Page 92 of Isaia

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.

Chapter 27

ISAIA

I’ll never be what she needs. Neither will he.

What Everly needs is a good man with a good job, a white picket fence, and a little girl who looks like her. Definitely the same eyes—mismatched and perfect. Everly doesn’t need men like Rinaldi, Paladino, or me to fuck up her life. And yet, we swarm around her like vultures, each wanting a piece.

I’ll fucking die before I’ll let them get even a goddamn morsel of her.

She’s mine, even though I’m not the good man she deserves. What can I say? I’m a human-shaped inferno, a walking contradiction. A predator, hungry for the one thing I shouldn't crave.

Every second we spent on my bike on our way here, her arms tight around me, all I could think about was how I wanted to be that for her. The one she holds on to when she needs it. The one who keeps her safe. The one who protects her…as long as she just fucking holds on.

I could be the better man and walk away from her. But the universe knows that’s not in my nature, to be a better man. Just the thought of walking away, leaving her for another man to claim, makes my blood boil, staining the night with vile jealousy.

God, I can't stand the image.

I feel it clawing at me, gnashing its teeth against the walls of my mind. His scent on her skin, his laugh in her ears. His filthy hands claiming her body. I could rip out spleens and jugulars with just that image fueling me.

Call me fucking crazy, but I thought bringing her here might…I dunno…make me less of an asshole. I wanted to share something with her, something personal, something that could be just ours, away from the noise and the chaos of our lives. I reached real fucking deep, all the way to the darkest pit inside me so I could give her the tiniest glimpse of my soul. Not all of it. God, definitely not all of it. There’s a whole lot of black there. But just…something of me that wasn’t my cock.

I didn’t want this to be about sex, but then she had to wear that fucking dress. And let’s not even start with the book I decided to read while she showered like she’s performing a one-woman show called“How to Waste Time While Isaia Gets Bored Enough to Read Smut.”

And did she really think changing the locks will work? She can deadbolt that fucking door and I’d still find a way inside.

I’m straddling the bike, the metal frame balanced steadily between my legs, staring at the milky skin as the burgundy fabric hikes up her thighs. She’s perched in front of me, her legs draped over mine, her back to the handlebars.

It took me ten minutes to convince her to get on like this, and it still didn’t work, so I grabbed her hips, lifted her and sat her down in front of me, face to face.

The moonlight catches on her bare skin where her dress has ridden up, and fuck, she’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on. She’s playing with the hem again, her fingers tugging at it like she can cover what’s already mine.

“What?” she asks, catching me staring.

“You,” I murmur, my hands settling on her hips, pulling her closer. “Sitting on my bike, looking like that. You’re asking for trouble.”

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