Page 70 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

With one last look at her sleeping form, I step out of the room, shutting the door behind me with quiet finality.

And just like that, I leave.

Even though every part of me wants to stay, I know I can’t.

I tell myself it’s for her sake—that Isabella deserves more than this, more than me. More than a man who only knows how to take, to destroy, to consume.

But deep down, I know the truth.

I can’t let her be my weakness.

Not when enemies are circling, not when blood has already been spilled, and certainly not when the war I’ve been fighting my whole life is closing in around me. If I let myself hold on to her, if I let myself believe even for a second that I can have this—that I can have her—then I’ll doom us both.

She’s done what she needed to do. She painted the damn painting.

Tomorrow, I’ll transfer the money to her account, and then... this ends.

She can go back to her life, untouched by the violence that stains mine. She can move on, live in peace, find someone who can offer her a real life.

And I’ll do what I do best.

Forget.

Pretend she was just another moment of distraction, a temporary indulgence. Another name in a long list of things I can’t afford to keep.

I let out a quiet exhale, rubbing a hand over my face as I step away from her bed, away from the only softness I’ve felt in years.

Because that’s all this was, wasn’t it? A fleeting moment. A temporary escape.

And I?

I have no place in a world where love exists.

I never have.

Chapter 19 - Isabella

The first thing I notice when I wake up is the eerie stillness. The second is the absence of warmth beside me.

I stretch my arm out, feeling nothing but the cool linen where Dominic had been only hours ago. My fingers brush over the empty space, my stomach twisting in disappointment.

He’s gone.

The morning lingers on my skin—the heat of his touch, the way he whispered my name like it meant everything, the way he made me feel like I belonged. I can still feel the ache of him inside me, the bruising grip of his hands on my waist. He hadn’t just taken me. He had claimed me.

And now, he’s disappeared.

I don’t expect him to stay—I know he has things to do. But a part of me still longs for his touch after waking up. He’s the kind of man who just takes what he wants, without having a care in the world.

But this morning felt different.

Pushing aside the tangle of sheets, I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The room is lit with the muted glow of the late afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. I shudder, reaching for my nightgown before padding toward the bathroom. The steam from the shower wraps around me as I step beneath the hot water, washing away the remnants of him, the reminder of his hands, his mouth, his body.

By the time I step out, my skin flushed and warm, I feel more composed. More in control. I slip into a fitted sweater and jeans, towel-dry my damp hair, and step out of my room, ready to find him.

And that’s when I see the man standing outside my door.

I stop short, my fingers still gripping the doorknob. He’s tall, dressed in a crisp black suit, his face a practiced blank facade. But I don’t recognize him.

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