Chapter 14: His Angel: Chapter 14

Isaia goes with Alexius and Leandra to see them off, and he sticks one of the new guards on me since Talon’s tied up helping with the departure. The new guy’s quiet, too. It’s been over an hour, and he hasn’t said a word.

I watch him from the corner of my eye, trying to decipher his stance and the sharp lines of his face.

An unmistakable air of alertness surrounds him, every muscle on edge, radiating tension like a coiled spring waiting to pounce. His eyes rove around our surroundings, missing nothing.

My feet sink into the sand, warm and gritty under my soles, as Luna bounds ahead—floppy ears flapping, tongue lolling. The sun’s dipping low, spilling amber across the waves. Sunsets here on the island are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.

Alexius and Leandra were supposed to leave earlier, but Leandra woke up feeling ill, and they had to wait a while for the nausea meds to kick in and for her to feel better. It was fun having them around, and Leandra and I found some mutual ground, maybe even a little trust. It was needed, to spend time with them. But I’m not gonna lie; having this place to ourselves again excites me.

Isaia’s been holding back when it comes to having sex the last few days, making sure we’re doing things quietly, slapping his palm over my mouth and whispering in my ear how no one but him is allowed to hear me come.

I’ll admit, his possessive side does things to me, makes me all loopy and pleasure-drunk, but the thought of us—of him unleashing his dominant darkness I’ve been craving sends anticipation skittering along my skin.

I glance back at the guy trailing me. Wyatt, I think—tall, lean, maybe mid-twenties, with a face carved from stone and a mess of dark hair spilling over his forehead. His jaw’s sharp, shadowed with stubble, and his nose has a slight crook like it’s taken a punch or two. Dark eyes sit under thick brows, one arched permanent-like, giving him a look that’s half skeptical, half bored.

He’s got this tic. His left cheek twitches every few seconds, subtle but there, like a pulse he can’t shake. His boots scuff the sand, rifle slung low across his chest, hands clasped behind him—military stiff but loose enough to move fast.

“Wyatt, right?” I toss it out casually, testing the water.

He nods—a quick dip of his chin—those dark eyes flicking to me, then away, tic jumping. Barely a ripple.

The ocean hums around us, waves kissing the shore, and Luna’s barking at a crab skittering sideways, her tail a blur. I scoop a smooth, pearled shell, rolling it in my palm before chucking it into the surf, watching it vanish with a plop. Then I spin, walking backward, hands stuffed in my sundress pockets, breeze tugging my hair wild.

“So, Wyatt, you from Chicago?”

He cocks that brow higher, cheek twitching twice, lips flat, no hint of a smile. Then he shrugs, shoulders rolling, like I’m asking about the weather. I guess asking someone where they’re from is right up there with asking about the weather when it comes to small talk.

“You like pizza?”

Seriously? Can I possibly be more of a cliché?

“Deep dish or thin crust?”

Yes, apparently I can.

Awkward silences make me…well…awkward. I hate it. The clinging tension, the existential dread of dwindling topics. So, I keep pushing, overcompensating with cheesy questions. “Favorite color? Film? Ancient civilization? Preferred cutlery?”

My only response is the tic of his cheek, the rhythm unbroken.

I huff, spinning back, sand sticking to my feet as Luna races around with a stick, drooling like she’s won the lottery.

I bend down, scooping wet sand into my hands, molding it slowly, fingers shaping a lumpy mess.

“Ever mess with sand sculpting?” I lob it at the waves, grinning as it splats, and squat to pat another pile, peeking up at him. “I’m awful at it. Mine always turns out looking like piles of elephant poop.” I cringe at my analogy. “Bet you could do better. Those hands look steady.”

His fingers flex—long, calloused—then he nods like he’s humoring me, tic flickering.

Luna barrels back, panting hard, and drops the soggy stick at my feet, her eyes bright and demanding. I grab it and stumble over a ripple in the sand, falling on my ass in the warm surf, breaking out in a fit of laughter.

The stick flings out of my hand and skitters across the beach with Luna in hot pursuit. She’s all barks and wagging tail, no concern for anything except her stick while I’m covered in wet sand, laughing like a maniac, my sundress soaked and clinging.

I’m pretty sure I heard a hushed chuckle coming from Wyatt.

I lean back on my hands, craning my neck, eyes closed as I soak up the last bit of sun for the day. “You got a dog, Wyatt? You look like a dog guy.”

I’m not looking at him, but I hear the sand grind under his boots. “Had one,” he mutters, then clears his throat.

On the inside, I’m doing a victory dance because I made him talk, but on the outside, I’m stone. “Had one?”

“Gave him away.”

This time I glance up at him. “Gave him away? Why?”

He hesitates, scanning the surroundings before saying, “Gave him to my brother when I got this job.”

“Oh. Well, that makes sense. You’re hardly home, I suppose.” I wiggle my toes, burying them in the sand. “What’s his name?”

“Max.”

I snicker. “Max? That’s like the default dog name.”

There’s a hint of a smirk on his face, his expression softening. Even the tic on his cheek is gone for a moment.

“What kind of dog is Max?”

“Shepherd mix.”

“We had a shepherd mix when I was little. Oliver.” I shoot him a teasing grin. “Our choice of a dog name was more creative.”

“Oliver sounds like a butler’s name.”

I laugh, and Luna returns with the stick, which I snag, tossing it high, water swirling around my shins. “Did Max have a preference when it came to shoe chewing?”

He crouches, rifle propped beside him, elbows on his knees, cheek twitching as he thinks. “Boots,” he says, voice a little less rough now. “He always went for the leather boots.”

“Boots?” I snort, leaning back on my hands, sand warm under my palms. “Max has grit. Oliver was too chicken for leather and stuck with rubber flip-flops.”

A spark of amusement ignites in Wyatt’s eyes as they meet mine. He shares a short chuckle and scratches the back of his neck. “Max is a tough one.”

Silence settles again, and I’m desperate not to have the awkwardness trickle back in. “Have you been working for the Del Rossa family long?”

He straightens, righting the rifle in front of his chest, that tic back in action. “Few months.”

“You’ve worked with Isaia before.”

An air of discomfort settles around him as he scans the area. “No. Just Caelian.”

“I hear Caelian’s a hoot.”

His brow furrows at the remark, a side glance shot my way. “Hoot? I suppose that’s one word for him.” Wyatt’s voice is dry, but there’s a glimmer of something wry beneath it. I can tell he’s holding back—either by habit or orders. Probably both.

I stretch my legs out in front of me, flicking water droplets from my toes. “It’s good to have someone shadow me who actually talks.”

He shrugs again, but this one’s looser. “You’re good at forcing conversation.”

“Guilty.” I smile. “I’m just not used to people watching me without talking. Feels like being stalked by a mannequin with combat training.”

That almost gets a laugh. Almost.

Wyatt shakes his head, looking like he’s about to say something else⁠—

And then he’s gone.

One moment, Wyatt’s upright—steady, sharp-eyed, that soldier stillness carved into his bones. The next, he’s obliterated. A black blur slices through the air like a missile, and then crack—he’s slammed into the sand so hard it shakes the ground beneath me.

His rifle spins away, a useless piece of metal now, skidding across the beach and disappearing into a dune. The wind gusts around us, but everything narrows to a single point.

A blade.

Pressed against the soft, vulnerable hollow of Wyatt’s throat.

Blood blooms instantly.

I can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“Isaia?” My voice comes out as a broken gasp.

But he doesn’t even look at me. He’s not here to talk. He’s here to kill.

“You piece of shit, motherfucker.” Isaia’s voice tears out of him like a growl, low and savage. He straddles Wyatt’s chest, knees grinding into his ribs, knife locked against flesh—unflinching, intentional. He’s breathing hard, face twisted in something close to rage-black madness.

“I’ve been watching you for a goddamn hour,” Isaia snarls, face twisted in fury, eyes blazing with something that looks more animal than human. “A fucking hour, and you didn’t clock me. Didn’t sense me. Didn’t even twitch. You were too busy making fucking small talk to notice.” The knife presses deeper. Blood slicks along the blade now, crimson against silver. He doesn’t even flinch. “If I were an actual threat, you’d be dead, and she’d be gone.”

“Isaia, stop!” I scream, stumbling toward them, heart pounding like a drum in my throat. “What the hell are you doing?!”

He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t hear me.

The blade digs in deeper—just enough to make the blood run now, not pool. A warning. A punishment. The glint in Isaia’s eyes says he’s not posturing. He’s two seconds from feral.

“Isaia, get off him!”

“I’m not paying you to flirt. I’m not paying you to make small talk or swap dog stories. I’m paying you to watch her. To protect her. You think this is just another gig, Wyatt? You think she’s just another asset to babysit? Another six-figure paycheck for you?” He leans in close, jaw set, expression hard. “She’s not. Fucking. Replaceable. You get that? She’s everything. And you let your guard down. You failed.”

Finally, his eyes slice toward me—and there’s a wildness there I haven’t seen before. Something that pulses beneath the surface, hot and dark.

“Do you get it now?” he shouts, his voice cracking from how hard he pushes it. “You could’ve been taken. Right from under his nose. And he would’ve been too busy smirking even to notice.”

Wyatt stays still, face tight, jaw locked. The tic in his cheek is back with a vengeance, pulsing hard and fast. But he doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t resist.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Calm. Cold. Like a soldier being reprimanded by a superior officer. “It won’t happen again.”

Isaia’s chest is heaving. Sweat glistens at his temple, his teeth clenched so tight I swear I hear the grind of enamel. “No. It won’t. Because you’re fucking done.”

He jerks back from Wyatt like the contact burns him, launching to his feet in one swift, explosive motion. The knife is still clutched in his hand, blood gleaming wet along the edge.

“You’re fired,” he spits. “Talon will have you off this island by nightfall. And if I ever see you near her again—” He steps closer, looming over Wyatt like a shadow come to life. His voice drops to a whisper, more terrifying than the shouting. “I will gut you. You won’t even see it coming. Do you understand me?”

Wyatt lifts himself slowly, hands braced in the sand, blood sliding down his throat. “Noted,” he mutters.

Isaia just stares at him for a long second, chest still heaving, like he’s debating whether to make good on that promise right now.

Then he turns on his heel, grabs my arm, and stomps toward the house. “Luna!” he calls. “Come, girl.”

Luna drops the stick and hurries to walk in front of us like a loyal soldier falling into formation. I glance over my shoulder at Wyatt, mouthing the words ‘I’m sorry,’ before Isaia drags me up the stairs.

“Was that really necessary?” I bite out.

“Absolutely.”

“We were just talking.”

“I’m not paying him to keep you company.” He releases my arm abruptly as we reach the veranda, but his gaze is still hard, like a hawk watching its prey. “I’m paying him to protect you.”

“And he can’t do both?”

He holds up the knife still carrying a smear of Wyatt’s blood. “Clearly, he can’t.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t go around wanting to kill people for simply talking to me.”

“I want to rip his throat out for letting his guard down around you. Don’t you get it? When I can’t be around to protect you, I need to know someone competent is. Someone who can do his goddamn job.”

“So you stalked us? Stalked me, to what? Test his competence? His reaction time?”

Without warning, he reaches and grabs my hair at the back of my neck, pulling my head back.

“I wanted to watch you.” His breath is hot against my jaw, his grip tight in my hair, and my whole body goes taut, caught somewhere between fighting and melting. “I wanted to see you like I used to,” he murmurs, voice thick, rough, the blade of it dragging across my skin without cutting. “Back in Chicago, I watched you every night, sitting on your porch reading a book. Wandering around your house in those little shorts, making my dick hard.”

My lips part, but nothing comes out, my pulse slamming into my throat.

“I’d sit in the dark,” he goes on, voice quieter now, but ominous, like it’s dredged up from someplace unhinged. “Watching you sleep for hours, listening to the soft moans you make while dreaming.” He pulls my head back farther, forcing my eyes to meet his. His gaze is obsessed. Wild. Consuming. “I would smell you, taste the air you breathed, savor you.” He sniffs the crook of my neck as if to demonstrate, and my lips part as I melt into him. “But you never knew. Even while I was so damn close, you had no idea.”

My chest is rising fast, breath caught, heat surging. A dark, twisted part of me likes this menacing intimacy, the raw truth that spirals from his lips like a fiery confession.

“And today?” I manage, voice breathy as he trails the tip of his nose down my jaw. “You were watching me…again?”

His lips twitch. A dangerous smile. “From the trees. Silent. So fucking still I could hear your laugh over the breeze.”

My thighs clench. God help me.

“You threw your head back when you laughed at him,” Isaia snarls, dragging his thumb over my lower lip. “He got to see that. That smile. That laugh. That’s mine.”

He releases my hair, only to shove me back against the wall, not hard, but rough enough to make my breath catch. He cages me in, palms on either side of my head, his body so close I feel the heat rolling off him.

“I wanted to gut him for hearing you giggle,” he growls. “For looking at your bare legs in that little sundress.”

“You’re insane,” I whisper.

He leans in, eyes burning into mine like fire through frost. “For you? Yeah, baby girl. Absolutely.”

I press my lips together as he rolls his hips, letting me feel how hard he is.

“Do you know what it does to me?” he whispers, voice coiling into something slow and sinful. “Watching you without you knowing? When you’re unaware. Untouched. When you’re just… you. It’s the only time I can breathe.”

My throat goes dry, my body hot, thrumming, needy.

He leans in, brushing his lips over my ear. “You like that, don’t you? Knowing I see everything. That even when you’re alone, you’re not because,” he places a kiss on the side of my neck, “I’m,” on my jaw, “always,” the corner of my mouth, “there.”

A gasp tears up my throat as he claims my mouth so fiercely, so passionately, that I forget how to breathe.

“There is no place in this world where you are not mine,” he murmurs against my lips, teeth sinking slightly into the softness. “No point in time where I don’t love you. Do you love me, too, baby girl?”

“Yes,” I whimper, loving the sting as he bites deeper into my lip then lets go.

“Good.” Abruptly, he grabs my throat, tightening, his head slanted. “Now get on your fucking knees.”