Page 42 of Breaking Isolde

When the dancing resumes, I drag her onto the floor. The orchestra plays a waltz, but I move her through the steps with none of the traditional grace. I hold her too close, fingers digging into her back, forcing her to follow my lead.

“You can let go now,” she says through clenched teeth.

“Not happening.”

She steps on my foot, deliberately. I squeeze her ribs in return, making her gasp.

We rotate around the floor, every pair of eyes tracking us, waiting for her to crack.

When the song ends, I don’t let go. I lead her off the floor, toward the shadowed alcoves at the side of the room.

She tries to pull free. I slam her against the wall.

Her mask cracks. Not literally, but in the way she stops hiding her expression.

“Why are you doing this?” she says. There’s a tremor in her voice, the first hint of real fear.

I stare at her, mask inches from hers. “Because you asked for it.”

She shakes her head, mouth trembling. “No. I never—”

“You wanted the truth. You wanted to know what I am. This is it. This is all there is. You didn’t want me when I told you what happened to Casey, when I tried to be fucking nice to you, so welcome to the person you thought I was.”

She goes silent, lips parted.

I push her harder into the wall. “Do you like him? The monster? Or would you rather I lie?”

She’s shaking, but she holds my gaze. “I’d rather you let me go.”

I drag my hand up her side, across her ribs. “You’re not leaving. Not tonight. Not ever.”

She tries to spit in my face. I see it coming and turn, so it hits my cheek.

“Bad manners,” I say.

She tries to knee me. I block it, pin her with my thigh.

She bites, hard, at my hand. I grab her chin and squeeze, not hard enough to bruise but enough to send a message.

Her eyes fill with water, but the tears don’t fall.

I brush a thumb across her cheek, smearing the moisture.

“You can cry,” I say. “It won’t change anything.”

She sucks in a breath, shakes her head again.

“I don’t cry for you,” she says.

“That’s a lie.”

I release her just enough to let her breathe. She doesn’t collapse, just slumps against the wall, trembling.

I fix her mask, tucking the flowers back in place.

“You’re not weak,” I say, almost gently. “You’re just outnumbered.”

She swallows, throat working. “I hate you.”