Page 81 of Isaia

There’s a reason I’m a twenty-one-year-old virgin.Wasa twenty-one-year-old virgin. Men who showed interest in me always disappeared the next day. My stepdad won’t admit it, but I know it’s him. Virgin daughters are a prized commodity in his world.

Shit.

I didn’t plan for this. For him. But in hindsight, what did I expect when it comes to a man like Isaia? He calls me troublemaker, but he’s got trouble and mayhem imprinted in his bones.

He’s sprawled in my bed, my fingers twitching to smooth the crease in his brow. But touching him feels too intimate, too dangerous, like crossing a line I can’t redraw. Instead, I pull the sheet over my chest, biting my thumbnail.

My pulse pounds as memories flood in—his hands, his mouth, the way he claimed me until I forgot where he ended and I began.

I hug my knees, my stomach twisting. This is every shade of complicated, and last night shouldn’t have happened. But I wanted him. Still do. And the way my blood hums when I look at him? That’ll never stop.

God, this is a mess. Instead of worrying about the aftermath, I wonder what he thinks of me now. The Del Rossa brothers have a reputation—seasoned pros at driving women insane, letting them lose their minds one thrust at a time. And here I am, entry-level experience, wondering if I even passed the first test.

The man had my soul leave my body three times last night and barely broke a sweat. Now, I’m sitting in bed next to him, biting my thumbnail because I’m worried I gave him below-average satisfaction.

With a soft groan, Isaia stirs, his arm stretching across the bed, the one with the broken clock tattoo. His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and hazy with sleep, and when they lock onto mine, my breath catches.

“Have you slept at all?” he murmurs, a deep rasp that curls through the quiet room.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a stranger in my bed. Naked.”

“I’m not a stranger.” His low, gravelly voice, thick with sleep, slides over me like silk. “And you’re naked, too.”

“Only because you said you’d cut off anything I tried to wear to bed.” I shift, clutching the sheets tighter. “And I prefer not to risk being mutilated in my sleep.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, and it does something to me. “There are far more fun things I’d like to do to you with a knife than to maim you.”

Heat floods my face—and it’s worrying that I don’t find that statement more disturbing.

I rake my hand through my tangled hair, a complete mess at the mercy of this man. “What does it mean?” I ask, and he raises a brow. Finally, I gather the courage to touch him, tracing the letters inked on his forearm. I feel him stiffen just a little. If I weren’t so hyperaware of him, I’d miss it.

“Memento Mori.” His voice is a low hum that sends a shiver down my spine. “Remember…you must die.”

The words hang in the air, heavy, charged, and my hand stills, resting over the dark script. “That’s…notcomforting.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “It’s a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“That every choice, every moment, could be your last.” His words press down on me, heavy, too much truth for one man to carry.

My eyes drift back to the tattoo, and suddenly, it feels like more than just ink. It’s a promise. A warning. A glimpse into a part of him that rarely surfaces.

“I wouldn’t want to be reminded of that every day.” I pull my hand away, the sudden absence of his warmth leaving me cold.

“And why’s that?”

“I’d like to think we savor moments because they’re extraordinary. Not because they’re our last.” My eyes flick to his tattoo, then back to his face. “I don’t want to live like I’m constantly running out of time. I want to appreciate things because they matter now.”

His expression softens just a fraction, but his intensity never wavers. “That’s the thing. Moments like this matter because they don’t last.”

“That’s… really morbid.”

“Reality often is.”

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