Isaia: Chapter 26

I barely get the towel wrapped around me before stepping into my bedroom—and freeze.

Isaia is sitting there, one ankle crossed over his knee, casually reading one of my books like it’s a lazy Sunday afternoon.

“You changed the locks.” His tone is calm, almost amused, like he expected nothing less.

“And yet, here you are.”

When he flips a page and my gaze snags on the title of the book in his hand, my soul leaves my fucking body.

Shit. Not that book—the one with a trigger warning list longer than a Black Friday checkout line, with scenes so filthy it should come with holy water and a confession booth.

My cheeks flush instantly. Of course, Isaia would pick the dirtiest book out of the five-thousand-three-hundred-and-twenty-one I own—a pile of which, admittedly, only a handful are smutty and dark. Naturally, he’d go straight for the worst offender.

I pull a hand through my hair, pretending not to notice what he’s reading while silently wishing for the Earth’s core to explode.

“You really thought doing that would keep me out?” He leans back, every bit of him exuding calm control.

“Not really. But I had to try.”

His gaze sweeps up from the book to me, lingering just a second too long to be innocent, like he’s cataloging every inch of bare skin the towel doesn’t cover, then looks back down.

He flips another page, his expression unreadable, though there’s a wicked glint in his dark eyes. “Interesting choice of reading material.”

I blink, swallowing hard. “I… it’s not⁠—”

“Oh, this isn’t the part where the heroine begs to be tied up and—” His gaze flicks to the page. “Oh, wait. No. She’s already tied up. She’s just begging now.”

Heat rushes up my neck and into my face. “Stop reading that!”

I lunge for the book, but Isaia leans back in the chair, his lips curving into a slow, teasing smile, the kind that says he’s just uncovered my deepest secret and fully intends to use it to his advantage.

I steel my composure, righting the towel around me as I lift my chin. “I will not be judged by a man who probably thinks The Godfather counts as romance.”

“I’m not judging you, troublemaker. In fact, I’m fascinated,” he murmurs, his voice thick with heat, “and now I can’t stop wondering how much of that fantasy you want me to turn into reality for you.”

My grip tightens on the towel, the fabric suddenly too rough, too constrictive, and the space between us feels like it’s charged with something I don’t know how to handle.

“It’s fiction, Isaia. Dark romance is just fiction.”

He rises slowly, the book dangling from his hand like it’s nothing more than a piece of ammunition. Tossing it onto the bed, his focus never wavers, his towering frame cutting through the space between us with sharp intent.

“You think this is dark, Everly? You have no idea what darkness really looks like.” He steps closer. “What’s in those pages barely scratches the surface of what I could do to you.”

Heat coils in my stomach, curling through me in waves that leave my breath uneven.

His words don’t just linger—they slide under my skin, twisting through me with an intimacy I don’t know how to resist. Every syllable feels like a touch, brushing over me, leaving sparks in places I didn’t even know could react.

He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us, his gaze dropping to where the towel clings to my damp skin. My lips part, breath hitching as the weight of his stare strips me bare, inch by inch, tracing his fingertip along my collarbone with a slow tease that leaves my skin tingling.

“You have no idea all the things I can do to you. With me, there are no limits when it comes your deepest…darkest…filthiest fantasies.”

With a flick of his wrist, the towel drops to the floor, and I gasp, heat pooling between my legs, my core fluttering and aching for release.

His gaze roams over me, unhurried and unapologetic. “Quite the sight, there, troublemaker.” His thumb trails along the curve of my hip, the rough pad of his finger sending shivers through me. “Are you still sore,” he murmurs, his hand brushing against my sex, the contact achingly light, “here?”

My breath catches. “A little.”

There’s static between us as his touch lingers just long enough to make my knees tremble, his lips grazing the curve of my neck as his teeth brush over sensitive skin.

“Get dressed.” He pulls back an inch. “Before I change my mind.”

“Change your mind about what?”

“Letting you leave the house. Hurry up.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” He exits my room, and I steady my breathing before I grab the first dress I can find—burgundy, fitted at the top with a short, flaring skirt—and slip it on quickly, my pulse hammering in my ears. I pair it with black boots and step into the living room.

Isaia’s leaning against the doorframe, his eyes tracing down my body with a sharpness that makes me fidget. I smooth the hem over my thighs, but it doesn’t help.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“No.” The grin on his lips makes my stomach flip. He’s enjoying this—keeping me on edge, making me wonder.

I follow him outside and stop when I see the Ducati parked in the driveway. Its sleek black frame gleams, sharp and intimidating under the streetlights, just like him.

“You brought your bike?” I glance down at my dress. “I can’t wear this on that. Let me change⁠—”

“Stop.” His hand catches my wrist and pulls me to him. “You’re keeping it on.”

“But it’s not practical⁠—”

“Fuck practical. I like that dress on you.” His hands find my waist, turning me toward him. “Besides, the whole idea is to have you hold on to me and enjoy the ride. You can do that in this.”

Before I can argue, he’s shrugging out of his leather jacket and draping it over my shoulders. It’s heavy and warm, carrying his unmistakable scent—spice, leather, and something darker.

He adjusts it carefully, his knuckles brushing my skin as he pulls the collar close around my neck. “There. Now you’re perfect.”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way his hands linger. “I’m still going to flash half the neighborhood,” I say.

“No one’s going to see anything they shouldn’t,” he murmurs. “And if they do, I’ll cut out their eyes.”

“How romantic.”

“Come here,” he says, and I step closer, my pulse quickening as he slides the helmet over my head.

His fingers linger as he fastens the strap under my chin, the rough pads of his thumbs brushing my skin, spreading chills. His eyes meet mine, heavy with something unspoken, as his hands settle on the sides of the helmet.

“Tight enough?”

I nod, and he steps back, swinging a leg over the bike, settling into the seat like he owns everything and everyone in the entire fucking world.

He pats the space behind him. “Come on, troublemaker. Stop overthinking.”

I hesitate, my nerves battling my curiosity, but finally swing my leg over. The dress rides up as I straddle the seat, the cool leather biting against my thighs. My arms slide around his waist, my hands brushing the hard lines of his stomach, and it does something to me— awakens this restless energy under my skin, and I know the only thing that’ll calm it is if I keep touching him. Feeling him. Losing myself in him.

He glances back, eyes hiding behind the visor. “Tighter.”

I adjust my grip, my fingers curling into his shirt.

“Tighter,” he repeats, the word edged with command.

I huff, and he takes my hands, pulling me closer until my chest presses flush against his back.

He revs the engine, and the vibration jolts through me, sharp and electric.

“Hold on, baby girl,” he says over the rumble. “I’m not slowing down.” And with that, the bike surges forward, the wind whipping around us as the world blurs into motion.

I cling to him, my heart racing as he twists the throttle. The bike speeds with a guttural roar, and I tighten my hold around him until my arms hurt.

I’ve never been on a bike before; I’m not one of those people constantly searching for their next thrill. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared out of my goddamn mind right now.

The cold air teases my bare legs, and every turn, every shift of the machine presses me closer to him, my arms locked around his waist, my fingers clutching at his shirt while my heart tries to rip out of my chest.

Streaks of light and shadow blur past us as we ride through the city, the distant hum of the world erased by the growl of the engine and the steady, rhythmic motion of Isaia’s body as he moves with precision. It’s chaos, but it feels controlled—like every jolt, every sharp turn is exactly where he means to take me.

Adrenaline floods my veins, potent and heady, leaving me weightless and burning all at once, and the tension slowly starts to dissipate, replaced by excitement. Freedom, almost. Like nothing can touch us.

I should be afraid, but fear doesn’t come close to what’s pulsing under my skin. It’s something sharper, more consuming. The way I feel when I’m with him like this—it drowns out everything else like there’s no space left for anything else. Just him.

The red glow of a traffic light cuts through the haze, and Isaia slows the bike, the rumbling engine a softer, steadier thrum.

My breath comes fast as I loosen my grip, but before I can steady myself, Isaia’s hand moves back, and he settles his palm on my thigh. Firm. Unapologetic. Telling the world I’m his.

Fingers stroke lightly over my bare skin, and my breath hitches, a spark of heat blooming with the touch. The thumb grazes higher in a slow, unhurried glide, and I bite my bottom lip, the sensation radiating through me, pulling my thighs tighter around him.

“What’s the matter, troublemaker? Afraid I’ll push you too far, or are you afraid you’ll want me to?”

The words hit like a dare, and I lean forward. “Maybe I’m afraid you’ll think I can’t handle it.”

His chuckle is low, rich, carrying the weight of something dangerous, and every nerve in my body pulls taut in response.

The light shifts, and before I catch his reaction, the bike surges ahead, Isaia twisting the throttle like it’s all the answer I’m going to get.

Wind tears past, sharp and unforgiving, but the ghost of his touch lingers, its echo a silent promise waiting to be fulfilled.

I cling tighter, my body molding to his as the bike cuts through the city. The engine’s hum and the cool night air tangle in my head, every sharp turn sparking something electric. Isaia moves expertly, the bike an extension of him, and I swear it’s like the road bends for him.

The city’s lights dim behind us, the air sharper, cleaner. Trees rise on either side, their shadows tall and imposing, rustling faintly as the bike slows. Gravel crunches under the tires as Isaia pulls onto a narrow path, and the vibrations hum one last time before he cuts the engine, and the sudden silence presses against my ears.

I loosen my grip, sitting up with a shaky breath, and my legs tremble, though I can’t tell if it’s from the ride or the tension that’s been simmering since the moment I climbed on.

Isaia steadies the bike, planting his feet firmly before glancing back at me. “You doing okay back there?”

“I’m alive, thank you very much.” I remove the helmet and pull my fingers through my hair. “Where are we?”

“See for yourself.” He nods toward the path ahead, and I slide off the bike and take a few steps to where the trees part just enough to reveal a view of Lake Michigan stretching out endlessly under the moonlight. Its surface glitters like black glass, and the faint sound of waves lapping against the shore carries on the breeze, soft and rhythmic—a striking contrast to the wild ride we’ve just left behind.

Behind me, Isaia’s boots crunch on the gravel, the weight of each step drawing closer until I feel his heat at my back. When his hand brushes my arm, it’s light, tentative, almost like he’s testing himself. Then his fingers slide down, arm wrapping around my waist.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I glance up at him over my shoulder, the moonlight catching on the sharp lines of his jaw, the intensity in his dark eyes making my chest tighten.

For a moment, I forget the lake entirely. It’s not the water that’s breathtaking—it’s him.

“Do you know why I brought you here?”

I lift a brow. “To scare the hell out of me on your bike?”

“No.” His thumb strokes against my hip, the movement slow, almost contemplative. “This is one of the only places that doesn’t feel like a battlefield. Everywhere else,” he continues, his voice carrying a weight that anchors me in place, “it’s war. Even when it’s quiet, even when no one’s shooting or killing, I’m still fighting. Watching. Waiting.”

His grip on my waist tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me I’m his.

“But here—” he turns me around to face him, his gaze holding mine, dark and unyielding, “—here, I almost forget what I am.” He brushes a stray strand of hair from my face, his fingers so tender, it’s like they’re trying to memorize every detail. The touch sends a jolt straight to my chest, knocking the breath from my lungs.

“And what are you?” I whisper.

There’s a long pause, his jaw tightening like the words cost him something to admit. His gaze flickers, a shadow of something unguarded crossing his features.

“A product of everything I was born into. Violence. Power. Conflict. It’s all I’ve ever known, Everly.”

He exhales sharply and turns me toward the lake again, like staring at me while he spoke made him more vulnerable, somehow.

“I was thirteen the first time I shot a gun.”

I shiver at that.

“My dad called it a necessary evil, part of the life. I hated it. Hated guns. Hated violence.” His thumb brushes against my side, a fleeting motion like he’s trying to ground himself. “But my brothers? They took to it like they were born for it. Perfectly at ease with blood and brutality. Not me. Which meant I was pushed harder. Told to toughen up. To stop hesitating. Because in our world, hesitating gets you killed—gets everyone around you killed. My father made that clear every chance he got. So, I learned. I fired the gun until my hands stopped shaking, until the sound of it didn’t make me flinch. I did what our family wanted, but it never felt natural. Not like it did for my brothers. They thrived on it—on the power, the chaos. For them, it was second nature. For me, it was survival.”

My chest constricts for him.

“It was like my dad knew I didn’t fit in,” Isaia continues, “and he made it his life’s mission to change that. He wanted to break the misfit so he could rebuild him into the perfect son.”

His words hit me like a punch. I can hear the pain in them, the resentment. The guilt of not being the perfect son to the Don of one of the most powerful Mafia families in Chicago. In the States.

“Isaia,” I whisper, stepping closer, my free hand brushing over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palm. “You’re not just…whatever it is you think you are. Whatever your dad tried to turn you into.”

He huffs a bitter laugh, finally meeting my eyes again. “You think you know me, troublemaker?” The sharp edge of his smirk returns, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve seen pieces of me but not the whole. You don’t want to see the whole.”

“Maybe I do. Maybe that’s why I’m still here—why I haven’t run.”

He stares at me for a long moment, the tension in his jaw shifting like he’s trying to decide whether to push me away or pull me closer. Finally, he steps into me, his hands finding my waist as his forehead rests against mine.

“You should,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for me to hear. “You should run.”

I swallow hard, the gravity of his words sinking in, but instead of stepping back, I push up on my toes and brush my lips against his.

“But I won’t,” I say, and I hear him let out a breath.

“I’ll hurt you.”

“Try not to.” I cup his cheek, my heart swelling in my chest. “That’s all I can ask of you.”

He presses me tighter against him, and there’s no denying how right this feels. “You don’t make things easy for me, troublemaker.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

A quiet laugh escapes him, and for a moment, his lips brush my temple. “You’re going to make me forget, Everly Beaumont.”

“Forget what?”

“Fate.” He presses a searing kiss against my lips, a gentle act that steals my breath, then pulls away. “Memento mori.” Remember you must die.

My breath catches, his voice sinking deep, and I realize he’s not telling me about my fate. He’s warning me about his.