Isaia: Chapter 10

I walk out of my house, making sure to lock the door behind me. Molly’s already texted me twice, asking why I’m taking so long. Going to this bar for drinks was never on my agenda, but she refused to take no for an answer.

My phone buzzes with another text. “Yes, Molly,” I mutter as I rummage through my bag, searching for the damn thing.

I slide open the text, only it’s not from Molly. It’s my mom. And since communication between me and my mom is as rare as a solar eclipse these days, the sight of her name has my heart sinking straight into my stomach.

Suspicion rises.

There’s a sudden sense of dread clawing its way up my throat, a thick and viscous cloud of unease settling over me. My mother wouldn’t break her routine of willful ignorance about my life unless it was important, unnervingly so.

Something’s wrong. I can feel it. So, I dial her number, and she answers on the first ring.

“Everly?”

“Mom. What’s going on?” I go to sit down on the porch swing.

“It’s not something I’d like to discuss over the phone.”

“Is it your husband? Did Michele hurt you?”

“What? Of course not.” She says it like the thought alone is absurd, but in my opinion, it’s not too far-fetched. That man is capable of anything, and the loving-husband facade he wears so convincingly doesn’t fool me. He married my mom because she’s beautiful, a trophy wife. She ticks all the boxes for a man like him—a man who uses his wife as a fucking show-pony.

“Mom, if he’s using you to get to me⁠—”

“I have cancer,” she blurts, and my mind, everything, freezes.

“What?”

There’s a pause followed by a heavy sigh. “I have stage three breast cancer.”

I knock my bag off the swing, the contents spilling out on the porch. “Breast cancer,” I echo, her words lingering in the frigid air like frost.

“It’s aggressive, but it’s still treatable.” Her words cut through the waves of shock that wash over me. The world tilts on its axis, and I squeeze my eyes shut to steady myself.

“Oh, my God,” I murmur into the receiver. “Mom, I can…I…” I don’t finish my sentence. The words are stuck in my throat.

She starts to explain, but I’m only half-listening. My pulse thunders in my ears, my body trembling.

I crouch, blindly picking up my scattered things, barely able to process what she’s saying. My hands are shaking so badly that I drop my lipstick, my keys, everything slipping through my fingers.

“Mom, I… I don’t know what to say,” I manage to whisper, clenching back tears.

“It’s okay, honey. We’ll get through this,” she tries to reassure me, but sounds fragile. She’s terrified, and the thought of losing her…I just can’t.

Her next words are so soft I could barely hear them. “I need to see you, Everly.” The catch in her voice sends a chill all the way down to my bones, and it strikes me hard.

For a second, the threatening tears overwhelm me, and I press my lips together, determined not to lose my shit while she can hear. “Yeah, of course. Just name the time and place, and I’ll be there.”

“I’ll text you.” She’s quiet for a long moment before she murmurs, “I love you, Everly.”

My heart constricts. “I love you too, Mom.”

As soon as I hang up, the dam breaks.

I press my hand to my mouth, desperate to muffle the sound of my cries, but the tremor in my shoulders betrays me. Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and unchecked, my vision blurring until everything around me becomes an indistinct haze of grief. The more I think about the possibility of losing my mother, the more my chest tightens, squeezing, until it feels like my ribs are caving in on themselves.

I can’t breathe.

My lungs seize, constricting like a vise, and every shallow gasp only sharpens the burning in my chest. I try to suck in more air, but it’s like I’m inhaling through a straw, the oxygen barely making it to my lungs.

A sharp, stabbing pain radiates through me, and panic rises, fierce and relentless, clawing at my throat as the world around me starts to spin.

My heart hammers against my ribs, pounding in time with the frantic wheezing sounds escaping my throat. It’s as if I’m drowning in air I don’t have, my lungs fighting for every breath they can’t seem to catch.

My vision tunnels, the edges going dark as I drop to my knees, my hands shaking violently as I scramble through the mess of my spilled bag. My breath comes in short, desperate gasps, each one more ragged and labored than the last.

My inhaler—where the hell is it?

I sift through my belongings, fingers trembling, knocking over my keys, my phone, everything, but I can’t find it.

My hands are slick with sweat, my fingers numb, and the edges of my vision blur further as my lungs clamp down, hard, refusing to open.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps, fast and heavy. I barely register them before a familiar voice cuts through the fog of panic.

“Everly? Jesus.”

Through the haze I glance at the face of the familiar voice. Isaia is crouched next to me, eyes wide.

I try to speak, but the words barely come out. “My…my…”

“Your inhaler.” Isaia’s dark eyes widen with realization. “Shit! Where is it?”

I point frantically toward my scattered belongings. Isaia moves swiftly, his large hands sweeping through the mess, cursing under his breath as my wheezing fills the space around us. Each second drags like an eternity until⁠—

“Got it!”

He wraps a steady arm around my back, holding me upright, and brings the inhaler to my lips. My trembling hand grips his as he presses down on the pump. The cool burst of medicine fills my lungs, and I gasp in, desperate, like a drowning person finally breaking the surface.

“Breathe, Everly. Slow, deep breaths.” His hand remains on my back, firm and reassuring, guiding me through each shaky inhale. “That’s it. Just breathe. I got you.”

Gradually, the suffocating tightness in my chest starts to ease, and my lungs—still sore, but finally open—draw in air again. The world around me, once a dizzy blur, begins to sharpen. I blink through the tears, my body sagging into Isaia’s hold, weak from the aftermath.

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No,” I rasp, shaking my head weakly. “I’m…fine now.”

“You’re not fine,” he snaps, though there’s a softness in his eyes that betrays the harshness in his voice. “You were just gasping for air. You need to get checked out.”

“I don’t need a hospital,” I insist. “The last thing I want is to be poked and prodded in some sterile room.”

He narrows his gaze, clearly unconvinced, studying me like he’s trying to make his own assessment.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, the words sounding more determined than my body feels.

I push myself to stand, but it’s as though every ounce of strength has been drained, my legs weak and trembling beneath me.

“Fine,” he relents, though his tone is heavy with skepticism. “But I’m helping you inside.”

I don’t argue and lean into him, my legs wobbly beneath me, my body still trembling from the attack. He opens the door, and Luna comes rushing out to meet us, and just the sight of her happy face makes me feel a thousand times better.

“I’m okay, Luna-bug,” I reassure her as she keeps circling around us while Isaia guides me inside. His arm doesn’t leave my waist, and I’m hyperaware of the way his fingers press into my hip.

Once we’re inside, the tension between us shifts, thickening like a storm gathering in the air. Every inch of me is aware of him. Every second feels loaded, as if the space between us is shrinking, charged with something I’ve been trying to ignore since the moment we met.

His hand rests on my lower back now, the heat of his touch searing through my dress, branding my skin. And now, with oxygen flowing freely through my lungs again, his scent hits me—amber, black pepper, and something undeniably masculine, stirring something deeper inside me.

I pull away, sinking onto the couch as Luna jumps up beside me, curling into my side. “Thank you,” I murmur, my cheeks flushing with warmth. “For helping me.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, towering over me, his large frame casting a shadow that seems to engulf the room.

I can’t help but shudder as I take him in. His gaze is so intense, unwavering, and the weight of his silence makes my pulse quicken. That cloud of mystery—of danger—he carries with him seems to grow heavier, pulling me in.

“Well,” I try to fill the awkward silence. “Man of few words, I see.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yep. I’m fine. Um…don’t get me wrong, I’m really thankful you were here to help. But…what are you doing here?”

There’s a slight shift in him, a tensing in his jaw, a flicker of something hidden in his dark eyes. “I was around.” He crosses his arms over his chest, muscles flexing beneath the fabric of his white shirt as he leans back against the wall, exuding casual confidence.

God, the way he dominates this tiny living space is insane.

“Around? Well, that’s not vague at all.” I pause, realization dawning. “Wait… how did you know?”

“Know what?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “That I needed my inhaler? I couldn’t get the words out, yet you knew.”

“I just did,” he evades.

“That’s not an answer.”

His eyes flicker, ever so briefly, down to where my inhaler sits on the coffee table. When his gaze meets mine again, his usual cool composure is back in place. “It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

A beat passes, then reality clicks into place, and a laugh escapes me—sharp, almost bitter. “Always watching, always knowing, right?”

He lifts a dark brow in question.

“It amazes me,” I continue with an unhealthy amount of sarcasm, “just how deeply rooted your kind is.”

“My kind?”

“Yes, your kind. Families—men who treat the world like their playground, moving people around like puppets. Or worse, like slaves.”

“Are you working for him, Everly?”

The question catches me off guard. I blink up at him. “What?”

“Are you working for Michele Rinaldi?”

My pulse instantly triples as ice shoots through my veins.

“He’s your stepdad.” There’s no question mark at the end of that sentence, his eyes narrowed, watching my reaction.

“See, I knew you knew.” I get up and grab a bottle of white wine from the fridge. “At the café the other day, I called it, and you denied it.” Showing him a wine glass without saying a word is my way of offering him a drink, to which he nods. “You’re all fucking connected somehow,” I start, waving my hand in the air while I pour the chardonnay with the other. “It’s like the mafia—or whatever the hell you call yourselves—are all linked together, stitched like a never-ending quilt of secrets and lies. Everyone knows everyone’s business, right?” I hold out his glass for him.

Our eyes meet as he takes the glass, fingers brushing mine in a fleeting touch that sends tiny fireworks sparking along my skin. The sensation catches me off guard, but I shake it off and turn my back on him. “I figured we’d have this conversation eventually.”

“And why’s that?”

I offer a weary smile, trying to keep it light. “Because you are who you are, and he is who he is.” Simple. True.

I sit next to Luna, brushing my fingers down her back. “To answer your question, no. I don’t work for him.” Then it dawns on me. “Oh, my God. That’s why you bought the café. To spy on me.”

“Maybe.”

I scoff. “Unbelievable. That’s a bit drastic, don’t you think?”

Isaia takes a sip of the wine, then proceeds to down the whole glass. “Drastic measures are the only ones worth taking for vital matters. And your stepdad is a vital matter.”

“He’s charming, I know,” I say with enthusiastic sarcasm. “So, here I am thinking you’re working with my stepdad, sent to drag my ass back to New York, while you’re thinking I’m working for him as well. Doing what, exactly? Spying on the great Dark Sovereign?”

His lack of a response confirms it.

“You’re kidding, right?” I drag a hand through my hair, strands falling across my face. “This is insane. I despise the man. I’d rather chew off my own arm than work for him.”

Isaia pushes away from the wall and sits on the coffee table right in front of me.

Right. In. Front of me.

He’s so close, I can feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent wrapping around me—woodsmoke and something darkly sensual.

With his elbows on his knees, he leans forward, his head slanted, like he’s studying me, searching for the truth in my mismatched eyes. “You were crying before you had the attack.”

I swallow.

“Why? Who were you talking to on the phone?”

“None of your business.”

“You know I’ll find out eventually. Might as well tell me now.”

I take a slow sip from my glass, refusing to break eye contact. The silence that stretches between us is thick with unsaid words, laced with an edge that feels like it could snap at any moment. My refusal to answer hangs between us like a challenge.

A flicker of something dark crosses his features. “Why do you hate him?”

“Like you said, you’ll find out eventually,” I murmur. “But not tonight.”

The silence hums, thick and charged. It’s like the air itself is tightening around us, pushing us closer together, even though neither of us has moved. Isaia doesn’t need to come closer to make me feel like I’m drowning in him. It’s a gravitational pull, one that’s impossible to ignore, tugging me deeper into something I know I shouldn’t want.

He’s trouble. It’s written in every hard line of his body, every shadow that clings to him. But it’s the kind of trouble that seeps under your skin, makes your heart race even when you know you should walk away.

There’s a wildness to him, something untamed that stirs the deepest parts of me. It thrills me in a way that sends my pulse skittering, makes my mouth go dry.

He licks his lips, and I can’t help it—my eyes drop, tracing the path his tongue leaves behind, a glistening sheen on those full lips.

“I think you should leave,” I manage to say, but the words sound weak, almost breathless.

“Yeah,” he rumbles, a dark growl that curls tight in my stomach. “But I think I’ll stay a little longer.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand lifts slowly, and my breath catches, his fingertips grazing my neck, featherlight but electrifying, sending a ripple of heat spiraling through my body.

“This vein right here.” His thumb brushes over the spot where my pulse is hammering wildly beneath my skin, and I shiver. “It’s racing. I think I’ll stick around and figure out why.”

“Isaia, I don’t⁠—”

He presses down on the delicate skin there, causing me to suck in a breath as heat blooms deep within me. His touch isn’t just a touch; it’s a slow, consuming burn, like a flame licking dangerously close to the edge, threatening to engulf us both.

And, God help me, I don’t want to move away.

His eyes trace the path of his touch, dark and hungry, like he’s studying every inch of me he plans to claim. The thought sends a shiver through me, feeling that small pressure, hot and teasing, a promise of something that could unravel me entirely.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I finally manage, my voice shaking with a mix of fear and something darker—something that flares hot and undeniable inside me, urging me closer to him, despite the danger, because of the danger.

He leans in, his breath warm against my neck, sending a thrill of goosebumps skittering down my arms, and his mouth hovers, barely a whisper away, making it impossible to think of anything but him.

“Oh, I think it’s a perfect idea,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear. “You’re either terrified of me, or you want me.” His thumb slides along my jaw. Slowly. Deliberately. “And something tells me it’s a little bit of both.” He inhales loudly, deeply, like I’m the air he’s desperate for. “Fuck. I hope it’s a little bit of both.”

Oh, my God. I can barely breathe.

His hand glides down, fingertips barely grazing the edge of my collarbone, brushing just above where my dress dips low, his touch light but charged. Teasing. The barest contact, but it’s enough to send a storm of desire through me, every brush of his skin against mine unraveling any resistance I thought I had. It’s like he’s mapping out all the places that make me weak, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

Time stands still. It’s just me and him and his fingers finding their way down my chest, along the plunging neckline, just above my breasts.

My breath hitches, and he notices, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Ah,” he murmurs, with dark satisfaction, his touch paused. “There it is, that little tremble. You don’t think I feel it? The way your heart’s pounding? The way your skin’s heating up under my touch?”

I want to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong. But the rapid heartbeat against my chest feels like a confession.

“Isaia.” It’s all I manage to say. I’m entranced, completely spellbound, like nothing else exists. Only this moment. Only him. It’s both scary and exciting.

His fingers slide back up to my jaw, his touch pulling me deeper into his orbit, and I offer no resistance as he presses his knee between my thighs, rough denim brushing against the sensitive skin there, igniting sparks that spread like wildfire.

I can’t help the soft, breathless moan that escapes me, and my body arches instinctively, pressing closer, needing more. Every part of me is drawn to him, aching for him.

“I’m having a hard time figuring you out, Everly.”

“Good,” I say, the word slipping from my lips on a breath. “I’d hate for it to be easy for you.”

That smirk again—lazy and confident, like he knows just how far he’s gotten under my skin. It’s alarmingly sexy, the kind of look that promises trouble, the kind that makes your pulse race and your mind blur with desire.

He leans closer, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “Are you a little troublemaker, Everly Beaumont?”

“No.” I breathe. “Why would you ask that?”

His gaze is locked on me, soaking up every breath I take, every involuntary movement, as if he’s savoring how easily I’m unraveling for him.

“Because if you keep looking at me like that, you’re bound to cause trouble for me.” His words come in a slow drawl, each one sinking into me. The energy between us alive, dancing, singing, igniting. Every inch of my body is screaming at me to close the distance, to let him pull me into whatever dark, delicious thing he’s offering.

His lips hover inches from mine, a tantalizing promise of what’s to come, and I can’t help but clench my thighs as heat pools there. I’m sure he’s going to kiss me, and the worst part?

I want him to.

I want it more than I care to admit, and there’s no part of me that’s willing to pull away.

“I wonder,” he whispers, “what would happen if I stayed.”

Disaster. Calamity. Catastrophe.

Take your pick.

But none of those thoughts seem to matter because all I can think about is how his touch is still lingering, how his breath mingles with mine, how everything about him is raw, magnetic heat, pulling me under.

His thumb brushes over my lower lip, and my heart stumbles, my body leaning that little bit closer to his, craving the contact, craving him.

“Isaia, you have to…” I trail off and his hand glides to the back of my neck, his fingers applying just enough pressure to make me shiver.

My lips part instinctively, the space between us shrinking, anticipation thickening every second. I brace for the kiss I both dread and crave when something nudges against our legs.

The spell shatters.

We glance down to find Luna rubbing her face against Isaia’s leg, streaking his black jeans with long lines of drool.

“Jesus.” Isaia jerks back, shooting to his feet. “That’s disgusting.”

I bite back a laugh, glancing at Luna’s wide-eyed, innocent expression. “That wasn’t very nice,” I mock-scold her, but can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.

He jumps up and grabs a paper towel from the kitchen to clean his pants. “Your dog’s a menace.”

Still trying to hold in my amusement, I shrug. “But she’s cute, though, right?”

“How can so much drool come out of that one dog?”

“It’s a basset’s superpower.”

He huffs, tossing the paper towel into the trash can, but when his eyes meet mine again, the humor fades. That electric charge is back, stirring between us, crackling just beneath the surface. It’s more controlled this time, but no less intense.

I head for the door, trying to regain some semblance of control. I open it and step aside. “Good night, Isaia.”

For a moment, he hesitates. His gaze moves from Luna to me, and I can feel the weight of his unspoken words hanging in the air, a storm of desire and something darker simmering just beneath his cool exterior.

He clenches his jaw, giving a slow nod before striding toward the door, his presence lingering even as he walks away.

As he reaches the doorway, he pauses. “Just FYI, I prefer cats.”

I smile. “Now, that’s a red flag if I ever saw one.”

He steps closer, his eyes dark with intensity. “Red flags? I’m the whole parade, little troublemaker.”