Page 20 of Breaking Isolde

“Casey’s dead,” I say. “Nothing you do changes that.”

She steps around the pew, fearless. “You talk about her like you cared. But you don’t. You just want me to back off because I might embarrass you.”

I hold her gaze. “You couldn’t embarrass me if you tried.”

“Then why are you here?”

She’s close now, so close I can smell the shampoo in her hair, something berry. She stares me down, daring me to move first. I see her pulse in the hollow of her throat, ticking up, faster with every second.

“Why are you here?” I echo. “Why risk all this for someone who’s gone?”

She hesitates. Her jaw flexes, and she shakes her head.

“Because she deserved better,” she says, soft now, a whisper meant for the dead. “And so do I.”

The words hang in the chapel like smoke. For a minute, neither of us says anything.

Then I move.

I close the distance, fast, stepping into her space and catching her wrist before she can pull away. She swings the notebook at my face, but I block it with my forearm and twist, forcing her back until her spine hits the end of the pew.

She glares up at me, defiant, furious. Her breath comes in short, fast pants.

“Let go,” she spits.

I don’t.

Instead, I grip her jaw, tilting her face up until she has no choice but to look at me. I can feel the shudder that runs through her—part anger, part fear, part something else. Her hands come up, nails sharp, but I pin them both to the wood, trapping her completely.

“You’re not her,” I say, voice low. “You never will be.”

She sneers. “Good. She didn’t deserve this.”

For a split second, I hate her for saying it. Then I want her more than I want to breathe.

I press my mouth to hers.

It’s not gentle. There’s no patience, no seduction—just hunger and the need to obliterate every word she’s ever used against me. Her lips are cold at first, but then they burn. She fights, one hand coming loose in the battle, nails digging into my arms, but I don’t let up. I bite her lip, hard enough to draw blood, and she makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a snarl.

She tries to twist away, but I catch her by the nape and force her still. Her hair knots in my fist, and I can taste the sharp, metallic tang of her blood mixing with mint from her stupid lip balm. I want to ruin it. I want to ruin her. To make her forget everything but me.

She keeps fighting, even as her body betrays her—her back arches, her hips buck, and for one perfect heartbeat she surrenders, kissing back with the desperation of someone about to drown. I drag it out, refusing to give her the satisfaction of mercy. When I finally break away, she’s trembling, breathless, eyes bright with hate.

I lean in, nose to nose. “You’ll never get away from me.”

She laughs, wrecked and shaking. “Fuck you, Rhett.”

I smile. “I can do that. Is now a good time? Drop your panties, little one and I’ll show you just how hot you run for me.”

She shoves me hard, but I let her go this time. She stumbles back, wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket, and glares at me like she could set me on fire with just her eyes.

“You think you’re so untouchable,” her voice is raw. “But you’re not. I’ll prove it.”

I step back, hands in my pockets, already missing the heat of her. “Maybe. But not tonight.”

She hurls the notebook at my head. I catch it one-handed and toss it onto the pew.

She backs away, careful to keep me in her sightline, then vanishes down the side aisle and out into the dark.