Page 28 of Breaking Isolde

I cross to the bed and kneel, careful not to jostle the mattress. I watch her breathe for a full minute, memorize the way her lashes tremble when she’s on the edge of a dream.

She stirs. I see the moment she senses me; her breathing stutters, then holds. Her eyes slit open, then snap wide when she sees my face hovering above hers.

“Naughty, naughty little girl,” I chuckle, loud enough for the echo to bounce off the cinderblock wall. Her scent floods my nose, clean and floral and thick with heat.

She jerks upright, shoving herself back against the headboard. Her knees slam into my chest but I barely feel it.

“Get the fuck out of my room,” she hisses, hair a snarl around her shoulders. Her hands go for the nearest weapon, which turns out to be a capped pen from the bedside table.

I laugh, not because it’s funny but because I need her to know she’s already lost. But also because itisfunny.

“Too late for that,” I say, and plant my hands on either side of her head, bracketing her between my arms. The mattress sags with my weight. Her knees press to my chest again, but there’s nowhere to run.

“Do you want to explain this?” I jerk my chin at the evidence wall. “Or should I call the Board right now? They won’t like this little thing you’ve got going on.”

She glares, defiant. “Go ahead. I’ll call the cops and tell them about the Hunt. About you. About how my sister died.”

Her breath comes fast, floating in the air between us.

I lean in, my face a hand’s width from hers. “Your sister died because she didn’t know how to run.”

“You murdered her.” She spits the word, a fleck of saliva catching my lip. “And you’re going to do it again, aren’t you?”

I lick the spit from my lip. “No. I very much want you alive.”

She shoves at me, but I don’t budge. The pen in her hand presses to my neck. She thinks she can kill me with it.

“I know everything,” she says. “I know what the Board is, what they do, who they protect. I know you’re just a tool for them, a fucking rabid dog.”

I smile. “Everyone needs a dog. Maybe I could be yours.”

She bares her teeth. “Get. Out.”

I press closer, so our faces are nearly touching. “I want you to show me what you’ve learned. All of it. Right now.”

“Fuck off.”

“No,” I say, and snap the pen from her grip with one twist. I toss it across the room, where it bounces against the wall and shatters.

Her hands curl into fists. She’s going to try to hit me.

I want her to.

I want to see if she has any real fight in her, or if she’s just prey in better camouflage.

I drag my gaze over her body—thin cotton, no bra, the outline of her nipples hard in the cold. Her legs are tense, the muscles bunched, but she isn’t scared. She’s furious.

I lean in until my mouth is at her ear. I breathe in every layer of emotion she’s feeling and it makes me dizzy with want.

“You think you’re the hunter,” I whisper, “but you’re already mine.”

She swings for my jaw, a hook straight out of a self-defense video. I catch her fist and twist it behind her back, forcing her to arch up into me. The move yanks her shirt open at the neck; a button goes flying and her skin flashes, pale and unmarked.

She hisses in pain but doesn’t scream.

I trap her arm behind her, then bring my other hand up to her throat, not squeezing, just holding. I can feel the pulse hammering under my thumb.

“You’re not your sister,” I say, and her eyes widen, just a little.