Page 46 of Breaking Isolde

Dr. Abelard waits for me at the desk, white coat starched, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. His face is pure bone, every angle sharper than the last, and his eyes move like he’s slicing you open before you speak.

“Miss Greenwood.”

“Isolde,” I snap. “Why am I here?”

He smiles, teeth bright and wrong. “A routine health assessment. Nothing more.”

“You told me this was about Casey.”

“It’s a requirement for all high-priority candidates. Surely Rhett explained.” He ignores my statement.

The name hits like a sucker punch, but I keep my face blank. “What does any of this have to do with Casey?”

He looks up, all innocence. “Your sister completed her assessment as well. I thought you’d want to be thorough and see what she went through for her big debut.”

He gestures at the exam room, the door already open behind him. “Through there, please. Ms. Valence will assist and the I will be in shortly.”

I step past, and the inside of the room is all surgical white and chrome, every surface wiped so clean it smells like hospital hell. There’s a rolling cart with syringes and vials, a weighing scale, the usual blood-pressure torture. But the centerpiece is a gurney bolted to the floor, with four leather restraints fanned out like a starfish. A camera—actual, old-school camera—sits on a tripod, lens pointed at the gurney.

Ms. Valence stands beside the gurney, lips pinched in a smile, fingers laced at her waist. She’s wearing a navy suit and black gloves, her white hair pulled tight into a knot. Her glasses catch the light, so I can’t see her eyes.

“Welcome, Miss Greenwood,” she says, fake warmth like a plastic plant. “Please have a seat.”

I hesitate, but there’s no way I’m running now. I sit at the edge of the gurney, metal cold through my jeans.

Abelard closes the door, then moves to the rolling cart. He unwraps a length of tape and clicks his pen.

“Let’s get started. You may remove your top, please.”

I snort. “You can fuck right off with that.”

He shrugs, like it makes no difference, and turns to Valence. “Assist, if you will.”

She steps in, gloved hands cool on my shoulders. She tugs at the zipper of my hoodie, pulls it down with agonizing slowness. I resist, but she flashes me a warning look, and within seconds my hoodie is peeled away, leaving me in my tank top and bra.

“Shirt, please,” Abelard says. He doesn’t even pretend to look away.

Valence takes the hem of my shirt and yanks it over my head. The air is freezing. My skin goosebumps on contact.

Abelard makes a note on his clipboard. “Scarring on the left upper arm, origin?”

“Dog bite,” I lie, because he doesn’t deserve the truth. “Are you even a fucking doctor?”

He jots it down, then steps forward and grabs my wrist. He checks the inside of my elbow, then wraps a pressure cuff around my bicep. It bites into my skin.

“I am indeed, a real doctor. Once upon a time. Usually I have a third-party medical team complete these assessments, but given the knowledge we already have of your past history from Casey, I decided we could complete everything but the last step. Though, if you choose to be difficult, I can ask the guards to subdue you.”

He takes my pulse, then my temperature, then draws two vials of blood without warning. The needle hurts—he stabs, not slides, like he enjoys the sting.

“Pants.”

“No.”

Abelard lifts his brows. His fingers hover over a device with a red button on them and as he’s about to tense, I sigh and slip out of my pants.

“There. Happy?”

“Obedience looks good on you, Isolde. Next time try being a bit faster.” He smirks.