Page 22 of Outcast’s Vow

“Nothing. Someone is out for the Castaways Elders, and yet nothing is being done.”

“What is the Supreme Elder doing?” Fabien questions.

“Nothing,” I reply. “That’s the issue. Just as Clement said. The Elders are all carrying on like normal.”

Fabien swirls his drink in thought.

“Something needs to be done,” he says quietly.

The private room doors swing open, and in comes the server from before. In distress. She runs up to me.

“There’s a message for you, sir.”

Before even waiting for my answer, she hands me a card. Heavy and embossed, all that’s written on it are a few words and a name.

Come see me.

My stomach drops when I read the author’s name.

Elwood Levine.

9

SYLVIE

I slam my apartment door shut and press my forehead against the wood.

So. This is it.

I slowly turn around and take in my apartment. Well, to put it more accurately, my soon-to-be-ex-apartment. Sure, it’s not the most lavish of places, but it’s mine.

And now I’ve got to give it up.

Now I’ve got to live with a man whom I don’t even know. A man who views me as some trophy to display in a glass cabinet.

Ugh. Father was right. My wager with him was foolish. I was bound to lose.

Accept it, Sylvie. You flew too close to the sun. You got burned, and you have only yourself to blame.

I take a step and fall onto my couch in resignation, sinking into the soft cushion. I don’t want to lift a finger today. I don’t want to pack up my old, freer life. I simply want to curl up here and shut off the world.

Sylvie Levine?

No. Now it’s Sylvie Tremblay. That’s my new name, and I’d better get used to it. And now I have to sit here and wonder what Baptiste will be like as a husband. I don’t know what kind of a man he is behind closed doors. Is this going to be a marriage, or a prison with more floor space? Jesus, I can’t think of anything more suffocating.

I let out a groan. And the four walls of my soon-to-be-ex-apartment close in. I do nothing but stew in my own self-pity for at least half an hour as my new name reverberates around my mind...

Sylvie Tremblay. Sylvie Tremblay. Sylvie Tremblay.

But then, I pinch myself. I lift my face from the cushion. I sit up with renewed energy.

This is not me. I’m more than wallowing. Wallowing is how men like Father and Baptiste win. I need to plan. Strategize.

I pick up a notepad and pen, and I resolutely write it down.

First: pack.

Second: set the rules with the bastard.