Epilogue Isolde
If you ever want to hate a place, watch it at sunset. That’s when all the old rot glows gold, and you get just enough light to see the scars before the dark comes and makes you forget.
Westpoint is like that—pretty from a distance, all spires and stately brick, but if you squint you can see the new mortar holding the walls together, all the parts patched up after more of the rot fell off.
Three months since I blew out of that hell with Rhett and went to the lakehouse. Two and a half since we went back after our honeymoon, and were given this cottage as our home.
It’s odd, five cottages, just on the outskirts of the Academy, but only ours is taken. I can safely presume that the others are for the rest of the Boys after they successfully complete their hunts, but Caius’ will always stay empty.
Not that I’m complaining. I enjoy the solitude.
I sit on the porch, mug of cold tea in my hands, and just stare. The campus is a chunk of shadow on the horizon, silhouettes of gargoyles and student housing rising behind the skeletal arms of dead trees. In this light it could almost be a fairytale.
Almost.
The cottage isn’t much, but the wrap around porch is to die for.
The boards are warped and the white paint is more green from algae than anything else, but it has a railing, and a decent view.
The inside is two rooms and a full bathroom with dual sinks.
It’s small, but I like it. It’s not the dorm, and it’s not Rhett’s room, and it’s not my family’s condemned house. It’s just…here.
I pull my knees up to my chest, ignoring the twinge in my left ankle, which never healed right after the Hunt. The first thing you learn at Westpoint is that the weak get culled. The second thing is that sometimes the weak bite back.
The sun drops behind the main building, streaking the landscape in orange and red.
My breath comes out in little clouds, but I refuse to go inside.
I like the sting of cold on my skin. It’s a reminder that I still have nerve endings, that I didn’t die like my sister, that the Board didn’t erase us after the interrogation over Valence’s disappearance.
If you look hard, you can see Bam moving around in the trees, doing whatever feral thing he does after hours.
He’s squatting in the cottage next door, sleeping there on days that Colt and Jules bring girls over to party.
Rhett says it’s because Bam wants to ‘save himself’ for his runner, but I know better.
Bam just likes the company, even if he’ll never admit it.
He’s the only one who doesn’t flinch when I talk about Casey, about what happened to her.
Rhett still looks at me with that guilty “I’m so sorry” face, which makes me want to jam a fork in his eye.
Bam just grunts, or shrugs, or offers me a beer. I prefer that.
I take another sip of my tea, and catch myself touching my stomach. A new habit. Still flat as ever, though I swear I feel every molecule rearrange itself on bad days. The test was positive three days ago. Rhett was estatic and Bam just rolled his eyes.
O squealed when I called to tell her, spewing all her pregnancy wisdom on me. She’s pretty close to popping and I’m sure she will be excited to tell me all about that, too.
I think about Casey, about what she’d say if she were here. Probably something like “Don’t fuck it up, Issy.” Maybe she’d punch me on the shoulder, or maybe she’d roll her eyes and ask if Rhett’s sperm is as self-important as he is. The thought makes me laugh.
Valence’s body was never found. Bam made sure of that.
He erased every security camera log on campus, and buried her just like he said he would.
The Board launched an “investigation,” but it lasted three days, and the conclusion was “unfortunate departure.” They sent her family a care package and a generic letter, and that was that.
The Board cares about nothing but appearances. It’s all about justice, legacy and power. It’s about the brand, the reputation, the ability to keep suckering in the next generation of monsters and victims. If the world ever saw the truth, the whole game would collapse.
I rub my hands together, feeling the roughness of new callus and old scar. I could have left. I thought about it. Packing a bag and just running. Rhett would have followed, of course. But something holds me here. A compulsion. Or maybe just the need to finish what I started.
The wind picks up, rattling the porch like it’s about to shake the whole cottage off its blocks.
I huddle deeper into my sweatshirt. It’s Rhett’s, of course, because I’ve ruined all my own clothes or left them to rot at the dorm.
He bought me new ones, but I prefer his.
His smell calms me. Settles my nerves when they feel fried from anxiety or stress.
The sleeves hang past my fingertips and the collar is stretched from where he tugs it when he’s deep in thought. I bury my face in the fabric, breathe in the cheap detergent and the faint masculine scent that clings to his skin.
Footsteps behind me. Slow, heavy, deliberate. Rhett never bothers with subtlety when it’s just us. I hear the door open, hear the hinges groan, and then his voice.
“You planning to freeze to death or just reenact some tragic gothic novel out here?”
I grunt. “If I said both, would you make fun of me?”
He laughs, putting his hands on my shoulders and squeezing. “I’d just join you.”
He sits beside me on the steps, not on the bench, but on the actual wood. His jeans are wet at the knees and there’s a streak of dirt on his jaw. He’s been digging again. I don’t ask.
For a long time, we don’t speak. Just listen to the wind and the sound of Westpoint’s bells in the distance.
Finally, he says, “They called for Bam’s Hunt.”
I turn, slow. “Already?”
He nods. “Next week. His girl arrives this week.”
“Fuck,” I say, because what else is there?
He flicks ash onto the porch, shrugs. “It never stops, Issy. They need the spectacle. Keeps the Board happy, the donors happier. A slow churn out of the next big move, the one that takes them closer to owning all the power players.”
I want to throw up. “Who’s the runner?”
He names a girl I don’t know. I imagine her as I was—scared, desperate, hoping there’s a way out. There isn’t. Not really.
“We could leave,” he says, voice soft. “You and me. No one would follow.”
I shake my head. “If we do, it just keeps happening. Someone else will take our place.”
He looks away, jaw set. “You sound like a martyr.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I just want to see them burn.”
He smiles, but it’s twisted. “You and me both, wildcat.”
The sun is almost gone now, just a smear of pink over the trees. The cold has crept up my legs, through the denim, and I’m starting to shiver. Rhett sees it, but doesn’t say anything.
I stand, brush off my ass, and glare at the campus one last time. “I’m going in.”
He follows, just a step behind.
“Dinner, shower and then sleep, Issy. Baby needs rest and so do you.”
“Yes, Daddy.” I tease, loving the way his eyes darken whenever I say that.
“Woman, if you weren’t already pregnant, I’d be pumping one into you right now.”
I slowly strip off his sweater, “Well, what are you waiting for?”
He groans, his eyes tracking the lines of my body, “Get your ass to the bathroom right now.”
Our “war room” is the kitchen table, and it looks like the FBI raided a kindergarten. Campus maps cover the surface, scarred with red circles and angry notes, coffee rings eating away at the legend.
There’s a mug full of highlighters and a dented thermos that leaks every time Bam tries to pour from it, which is often.
The wall by the fridge is a graveyard of sticky notes and blurry surveillance photos, Board members caught off-guard at the gym, the wine bar, some at the goddamn nail salon.
A few have mustaches drawn on. That’s probably me, but I honestly can’t remember.
Bam and Rhett lean over the table, hunched like vultures around a roadkill buffet.
Bam is restless, always tapping, bouncing his leg, fidgeting with a knife even when it’s not his turn to talk.
Rhett is the opposite—motionless, every muscle in his body locked in like he’s holding the planet in place by sheer spite.
They argue, but quietly.
Bam slams his palm on the map, stabbing at a circled building. “We hit ‘em here, they’re not ready. You said yourself, that’s where the files are kept, right? Knock it out, fuck the whole system. If they can’t access their assets, they can’t run shit.”
Rhett runs a thumb down the side of his nose, not looking at Bam. “And get half the Kings on our asses before we even start? No. The point is to make them scramble, not get ourselves dead.”
Bam grins. “Thought you liked chaos.”
“I like winning,” Rhett sighs. “The Board has cameras on every exit. You set one foot out of line, it’s over.”
Bam opens his mouth, but I cut him off by dumping two mugs on the table. The coffee is old and bitter, but it’s hot, and right now that’s as close to love as I get.
“Ophelia called,” I say, sitting across from them.
“Caius and O scouted the new perimeter. They’re using cadets from the ROTC program as security.
It’s all in the notes.” I nudge the folder over, fingers grazing Rhett’s.
He looks at me, and there’s a heat in his eyes that almost hurts. But it’s not for now.
Bam snorts. “Fucking jocks. Figures.”
“More like fucking pawns,” I mutter. “They don’t know who they’re working for. They just like the uniform.”
Rhett ignores the coffee, flips through the pages. “Ophelia say anything about the new Finance Officer? Valence’s replacement?”