22. Isabel
22
ISABEL
I listen to Theodore’s footsteps retreat, each one echoing in my chest, making my ribs feel like they’re caving in. He hesitated. I could hear it in his breath and the way his weight shifted outside the door. For a second, I thought he might push his way inside, force me to face him.
But he left.
I should feel victorious, but I don’t. I should relish the fact that I made Theodore Whitmore walk away. Instead , I just feel… hollow. His admission—the raw confession that he needs me—has left me reeling. I can hardly believe it, and now I’m in shambles, the weight of his words shattering whatever resolve I had left.
I’m back in bed, curled up in the same position I’ve been in for days, limbs stiff, my body aching in places I didn’t even know could hurt. It’s pathetic, I know it is. But what’s the alternative? Wander around this house like I belong here? Like they didn’t steal me away and strip me of my choices?
The tray of food they left me this morning sits untouched by the window. I should eat, but I can’t bring myself to move.
I hate this. I hate how quiet everything feels again now that Theodore is gone.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing slumber to take me under. Maybe if I sleep long enough, I’ll wake up in my own bed, in my own life, with no Whitmore brothers to haunt me.
What a joke. I know I’m not getting out of this so easily.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling.
The idea of stepping outside this room feels pointless.
It’s not like I can go anywhere. And worse— I don’t know if I even want to.
A wave of nausea rolls through me when I think about facing them. The shame burns hot and deep, simmering beneath my skin like an infection.
How could I let them do that to me? How could I let myself fall apart like that in front of them?
I press my palms over my eyes, blocking out the memory, but it’s useless. It keeps replaying, every sensation still raw and vivid. The way they touched and looked at me like they owned me…
I hate them for taking me. I loathe them for keeping me here and treating me like some kind of plaything they can tease and break apart.
But I hate myself even more for how much I liked it.
My body betrayed me. Even when my mind screamed at me to resist, my body melted, craved, begged . I can still feel Julian’s fingers in my hair, the ghost of Maxwell’s breath against my skin, the weight of Theodore’s stare watching me unravel.
I made a spectacle of myself. Weak . Brittle . Needy .
Fuck my life.
My stomach twists in knots, shame curling in my gut like a viper.
I should have fought harder. Instead , I let them reduce me to nothing but gasps, moans, and trembling limbs.
As much as I enjoyed it, I can’t shake the feeling of being used.
It makes me sick.
I don’t belong to them, and yet, they made me feel like I did, like I had no choice but to submit.
How the hell am I supposed to walk out of this room and look them in the eye after that?
I let out a slow, unsteady breath, blinking at the ceiling. I don’t know how to reconcile the warring parts of myself—the part that still wants them, that aches for their touch even as I drown in shame, and the part that knows better.
This isn’t normal.
I roll onto my side, curling in on myself.
It’s safer here.
At least in this room, I can pretend none of it ever happened. Here , I still belong to myself .
My eyes squeeze shut, but it doesn’t help.
I let out a groan.
The memory of Theodore’s voice through the door won’t leave me alone. I was an orphan. Both parents dead. Left as an infant.
A week ago, I wouldn’t have cared. But now, it sits heavy in my chest in a way I don’t want to analyze. Because I get it. I know what it’s like to be left behind, to have no history, no past to claim as your own. No matter how much I hate him for what he’s done, that part of his story is something I can’t ignore.
Still , it doesn’t excuse his behavior. None of this does.
Yet something shifts inside me. Not enough to forgive, but enough to reconsider.
I drag a hand down my face, sighing. I didn’t ask to be a part of this, but I am, and if there’s even the slightest chance I can help put an end to it, then maybe…
Maybe I should.
I sit up. I can do something.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I push to my feet and move toward the small table near the window. I pull open the drawer and sift through its contents, fingers closing around a notebook and a couple of pens. This will do.
I drop into the chair and flip open the first blank page, tapping the pen against the lined paper. Then , I start writing.
Page after page, I scribble down every scrap of information I’ve gathered—everything the brothers have told me, things I’ve overheard. I piece it together like a puzzle, forming a rough picture of the truth lurking beneath the surface of Vanguard , of the Whitmores , of all of it.
My hand cramps from how fast I’m moving, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. This is what I do best. This is how I fight.
By the time I set the pen down, my heart is racing.
This isn’t much, but it’s a start.
I close the notebook and run my fingers over the cover, exhaling deeply. The weight that has been pressing down on me for the past week doesn’t feel as suffocating anymore.
I push back from the table and stand.
My stomach growls, and my eyes flick to the food tray that has been sitting there for hours. The bread roll on the plate is probably cold and stale, but I don’t care. I snatch it up and take a bite, the taste dry but satisfying.
This time, I don’t forget to cover myself. I grab a sweater and a pair of joggers from the pile of clothes they’ve left for me and slip them on. They’re not mine, but they fit well enough.
I can only assume this was Julian’s doing. He’s such a care bear .
The thought softens something in my chest, but I shake my head quickly to push it away.
No , Isabel . You don’t trust them. They are your enemies.
I steel myself, straighten my shoulders, and move toward the door.
When I round the corner into the living room, gripping the notebook tight in my hand, the familiar buzz of a tattoo gun hums through the space, vibrating in my bones.
Theodore is seated in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, a book open in his lap. He doesn’t even acknowledge me at first, too absorbed in whatever he’s reading.
Julian is crouched low, his expression one of pure focus as he works, the tattoo gun steady in his gloved hand. A disposable barrier sheet covers the couch beneath them, and a small workstation is set up beside Julian with an array of ink caps, a tattoo machine resting on a sterile pad, and antiseptic wipes. His brows are knit together, jaw tight in concentration.
Maxwell is sprawled across the couch, arms tucked behind his head. His shirt is discarded, exposing the defined lines of his abdomen, leading down to the fresh ink Julian is carving just above his pelvic bone. His eyes are closed, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, like he’s enjoying the pain.
The vision of all three of them like this—completely at ease, in their element—sends a sharp, unwelcome buzz through my body.
It’s unfair how attractive they are. Seeing them like this immediately reminds me of the last time I was here with them.
I clench my jaw and force the memory back, pushing the shame and heat deep down where it belongs. I won’t let myself go there again.
Instead , I move straight to the kitchen and slam my notebook down onto the island. The sound barely startles them, but it’s enough to draw their attention.
Theodore looks up slowly before closing his book.
Julian’s gaze flicks to me briefly before returning to his work, unbothered.
Maxwell is the only one who reacts fully. His eyes open, amusement flickering in them as he tilts his head to the side, stretching like a fucking cat.
“ Took you long enough, Starling ,” he drawls.