Page 25 of Twisted Vows

"Running from me, wife?" His voice was low, smooth, almost conversational. A warning only she could understand.

Isla forced herself to meet his gaze, her defiance unwavering. "Let me go, Matteo."

His lips curled, a slow smirk, but his eyes remained devoid of warmth. "You think I’d let you walk away? After everything?"

She struggled, but it was futile. Matteo was a wall of unyielding strength, his grip tightening just enough to remind her who held the power. "You lied to me! You and my father—"

His jaw twitched, his eyes flickering with something darker before settling back into that unreadable mask. "And you thought running would fix that?"

Her breath came in sharp bursts. "I’d rather disappear than be trapped in this lie."

There was the briefest pause, an imperceptible flicker of something almost human in his expression. And then it was gone, swallowed by something ruthless. He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her ear, a whisper meant only for her.

"You belong to me, Isla. You can fight, you can hate me, but you will never run from me."

A shiver raced down her spine—not from fear, but from something far more treacherous.

His grip was methodical as he wrenched the car door open and pushed her inside with a controlled force that left no room for resistance. He slid in beside her, shutting the door with deliberate slowness.

The moment they were alone, the facade shattered.

The cold restraint outside was gone, replaced with something heated, something dangerous. The air in the car thickened, the tension coiling around them like a vice. Matteo turned toward her, his body a wall of heat, his control fraying at the edges now that there were no eyes on them.

"Look at you," he murmured, his fingers tracing the inside of her wrist. "So desperate to be free, yet trembling under my touch. Tell me, Isla—do you really want to run from me?"

She swallowed hard, her pulse a betraying drum against his fingertips. The car was too small, too suffocating, filled with the scent of him, the memory of his hands on her body. She was reminded, in a single flash, of the night they shared—of the way he had touched her like he owned her, the way she had let him.

Matteo saw it. He saw the way her breath hitched, the way her skin heated beneath his touch. His fingers brushed against her jaw, tilting her face toward him with excruciating patience.

"You think you hate me," he continued, his voice quiet, lethal. "But I know the truth. You crave this. You crave me."

She exhaled sharply, but the sound was barely a whisper in the charged space between them. The car moved through the dark streets, but neither of them acknowledged it, their world reduced to the inches separating them. Matteo’s presence consumed her, his energy thick, suffocating.

His hand moved to her thigh, slow, deliberate, testing. She should shove him away, should remind him that she was not his to claim. But her body betrayed her, heat flaring under his touch, memories of the night before searing into her mind.

"You can fight me all you want," he murmured, his voice rough, knowing, "but you’ll always find yourself back here—with me."

She hated him for being right. Hated herself more for the part of her that wanted to prove him wrong, even as her body betrayed her.

Matteo smirked, reading her silence as confirmation. "Next time you try to run, make sure you actually want to leave."

She had lost this round.

But the war between them was just beginning.

Chapter Eighteen

The moment they arrived back at the villa, Matteo didn’t give Isla a chance to move. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her out of the car and through the grand entrance, his grip firm but not painful—controlling, possessive. The guards stationed at the doors averted their gazes as Matteo stormed past them, dragging Isla up the grand staircase.

She fought him the entire way, yanking against his grip, her breath coming in sharp bursts. But Matteo was immovable.

"Let go of me, Matteo!" she hissed, her voice low but furious.

His jaw was set, his silence more dangerous than any shouted words. He didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge her struggle until they reached her bedroom. With a sharp motion, he shoved the door open and pulled her inside before slamming it shut behind them. The click of the lock sent a chill down her spine.

"You don’t get to run from me," Matteo said, his voice deceptively calm. "Not now. Not ever."

Isla’s breath caught in her throat. "You think locking me in here is going to fix this? That it’s going to make me forget that you and my father planned something behind my back?" Her own words startled her, the realization settling in as Matteo’s expression flickered, just for a second. That was it—there was something more, something he wasn't saying. And now she knew she was closer to the truth than ever before.

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