Page 86 of Breaking Isolde

“If you’re lying, I’ll kill you myself.”

He grins, blood on his teeth. “I’d expect nothing less.”

We stand there, hand in hand, until the bleeding stops.

When it does, I realize: I’m not just fighting for revenge anymore. I’m fighting for something better.

For a future.

For us.

Chapter 18: Rhett

Thebleedingslows.Thepain doesn’t. Isolde presses her palm to mine, blood slick and sticky, and I want to freeze the moment—just us, no witnesses, no future, no Board, no past to catch up. Only the truth of skin and scar and salt.

Then the knock comes.

I don’t move at first. I let the echo of it thrum in my jaw, let the weight of her hand in mine be the only anchor. Another knock. Harder, faster, like whoever’s on the other side has never been refused anything in their life.

Isolde looks at me, wildcat blue eyes gone midnight with exhaustion and dread. I nod, just once, and she slips off the bed,crossing to the far wall and putting her back to it, arms wrapped around herself.

“Stay there.” I murmur as she nods.

I walk to the door slow, rolling my shoulders, stretching each muscle until the ache turns to readiness. I don’t bother with a shirt.

I open the door.

Dr. Abelard stands in the corridor, flanked by Ms. Valence and two men in black.

Of course they bring in the Kings.

They’re the dicks of this world. The kind who kill for fun and eat the evidence for breakfast. They wear tactical gear, midnight-black, sidearms on each hip. Their faces are blank. Not bored—just dead inside.

Abelard’s suit is perfect. His tie is ironed so flat I could shave with it. His hair is white and glassy in the fluorescent light. He smiles, that subtle sadist’s flicker, and steps forward.

“Evening, Rhett,” he says. “We need to speak with you. Now.”

I lean on the frame, blocking the door. I keep my voice flat. “It’s late.”

Valence surveys the room with one eyebrow arched, like she’s cataloging an exotic fungus. Her hair is up in a chignon, not a strand out of place. Pearls at her neck, the size of a thumbprint. She doesn’t smile.

Abelard tries again, smile wider. “We require your compliance. Bring the Greenwood girl here, immediately.”

“She’s not a dog,” I say, slow and clear. “And you’re not the police.”

“Board directive. Effective now,” Abelard says. “Failure to comply will be considered open rebellion.”

I look him up and down. “You want to declare war on my name?” I drop my eyes to the floor, take in the polished boots of the Kings, the way one of them flexes his right hand, ready for a weapon, maybe a garrote or some new toy they brought just for me.

“She belongs to me now,” I say, baring my teeth. “You had your show. The Hunt is over.”

“Correction,” Valence says, voice smooth as silk over razors, “The Hunt is not over until the Board signs off and you produce an heir. Consider this your final audit.”

I almost laugh. “Is this about the branding? I already told you: not going to happen. Westpoint was built by Greys. Try to brand what’s mine, and I’ll cut the hand off the body.”

One of the Kings steps forward, shifting his weight. I don’t move, but I tense, every muscle ready for the break. I study his hands: he’s left dominant, scars up the fingers, old knife wounds. The other one is taller, but slower. Neither of them have what it takes to get past me, not tonight.

Abelard drops the mask. “Rhett. Bring her here. Now.”