Welcome back, Wicked Ones.

Glad we all made it through last chapter. I've really committed to myself that I won't hold back in this story, which has lead me down some truly dark paths. Hopefully, everyone is able to stay with me through it! The only warnings on this chapter would be mentions of abuse.

Thank you so much to Fran S. Sunflower for being an amazing beta, and PearlyFox for being a rockstar pre-reader.

Last chapter...

I disassociate as she works, but I can't escape completely, and the wretched details of Mark Gelson's torture leak into me, staining my soul.

Isabelle is merciless, twisting the pear further, pausing to filet skin off his back in between turns of the screw. The sounds he makes are inhuman, but she does not flinch, does not slow down.

Gone is the vulnerable woman praying to a saint in the Cathedral this afternoon.

She is savage, wild, horrifying vengeance, and she has come for her pound of flesh.

VII

Sœurs d'âme

Isabelle

C'est comme si les deux corps partageaient une seule âme.

I sleep almost an entire day after my time in the Pit. Torture is exhausting, and no matter how much I crave to extract it, it never leaves me feeling as whole as I want it to.

I know I'm chasing a ghost feeling when I inflict that pain, but I can't stop. There are too many wicked people in this world that deserve my vengeance.

It does occur to me I certainly fall into this category myself, and that one day, my own vengeance will come for me.

It is a fate I fully accept.

For her part, Rose handled the torture well. It's not the first time she's sat in with me, and I know she's dealt out her own revenge before, but Judge Morales' list is long, and the mentoring we managed to get in last night will serve her well.

Jasper, on the other hand … I know it's difficult for him to sit in on the activities in the Pit, and I don't always require him to, but I needed him to see. If he wants to keep Edward around, he needs to know how the man deals with the ugly. He needs to know his threshold.

My hands curl lightly as I think about how Edward reacted in the Pit. He's stronger than I gave him credit for. Not once did he flinch or break down, even when I saw Jasper have to turn away.

Edward stayed steady.

The memory of his emerald eyes burning on me as I tortured that man fills me with a flush that makes me uncomfortable. For the first time in many years, I feel self-conscious.

I loathe Edward for bringing this feeling out in me.

My body is still exhausted when I finally pull myself out of bed. I need to stretch, to work out after the exertion of torture, so I dress in my workout gear and head down to the Ring.

There are a few people around, but most of them ignore me when I enter the arena. Felix greets me with a nod but waits for me to speak first. "Are you busy?"

He shakes his head. "No. We'll clear the Ring if you want to spar," he says, his voice carrying across the room. People get out of my way, scattering to the edges of the room. It's not often I work out with people down here, but my body is stiff, and it needs to be worked.

Felix and I set up in the Ring, running through a few drills. He doesn't let me get away with shit, calling me out when my form slips, and it pushes me harder, even while it's pissing me off.

Not many people will call me out like Felix does.

I hate that I feel him the moment he enters the Ring. I don't have to turn to see him; I can feel those eyes burning me, scorching through the room.

I run the drill I'm practicing with Felix, forcing myself not to look, but I can still feel him. The longer I resist, the hotter I burn.

It is a wheedling torture, burrowing under my skin, driving me slowly mad.

I do not turn to look, and each moment I resist, my blows land harder and harder until Felix has us break.

I pace away from Felix, sucking in breath, and my eyes catch his.

It sucks what little oxygen I have straight out of my lungs. His eyes are burning, focused, knowing.

It pisses me the hell off that he thinks he can know anything about me.

"Masen!" His name is out of my mouth before I can stop it. The entire Ring falls still and silent. I never address people, and certainly not so publicly. I nod toward the Ring where I'm standing, and the message is clear. He nods slowly, making his way while slipping off his hoodie. I turn to Felix, and I'm acutely aware of the fact that I've turned my back on Edward. I feel his gaze on my spine.

"Referee," I tell Felix.

He nods, one eyebrow slightly raised. He does not say anything, though, as Edward slips into the Ring. I turn to him. I've wanted to beat him up since the moment he first smirked at me. Now's my chance.

I can hear Felix outlining rules of sparring, but I don't care. Edward seems not to care either; his eyes are on me, burning and utterly fixed.

The moment Felix gives the go, I make my move. Edward steps back, missing the blow, but my foot is there to catch his ribs as he tries to dodge me. He grunts, doubling over a second. I step back from him, my eyes narrowed. He straightens, his eyes on me as he lunges. He drops his shoulder a second before he punches, and I scowl. He didn't telegraph his moves when he was fighting Felix, so why is he doing it now?

I dodge the blow, slipping in toward his chest to deliver another blow while I duck under his arm. I'm short enough that it's easy to slip around him, and he grunts as my blow lands to his sternum. I move away, watching him, waiting to see when he'll make an actual move. He shifts on his feet, but his hips telegraph his move again, and it's too easy to dodge the hit and return the blows, landing one on his jaw while my knee comes up to his chest.

He flies back to the mat, sucking in a deep breath as Felix calls me the winner.

I'm fucking furious.

"Get the fuck up!" I snarl. The room falls silent like they are collectively holding a breath. Edward watches me as he sits up. "I said get the fuck up!"

He gets to his feet, rolling back a little, eyes wary. He should be fucking wary. I'm about to tear him apart. "Again," I demand. "Except, this time, don't you dare fucking hold back."

He looks properly shamed about being called out and ducks his head slightly but nods. We move into position as Felix oversees us. When we are both ready, Felix shouts to begin the match.

This time, Edward is quick as a cobra, not telegraphing any moves even in the slightest. He lunges toward me, his right fist coming up, which I manage to dodge, but I don't see his left fist until it lands on my ribs. I gasp as the air leaves me, and my knee comes up reflexively. He spins out of my range, and I suck in a breath.

He's faster than I remember.

I train in MMA, and from what I've observed of Edward, he's been trained in boxing and kickboxing, but I'm not sure of much else. This is my advantage, and I step toward him, feigning right then landing a blow left followed by a kick that clips his jaw. He staggers back, but I'm right there, unrelenting. I land another blow to his ribs before reaching up to land a kick to his sternum. He grabs my leg before the blow can land, catching me off guard by how fast he's been able to react after getting the wind knocked out of him. His fingers wrap around my calf, and he hoists me up so I'm off the floor, completely at his mercy. I swear, and my legs lock around his torso as best they can as I try to bring him to the ground. He stumbles, and I reach up, wrapping my arms around his head to yank him in the direction I want him to fall.

He trips again, and we tumble to the mat, his weight somehow landing on top of me. One of my legs is hooked up around his shoulder, the other around his ribs, and I use the leverage to flip him over and pin him to the mat. His arms come up, locking around my torso, and he easily overpowers me, yanking me from my hold on him. My arms and legs scrape to regain control, but he flips us back over, pinning me to the mat. His knee is on my chest, and I shift my hips, wrapping my legs around his neck and pulling. He flips over, unable to escape the lock of my knees, and I try to sit up while keeping him pinned between my legs, but he surprises me, hoisting me up as he gets up on his knees. Somehow, he is able to lift me above his head as he sits up, his head still trapped between my thighs.

I grunt, trying to secure my hold, but I slip, and he takes advantage of it, twisting me free of his neck and head and throwing me onto the mat.

His knee lands on my chest, his hands holding my wrists in a firm hold above my head. I try to get my legs up around him, but he shifts so he's straddled over me, his feet locking my legs down while he sits over my stomach.

I'm utterly pinned, and he knows it.

Fuck.

My mind is reeling, replaying our fight that somehow turned into a wrestling match, trying to pinpoint where I went wrong, where I let him get the upper hand.

It doesn't occur to me the intimacy of the position we're in until Felix calls Edward the winner.

He doesn't get off of me right away. Our eyes meet, and it takes every shred of willpower I've ever had not to buck him off me. I can't let myself move that way because I'm actually afraid of how it might feel.

I can feel his feet, hot and pressing into my thighs, locking my legs in place. He's searing me through my workout pants.

It feels like an eternity that we sit there, staring at each other when I know it's really no more than a few seconds.

He lets go of my wrists and climbs off me, even daring to offer me a hand up. I ignore it and get to my feet, more pissed off than I was when I came down here. I square my shoulders, holding a hand out to him, and he hesitates a moment before shaking it. I feel feverish where our skin meets.

I drop his hand, glancing past him at Felix. Felix's dark eyes meet mine, and I nod to him once before turning and leaving the arena. I can feel eyes on me as I walk, but I don't care. I need to get out of there before I do something unforgivable, like smile at the first real opponent I've had in years.

-V-

I hate looking like this.

I glance at my reflection, touching my long brown hair lightly. This is a look—a girl—I left many years ago. I hate having to be her again, but Isabelle has no place here.

The facility is quiet as I slip past the receptionist's desk. The woman behind the counter nods to me in acknowledgment, but doesn't make me stop to sign in. I pay a lot to this place to keep it that way.

Maria Teresa Care Facility is relatively new and has been flourishing thanks to generous donations from a number of upstanding patrons around the city; almost all of them leading back to me.

Threads of gold warm the marble floors in the hallways, and the highly polished brass handles gleam, giving the building a much more welcoming environment than one would expect.

I slip through corridors silently, eyeing the lilies set in delicate vases down each hall. Part of the stipulation of Maria Teresa; there must always be fourteen lilies.

I arrive in the North Wing and slow my pace. I'm in converse sneakers and jeans, and I hate the squeak of my shoes against the polished floor. It's all a part of the act I must play while I'm here.

Tall, double doors, gilded with gold inlay stand before me, and I have to take several deep breaths before I will myself to open them.

The room is as it always is. Fourteen white lilies in a Baccarat vase by the window, standing upon an antique dresser from Versailles itself. A thick Turkish rug handcrafted to perfectly reflect the gilded crown molding of the room covers the floor. Across from two velvet lounge chairs that sit under a French window stands a full-length Venetian mirror, elegantly restored. Artwork from a master sits above the marble mantel, which tops a fireplace that has never been used. I take in every detail of the room, silently dreading what I must face next.

My eyes gloss over the parquet flooring and up past the large four-poster, king-size bed. I swallow thickly when I see her sitting there, staring out the window at the North lawn.

Her brown hair is long, neatly trimmed, and carefully braided down her back. Her skin is pale; her limbs atrophied from disuse. She's in a green sweater today; a blanket tucked carefully around her legs as her eyes gaze blankly outside. I swallow hard, smoothing my shaking hands down over my jean-clad thighs. "Hi, Bebe," I say softly. She doesn't turn her head, doesn't acknowledge me at all, but I know she hears me. I move around the bed, taking slow, careful breaths as I make my way towards her. "It's me, Meme," I tell her, my voice soft as I stoop right in front of her. Her eyes barely flicker in recognition, and I offer her a small smile. "How are you today?" I reach out, taking her hand. It's too cold, and I frown. "Let me get you some gloves," I tell her, setting her hand down and crossing the room to the dresser. I pull out a pair of lambskin gloves, fingering them gently as I make my way back to her. On my knees in front of her, I carefully slide the gloves on one at a time. I don't look at her face. I can't.

"I brought Frankenstein back," I tell her, gently patting her hands once the gloves are on. "I thought we could pick up where we left off." I glance up at her eyes to see the barest flicker of awareness. More than anything, I sense her energy, her agreement. I nod and look away, grabbing the book from where I set it down on the bed. I pull one of the velvet lounge chairs over and settle in next to her. The gentle beeps and whirs of the machines that keep her alive begin to agitate me, grinding against my nerves as it always does, but I push it away.

"All right, where did we leave off?"

The silk ribbon bookmark is soft in my hands as I crack open the book. I fall into the cadence quickly, and soon, it is lulling me into a sense of calm I haven't felt in a very long time.

"As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect upon their cause—the monster whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into the world."

The passage brings uneasiness to me, and I pause, reflecting on it. I am the monster I have unleashed into the world, but am I the creator as well?

I sit, pondering the thought for a long moment before remembering where it is I am. I glance up at Bree. "Mary Shelly really was a genius," I say, shaking my head and flipping the book over to look at the cover. "Another woman, too clever for this heartless world." The thought burns me with righteous anger. Mary Shelly may still be well known, but she has never received the credit owed to her genius.

I hear Bree's breathing change, and I look up at her. I sense she's upset with me, and I take a careful breath, forcing myself to calm. She hates it when I talk about the world this way. Somehow, my little sister has remained an optimist; even though she's suffered such severe trauma and abuse and is now a living statue, locked in her body with barely any function of her own.

I swallow hard and look back at the book. "Maybe, we end here for today," I whisper. Seeing Bree has caused me more pain than I want to admit, and I'm so fucking tired.

I look up at my sister once more. Her eyes are the same brown as mine, her hair the same dark chestnut as well. People thought we were twins once upon a time. Now, we are both half-people, incomplete due to the abuse and neglect we suffered as children. I may be able to function on the outside, but I am hollow. My sister may be incapacitated on the outside but is bursting with life within.

Two halves, of one broken, mangled whole.

"I'll see you soon, Bebe, okay?" I promise, reaching out to touch her soft gloved hand. I want to tell her more. I want to tell her about the shit I'm running, about the drugs and sex and violence. I want to tell her about the people I torture and kill and about the man who brought me the first real challenge I'd had in a very long time. I want to tell her how his eyes burn me and how I never know if I'm more tempted to kill him or drag him a little closer.

Mostly, I want to tell her that I miss her, my once best friend and only confidante. I miss her company, her laugh, and her smile. I miss the way she used to sneak in my bed and wrap her arms around my waist while we comforted each other to sleep. I miss braiding her hair and teaching her how to climb fences.

My heart aches and burns for all I've lost and all that she once stood for. It is a gaping wound in my soul that can never be fixed, never be soothed.

I am an incomplete person, and I have been since the day I lost my sister.

A bit more background of Isabelle.

There is a lot that makes her what she is, and I'll be diving into it more as we continue through the story.

I'll see you darlings next week!

Translations:

1. Sœurs d'âme - Soul Sisters (French)

2. C'est comme si les deux corps partageaient une seule âme. - It's like the two of them were one soul sharing two bodies. (French)