Page 35 of Isaia

It’s like she’s got this gravitational pull, and I’m the idiot who can’t resist getting dragged in. Every little movement she makes is a fucking symphony, and I’m stuck on the front row, watching, craving more.

When she leans over to grab a tray, the curve of her neck is exposed for just a second—just long enough to drive me insane.

My fists clench at my sides, the itch to close the distance nearly unbearable. She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does.

Maybe she’s aware of the chaos she stirs every time her lips twitch in that almost-smile when a customer says something dumb.

Maybe she knows that when she tilts her head just so, letting her hair fall over her shoulder, it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to reach out and feel its softness between my fingers.

Fuck, even the way she wipes the counter, her movements precise and rhythmic, feels intimate, like I’m intruding on something private. There’s a fire simmering beneath her surface, and I want to be the one to stoke it, to see what she looks like when she finally burns.

And that mouth.Jesus Christ.I was so fucking close to kissing her the other night—in my head, I was already two steps ahead with my tongue down her throat.

Being that close to her, feeling her pulse beneath my fingers, it did something to me. It made me want her in ways I’ve never wanted any woman before, made me want to see how fast I can get her heart to beat for me.

Fucking dog. I could have sat here knowing exactly what she tastes like if it weren’t for the four-legged menace. Instead, I’m sitting here driving myself fucking insane by not being able to tear my eyes off her. The way her teeth catch her bottom lip, worrying it like she’s lost in thought, drives me out of my goddamn mind.

She’s completely unaware of what she does to me, moving through the café like she’s just another cog in the machine. But she’s not. She’s the whole damn thing—the reason the place feels alive, electric. She’s the one who’s got my pulse racing, my mindspiraling into places it shouldn’t go while I sit here, pretending to give a shit about the coffee in front of me.

I should stop watching. But I know I won’t.

She missed her shifts for the past two days. I've been watching her ever since she walked in here this morning, not missing a beat, not hiding in the shadows like I did for the past two nights.

Of course, I kept an eye on her, staking out her house, making sure she didn't run. I half-expected her to be long gone by sunrise after that night I found her gasping for air on her porch.

Fuck, that was a risky move, rushing over to help her like some lovesick freak, a stalker on a stakeout. But when I saw her collapse, nothing else mattered. The only thought pounding in my head was reaching her, consequences be damned. No plan, no viable excuse for why I’d be there. Just the need to make sure she was okay.

But once I crossed that threshold, I didn’t want to leave.

I wanted to stay, to explore every inch of her—the house, sure, but her most of all. My mission should’ve been to snoop, to pick up clues, anything that could tie her to her stepdad’s schemes. But the second the door closed, everything changed. It was just us, removed from the rest of the world.

I wanted to trace my fingers along her pale, moonlit skin, watch her shiver under my touch. I wanted to taste the secrets hidden in those mismatched eyes, mysteries kept buried beneath layers she guarded so carefully. I wanted to kiss her. I still do.

The thought of her haunts me, a question that gnaws at the edge of my sanity.

What would her lips taste like? I picture them, soft and warm, a hint of defiance mixed with the unmistakable heat I know she feels too.

How would she react? Would she pull away? Or would she let me in, surrender to the intensity between us, welcoming the pressure of my lips?

Crave my special kind of twisted?

I shift in my seat, trying to get my dick under control when Alexius strolls in, and like magic, my cock deflates immediately.

I swear to God, it’s like the entire room forgets how to breathe. Heads turn, conversations falter, and for a second, all you can hear is the quiet hum of anticipation. He moves like he owns the air around him—every step calculated, effortless, like gravity bends just to keep him grounded.

The bastard looks like he walked straight off a magazine cover. Sharp jawline, piercing eyes, suit tailored so perfectly it’s practically a second skin. His presence isn’t just commanding; it’s goddamn magnetic. People can’t help but stare, their eyes trailing him like he’s some untouchable force of nature.

He stops just inside the door, surveying the room with that cool, detached gaze, and it’s clear. Alexius doesn’t enter a space. He owns it.

I stand, and he sees me. Without a word, I nod toward the back, my office.

He follows, his footsteps echoing in sync with mine, cutting through the lingering stares like a knife. People part instinctively, clearing a path for us without realizing they’redoing it. He doesn’t acknowledge them, doesn’t need to. His mere presence demands attention, commands respect.

I push open the office door, stepping aside as he walks in. His sharp gaze sweeps the room, assessing it like he’s cataloging every inch, every exit, every weak spot. He moves with the ease of a man who knows he’s untouchable, and he is. So am I. Perks of being a Del Rossa.

The door clicks shut behind me. “You’ve got everyone out there acting like they just saw a goddamn god walk in.”

There’s a slight curve of his lips. “Let them stare.” He shrugs off his coat, draping it over the back of a chair, then goes to stand by the window, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the street below with that stern, calculating gaze.

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