Page 17 of Isaia

“No more dangerous than your dog on a leash.”

I smile at that.

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

“That’s the second time you’re offering to buy me a drink.”

“Maybe I just want to see what you’ll say this time.”

There’s something about the way he says it—like he’s laying down the first card in a game I’m not sure I want to play, but I’m too intrigued not to.

I gather my bag and stand. “A drink with a stranger will be reckless of me, don’t you think?”

Isaia’s eyes darken with amusement, and he takes a step closer. “Maybe. But I’d make it worth your while.”

How he says it, his tone laced with suggestion—sends a shiver down my spine. His presence is magnetic, and I can feel the air between us growing heavier, charged with something I can’t quite name but can’t ignore either.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“No limits, remember?” He leans in slightly, his whisper brushing against my skin. “I don’t play by half measures.”

My breath catches, his words hanging in the air, daring me to take the bait. The pull between us is undeniable, and I’m caught in it for a moment, helpless.

“And what if I don’t want to play?”

His eyes gleam with that dangerous edge. “Oh, you’re already playing, Everly. You just don’t know it yet.”

I can’t lie; I’m intrigued. A little scared, but mostly intrigued.

“Fine,” I say, lifting my chin. “One coffee. But I have to warn you, I’m not easily impressed.”

“Challenge accepted.”

“You’ve got until I finish my double espresso.”

Isaia’s gaze flicks to Molly. “Two double espressos. Back table.”

Molly’s expression freezes, her earlier warning echoing faintly in my head like a distant alarm. But the longer I’m in this man’s presence, the quieter it gets—until it’s barely there at all.

Once we’re seated, Isaia’s frame dominates the space. He’s slightly too big for the chair, the expanse of his back seeming to stretch the limits of it, making the small café feel even more cramped.

The way he settles in, though, is effortless, as if he’s used to commanding whatever space he’s in. Even here, in this too-small chair, he radiates power and control. It’s unsettling how he can make a simple chair seem like it’s bending to him.

I lean back, studying him. “So, what’s your story?”

“What makes you think I have one?”

“Oh, I don’t know…maybe the way the entire café stopped breathing when you walked in? Even the coffee machine had the decency to go quiet.”

His lips twitch. “You noticed that, huh?”

“Hard to miss. It’s like the universe shifts when you enter a room. If you’re trying to blend in, you’re doing a terrible job.”

“I’m not the blend-in type,” he says, leaning back. Even sitting, he takes up more space than he should, commanding attention without trying.

“Yeah, I figured. So, what are you doing here?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Here, as in this café? Or here, sitting across from you?”

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