Chapter 9: His Angel: Chapter 9

I sit next to Isaia at the kitchen counter, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, dark hair tousled, every inch of him radiating raw power.

Will I ever get used to how effortlessly he owns the space around him, space that includes me?

Breakfast is a spread of fresh mangoes, papaya, kiwi, and exotic fruit I’ve never even heard of. His eyes lock on mine, burning with that feral hunger, and he picks up a mango slice, juice dripping down his fingers.

He leans closer, his breath brushing my lips. “Open.”

One word, like velvet laced with steel.

I part my lips, and he slides the fruit into my mouth, his fingers lingering—wet, warm, tracing my tongue. My pulse skyrockets, a torrent of heat flooding my core as he watches me with an intensity that sears, his smirk wickedly possessive

“Good girl.”

Everything inside me melts whenever he says those two words.

Still smirking, he grabs another slice and drags it along my bottom lip, painting me with juice, then licks it off with slow strokes of his tongue. “Fuck, you taste better than the fruit.”

He lifts me from my stool and pulls me on his lap, straddling him, my back pressed against the cold marble counter.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he rasps, lips trailing a path burning down my throat, along my collarbone, while his fingers dance expertly under my shirt, raising goosebumps on my skin.

I arch into him, his touch igniting every nerve ending into brilliant flames. And when I feel him hardening against me, I move my hips subtly, teasingly.

‘Hmmm,’ he groans, ‘you’re playing with fire, baby girl.’

Grinning, I respond, ‘At the risk of sounding cliché, I like getting burned.’

He chuckles, squeezing my ass, forcing me to move on top of him. “My little virgin turned into a harlot.”

“Except, you don’t pay me.” I hum at his taste on my tongue as I lick up the side of his neck.

He tilts his head, giving me more access. “A shame, too. With the way you play, I’d give you a fortune.”

I kiss the hollow beneath his throat. “How come you’ve never asked me about birth control?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

I lean back, eyeing him speculatively. “You know.”

He doesn’t respond, but merely drags a hand down my back, gaze fixed on mine.

“Isaia?”

“Yeah, baby girl,” he finally says. “I know.”

I scoff. “Of course, you do. You know everything about me, right?”

“Where is this coming from?”

I pick at imaginary lint on his shirt, avoiding his eyes. “This morning, my period showing up for the first time in months. You talking about,” I swallow, feeling my cheeks flush, “breeding.”

“Everly, it’s⁠—”

“Do you want kids?”

He stares at me.

“Because I can’t have kids. I can’t give you that.” It’s like tiny pinpricks into my heart as I say the words.

“I don’t care about that. All I care about is you.”

“But what if one day you start caring about it? PCOS isn’t something that’ll magically go away.”

“Stop.” His fingers bracket the back of my neck. “You’re overthinking. Don’t. All I want in this world is you, nothing more, nothing less.”

I’m about to say something, but he kisses me, swallowing my words, distracting me from my thoughts that always seem to run away with me. I love how he knows me. How he knows exactly what I need when I need it. From my biggest fear to my smallest insecurity.

The comm crackles to life on the counter, Talon’s voice cutting through the moment. “Boss, Romulus just landed. Need you at the docks.”

Isaia’s expression hardens, his playful hands stalling. “Fuck me,” he mutters, grabbing the comm. “On my way.”

“Romulus?” I sit upright, frowning.

“Alexius seems to think we’re in dire need of his God complex.”

With ease, he lifts me with him as he stands, and carries me over to the couch, plopping me down on my back and settling between my legs, pressing his cock where I need it. And just to prove a point, he thrusts, and I moan—the point being that I’d happily let the Pope wait just to get fucked by Isaia Del Rossa right now.

“I won’t be long.” His mouth finds mine, and he kisses me hard, languid, a deep dive of his tongue, and I’m all whimpers of protest as he pulls away.

“Can I come with you?”

“Absolutely not. Ryan?” He nods toward a guard outside the door, and my cheeks flush, realizing he’s been there the entire time.

Ryan walks in, young, built like a wall with a rifle at his side. “Sir?”

“You’re on her. Anything happens—scratch, bruise, frown line, I’ll gut you slow and feed you to the sharks. Clear?”

Ryan nods, stone-faced, and Isaia grabs my chin, kisses me hard—tongue deep, owning me—then strides out, leaving me and Ryan here in an awkward moment of prolonged silence.

I rise, tugging at his shirt draped over my thighs, regretting my choice of boy shorts this morning.

“So, you’re Ryan. I’m Everly.” I extend a hand, which he ignores. I wipe my palm on my shirt. ‘Nice day, huh?’

Crickets.

“Okay, then. I think I’ll go take a shower.”

As I start down the hall, a second pair of footsteps follow. I freeze and turn with Ryan behind me, and he stops when I stop.

I cock a brow. “I’m sure you can wait for me in the living room.”

Nothing. The man doesn’t even bat an eyelash.

I narrow my eyes at him, then start toward the bedroom, only to hear him no more than two steps behind me, so I pivot. “Are you going to follow me to my room?”

Not. A. Word.

He stares, eyes flat, lips sealed, like I’m talking to a wall. I roll my eyes and head farther down the hall—barefoot, hair a mess, his boots thudding behind me like a shadow. The man’s silence is grating, and I clench my teeth to stifle the exasperation.

“You know,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, “if you’re afraid of being fed to sharks, you could try striking up a conversation. Sharks don’t eat talkative people.”

He finally looks at me, studies me for a long moment, managing to look both bored and calculating, then simply straightens without saying a word.

I huff. “You ever talk? Or is your mouth just decoration?”

He shifts his weight and stares past me.

“Real charmer,” I mutter and decide to just let the awkward silence kill me.

The hall stretches, opulent and endless, and I’m in the middle of wondering if Ryan plans on stepping into the shower with me at this rate when we pass Isaia’s office.

I stop dead, eyeing the mahogany door, the deadbolt gleaming like a taunt. Why is it locked like a king’s crypt?

Hands planted on my hips, I turn to face Ryan. “What’s with the vault setup?”

He stands, lips clamped, staring through me.

I step closer. “Is it guns? Drugs? A tiger?”

Nothing. Not a twitch.

“Real helpful,” I quip. “Bet you’re a blast at parties.”

He adjusts his rifle and looks past me—mute as a statue.

I walk up to the door and drag a finger along the deadbolt when my mute bodyguard clears his throat. Abruptly, I whip around to face him.

“You got something to say?” I challenge, and he presses his lips together. My hand moves down to the doorknob. “How about now?”

There’s a little vein in his temple going apeshit.

“What is in this office no one wants me to see?”

“Mr. Del Rossa’s office is off-limits.”

I gasp. “A statue that talks. Should I curtsy or just applaud the miracle?”

Voices echo down the hall, and I move away from the door, relieved I no longer have to suffocate in Ryan’s enigmatic silence.

“I was sure you’d bring your bodyguard,” I hear Isaia say just as I round the corner, finding him, Alexius, and Leandra.

Alexius smirks. “I did.” Then he glances at Leandra, who’s clutching his arm as she stares up at him.

Her husband’s presence fills the room. Even with his collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up mid-arm, he looks like a force of cold authority, but Leandra steals the air. Elegant, fierce, her dark hair cascading like a queen’s mantle.

Isaia’s eyes find mine, burning, but Leandra’s gaze cuts sharper—cool, assessing, a flicker of something hard behind it. She steps closer to Isaia, her hand brushing his arm, and he leans into it—just a touch, but it’s there, a bond that hums.

“Everly,” Leandra greets, remaining at Isaia’s side. “I’m so happy to see you’re safe.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to see you again.”

She smiles, but it’s different. She’s different. Not at all like I remember her at the fundraiser—soft and friendly, welcoming. There’s more of an edge to her now, a steeliness that wasn’t there the night I met her.

Isaia smirks and walks up to me, sliding an arm around my waist. “Did she behave, Ryan?” he asks without looking at my bodyguard.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and heat instantly pools between my legs, clearly not caring that we’ve got company. He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Now be a good girl for just a little longer, and I’ll fuck you pretending you’ve been a really,” he licks my earlobe, “really bad girl.”

Sweet lord.

With a nod toward Ryan, he says, “We’ll be in my office.”

That damn office is taunting me like a button I was told not to push.

Isaia and Alexius head down the hall, and Leandra lingers, gaze moving down my front, her brows slanted like she disapproves of my outfit.

Of course she does. Look at what she’s wearing. A short but sophisticated sage dress with a neckline that accentuates her collarbones and a thin belt to cinch her waist, showcasing her stunning figure.

There’s no question she’s a true Del Rossa; it’s all there in the way she carries herself, her poised elegance whether she’s the center of attention or not. Del Rossa runs in her blood. Clearly.

I clear my throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get dressed into something less⁠—”

“I can assure you, you really don’t need less.”

“—PJ-ish. Something less…never mind.” I bite my bottom lip, diverting my gaze, and I swear to God this woman’s presence is almost as suffocating as her husband’s. “I’ll just…um…” I point toward the bedroom. “Go get changed.”

Thick tension hangs in the air as my bare feet pad down the hall toward the bedroom. Something that pulses.

The fabric in my hands flows like a whisper as I pull on the boho-chic dress, all soft ivory cotton with delicate lace trimming the hem, grazing mid-thigh, embroidered with tiny wildflowers in threads of sage and rust, catching the light as I pull it over my head. It drapes loosely yet clings just right, a breeze of freedom against my skin.

It does something to my insides, the fact that Isaia knows me so well my entire wardrobe is filled with items I would have picked myself. Other women might find it…creepy, maybe disturbing.

But me? Apparently, a man obsessed is my weakness.

After a few moments of pacing the bedroom, muttering a pep-talk under my breath, courage finally kicks in. The trek to the living room looms ahead since Leandra’s waiting there and I’m picking up a vibe. Not a good one.

Bare feet brush the cool teak as I step out, the boho dress swaying with each stride, but the living room stretches emptily. Confusion creases my brow when I hear a clink echo from the kitchen, movement stirring.

When I approach the counter, Leandra’s there, gliding through the space like she owns it. As Alexius Del Rossa’s wife, she probably does.

Water hisses as she fills the kettle from the sink, her fingers brushing the handle with a casual intimacy, then setting it on the stove with a soft clank.

She moves with a fluid grace, effortless, like this kitchen’s etched into her bones, a thousand mornings carved into every step. Dark hair spills over her shoulders, catching the sunlight as she reaches for a copper kettle on the shelf. No hesitation. Just instinct.

The cabinet swings open under her touch, revealing rows of porcelain cups, and she takes out two—white, delicate, rimmed with gold—like they’re old friends.

A tin of loose tea leaves sits on the counter—jasmine, judging by the scent wafting free—and she scoops a pinch, dropping it into the cup, her movements precise yet unhurried, a queen in her domain.

Leandra glances my way, her eyes sharp, cutting through the steam rising from the kettle. “Tea?”

“I’m more of a coffee girl.”

“Espresso?”

The way she says that word has me thinking she’s offering rat poison. “I’m…uh. I’m all espresso’d out. One more and I’ll probably start seeing sound,” I manage, my voice flitting between forced humor and genuine discomfort.

She sets the kettle down, her gaze flicking to me, her fingers wrapped around the cup, lifting it to her lips, testing the heat with a sip, every move screaming she belongs here more than I ever will. “Thought we could get to know each other while the men catch up.”

I slide onto a stool, elbows on the counter. “Sure.”

“Do you love him?”

Whoa. That just went from zero to a hundred in a split second. “I’m sorry?”

“Isaia.” She stares at me from under her lashes, cup close to her lips. “Do you love him?”

I blink, stalling for time. A simple yes or no question, but I’m not sure whether there will be a right answer for her. “I do,” I reply anyway.

“You hardly know him.”

Shifting my weight, I meet her gaze. “I think I know enough.”

“Do you?” Her head tilts, dark hair spilling further. “Enough to understand what he’s risking for you?”

“I’m not sure where you’re headed with this.”

“He’s reckless when it comes to you.”

“Isaia strikes me as the kind of guy who’s reckless with or without me.”

“True.” She shrugs, setting the cup down, fingers tracing its rim. “He’s always been a wild card. But you seem to add a layer to it.”

I tilt my head. “So I’m a layer now?”

“More like a thread he’s woven himself into.”

“Himself, yes. I didn’t ask him to weave anything.”

Her lips curve as she steps closer, the kettle’s steam fading behind her. “And yet he has. Now you’re here, both your lives in danger.”

“Leandra, I don’t know what you⁠—”

“I’ve watched him push limits,” she interrupts. “Sometimes too far. You’re part of that push now, whether you mean to be or not. And I’m afraid…” Her voice trails off, and suspicion rises.

“You’re afraid of what?”

Green eyes find mine. “I’m afraid that he’ll push too far because of you, and we won’t be able to reel him back in.” She pauses. “Or save him.”

“Are you saying he needs saving from me?”

“Maybe.”

Animosity pulses, blame practically resonating from her and clawing at me. “Leandra, what are you saying?”

“That I want him safe. He’s important to us, Everly. Important to me.”

“And he’s important to me, too.”

“I’m sure he is.” Her voice softens, but her eyes don’t lose their hard glint. “But he’s our blood.”

“He’s not your blood,” I snap, looking her in the eye. She feels something for him, something I’m not sure I like.

Leandra’s gaze locks onto mine, frosty and firm. “I care deeply for Isaia,” she says. “And I’m worried about him. This thing he got himself tangled in with you…he’s risking his life, and I want to make sure he’s risking it for something that’s worth the fight.”

“Oh, my God,” I exclaim. “Are you saying I’m not worth it?”

“I don’t know you well enough. No one does. All I know, all any of us knows, is that you’re the girl who knocked into him at the park, the waitress at Ember and Bean, the woman he risked everything for by declaring war with one of New York’s most powerful families, putting my entire family’s lives at risk. Other than that, I don’t know you at all.”

Her words, each one meticulously chosen and surgically precise, spear through me. I swallow hard, attempting to clear the knot in my throat that each word has tightened a little more firmly. “And you don’t trust me because of that?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Everly. It’s that I don’t trust him when he’s with you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I’m not convinced you’re good for him,” she retorts. “Isaia’s already a loose cannon on a good day, but with you, he’s unpredictable. And that scares me. He’s acting with his heart instead of his head, and while that might be admirable in a romantic sense, it’s dangerous in reality. In our reality.”

I slide off the stool, my first instinct to run from the conflict that seemingly came out of nowhere. But the rational part of me needs to figure out where all this is coming from, so I stay, squaring my shoulders.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I don’t want anything from you.” Leandra lifts her cup, taking a sip of tea, calm and composed, steam curling around her poised frame. “All I want is for Isaia to be safe. And the end of this war has only two outcomes.”

Leaning forward, my elbows press into the counter. “Which are?”

Her gaze lifts, green eyes settling on mine, and her voice dips—not sharp, not angry, but trembling with something raw, a quiet fear that hums beneath every word. “Either he wins, and he gets you.” She sets the cup down, fingers lingering on the rim, steadying herself as if the thought alone shakes her. “Or he loses, and we all lose him.”

The fear isn’t loud. It’s a shiver, a crack in her polish, like she’s picturing a void she can’t face. It’s not aimed at me; it’s for him, woven into the way her breath catches, the faint tightening of her jaw. She cares—deeply, fiercely—like losing him would carve out a piece of her world.

There’s no way I can ignore her feelings for him. It’s loud and clear in every word she speaks, and I should probably feel all warm and fuzzy inside over the fact that he has someone who feels so deeply for him, but by God, the jealousy that hardens within me is an emotion so intense it’s almost physical.

“I love him,” I state simply. “I love him more than I ever thought possible. What I feel for him is so fierce, so deep, it’s consuming. It’s…it’s fucking cataclysmic, and I would march into the very heart of this war if it meant keeping him safe.”

“Maybe it’s something you should consider. Marching.”

“Enough!” Isaia storms in, his presence a thunder, cutting her off. “That’s…enough.”

He moves to stand beside me, finding my waist, pulling me close, fingers pressing into my skin, possessive and steady, his eyes locking on hers with a silent weight.

She tenses, her breath catching, but his grip on me tightens, his choice clear, unspoken.

Alexius steps up. “What’s going on here?”

Isaia steps in like a wall between Leandra and me, facing her. “Your wife and I need to talk.”