherever they are now.
When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, almost gentle. “You sure about this?”
“No.” I swallow. “But I don’t have another move. Not unless I start killing people, a LOT of people, by myself, and even then, there’s only so much blood I can spill before the Board sends in the real monsters.”
He laughs, short and sharp. “You are the real monster, Rhett. That’s why they like you.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Cai.”
“I’m not.” Another pause. “Listen. O is pregnant. I don’t want trouble, but I’ll do this for you, because you’re my brother.
One time favor, but neither of you can cause us issues.
We’re in the middle of a move. You know the drill: burn your phone, take the river road, don’t bring anything that can be traced. ”
“I know.”
“Meet me at the old turbine plant,” he says. “One a.m. sharp. If you’re late, I’m gone.”
I breathe out, slow and steady. “Thank you.”
He hangs up without another word.
I stand there for a minute, staring at the phone like it just told me the date of my own execution. Isolde breaks the silence. “What did he say?”
I look at her, memorize the way she sits, the way she doesn’t flinch even though her whole world is about to go up in smoke. “We have a place to go. But we can’t fuck it up. Not even a little.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I gather the basics: a duffel bag, two changes of clothes, my old hunting knife, the keys to the BMW. I wipe down my phone, toss it in a glass of whiskey, and watch the screen bubble and die. When I look up, Isolde is at my side, watching me.
“What if we don’t make it?” she asks.
I consider lying, but I’m done with that. “Then we go out fighting.”
She grins, bright and savage. “Good.”
I sling the bag over my shoulder, scan the room for anything I missed. The Westpoint crest on my wall stares back at me, smug and eternal. I rip it down, fold it once, and toss it in the trash.
It’s over. There’s no going back.
We walk out together, silent as ghosts, ready to burn the world down if that’s what it takes.
We don’t get far.
We hit the stairwell and I hear it: a soft, measured click. The sound of heels, not boots. Old money doesn’t run. It arrives.
I turn. Ms. Valence stands at the landing, lit by the red glow of the exit sign, white hair wild around her head, hands folded neatly at her waist.
She doesn’t look surprised to see us. She looks satisfied.
“I always wondered which of you would be the first to run,” she says, voice echoing down the hall, as if she’s about to give a lecture and we’re the only two idiots who showed up for class.
Isolde freezes, fingers digging into my wrist. I step in front of her, blocking the path.
Valence’s eyes skim me, then fix on Isolde. “You’re not as clever as you think, Mr. Grey. If you were, you’d realize the only way this ends is with you giving us the girl.”
Looking around, I see she’s alone. No muscle, no backup.
No obvious weapon. But Valence is never unarmed.
The Kings are probably waiting just outside, itching for a kill order.
I consider making a run for it, but Valence has the leverage now.
She’ll never let us out of here alive, not if she can help it.
“I see you’ve made your choice,” she says, with something like pity. “A shame. You had such promise.”
I bare my teeth, let her see that I’m past caring. “Get out of our way, Valence.”
She smiles, cold as dry ice. “The girl is not yours to save, Rhett. She proved herself unworthy. Hand her over and we will select you a new wife. You won’t even need to complete the whole ritual.”
Isolde tenses behind me, every muscle wired and ready. Valence keeps talking.
“The Kings will come. They will not show mercy, to either of you. They will not be kind. There will be no escape, no deal, no legacy. Only a lesson for those who dare defy us.”
I don’t think.
I close the distance in three steps, grab her by the arm, and push her against the wall. Her head snaps back but she doesn’t flinch. She looks me dead in the eye, and for a split second, I see something: pride. Or maybe hunger.
“You will never touch her,” I snarl. “Ever.”
She laughs. “You’re just like your father. He tried to bargain with us, too. Didn’t end well. Do you know how easy it is to convince the police that an alcoholic died from alcohol? Surprisingly simple.”
I shove her back, hard, her head bounces off the cement. She stands her ground, lips curling into a smile. “Go ahead. Make it count.”
I do.
I pin her by the throat, my forearm grinding into her windpipe. She’s light, bones and gristle and old venom, but she doesn’t fight. She just stares, glasses fogging, mouth twisted in a final, ghoulish grin.
“Isolde belongs to no one but herself,” I say, but my hand tightens anyway, and I think of all the girls like her—girls who never got a chance to run, or fight, or even scream.
Valence wheezes. Her lips go blue. I hold her there, steady, until the life leaks out of her, drop by drop, and her eyes glass over like a frog left in the sun. The last thing she does is smile, showing the worst teeth I’ve ever seen.
She slumps. I let her go, and her body slides to the floor, a tangle of velvet and pearls.
Isolde is shaking. I expect her to scream, or cry, or run. She does none of these. She kneels next to Valence, tilts her head, and studies the corpse like a puzzle. Then she looks up at me, eyes wide, and says, “Did you mean it? About me?”
“Every word.”
She smiles, wild and bright. “Good.”
I’m trying to figure out what the fuck to do now.
That’s when Bam appears, at the top of the stairs, hands shoved in his pockets, head cocked like a dog who just caught the scent of meat. He looks down at the mess, then at us, and shakes his head.
“Thought you’d never do it,” he says. “Took you long enough, Grey.”
I wipe my hands on my jeans, the stink of Valence’s skin clinging like glue. “You here to stop us?”
He snorts. “Nah. Was hoping you’d ask for help with the body, though. Never did like her.”
Isolde starts to laugh. It’s a wet, hysterical sound, but I like it. It sounds like freedom.
Bam hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s dump her in the cemetery. No one checks the old graves anymore.”
We drag her down, through the tunnels, her limbs knocking off the walls, head bouncing, pearl necklace leaving a trail behind us. Bam whistles as we walk, some old tune, maybe a hymn, maybe a pop song. I don’t ask. The path to the cemetery is cold, wet, and full of secrets, but it’ll do.
“Leave her, I’ll do the rest. I got a spot.”
We leave her there, propped up in a stone alcove, her smile still terrifying and twisted, even in death.
When we emerge into the night, Isolde grabs my hand. She’s bloody, bruised, and smiling.
“What now?” she asks.
I look at the moon, at the empty world in front of us. “Now, we run.”
Bam nods, already two steps ahead. “I’ll cover for you. They won’t catch up. And Rhett… call me when she’s safe.”
I nod, clapping his outstretched hand tightly before letting go and turning.
We sprint through the shadows, out of the cemetery, across the frost-scarred quad, never looking back. The past is gone. The future is uncertain.
I grip Isolde’s hand, tight enough to hurt.
I don’t let go.
Neither does she.