Page 92 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

The Castellano estate is silent.

Not the kind of silence that comes with peace—I don’t believe in peace—but the void of aftermath. The lull of a storm that has passed, leaving destruction in its wake. Samuel Delgado is dead.

But we survived.

And now, I’m standing in my room, watching Isabella as she stares at her reflection in the mirror.

She hasn’t spoken much since we returned.

She carries the weight of everything that happened—the gunshots, the blood, Samuel’s body crumpling to the ground. It’s different, knowing death exists, and watching it unfold in front of you. She saw what I did to him. What I was always going to do to him.

Now, she has to decide if she can live with that.

Her fingers press against the smooth surface of the mirror as if she’s seeing herself for the first time. The woman staring back at her isn’t the same one from weeks ago. She’s harder. Sharper. Changed.

I take a slow breath, stepping forward. I’ve never been a man to comfort. Never been a man to offer soft words or gentle reassurances. But Isabella isn’t just anyone.

She’s mine.

She hasn’t looked at me since we walked into this room. Now, she does. Her expression is unreadable. Her lips part, but the words take a moment to come out.

“Is this my life now?” she finally asks.

I know what she’s really asking.

Is she meant to stay in this world? To belong to it?

I could lie to her. Tell her she can leave. Tell her she can pretend she never knew what it felt like to have blood on her hands, to see death up close.

But I don’t lie. Not to her.

Instead, I walk up behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders. She tenses suddenly but doesn’t pull away. My voice is quiet, firm.

“I told you once, Isabella,” I murmur, watching her through the mirror. “You belong to me. And I won’t let you go.”

Her breath catches, but she turns—fully this time, facing me. Her chin tilts up, those sharp, defiant eyes locking onto mine.

"And if I don’t want to belong to anyone?" she whispers.

I smirk. “Then we’ll rewrite the rules.”

She doesn’t push me away.

Instead, she steps closer to me, her palms pressing firmly against my chest. Heat surges through my veins at the contact, at the way she finally surrenders. She looks up, her eyes lit up with hope.

And then, I kiss her.

Not like before—not like the desperate, brutal kisses we’ve shared in darkened hallways and war zones. This one is different.

This one is slow, consuming.

This one is a promise.

I feel it in the way she melts against me, the way her fingers tighten in my shirt, the way my hands slip to her waist, pulling her closer. There’s no battle here, no war waged between our lips—just the quiet surrender of something inevitable.

When I lift her, she doesn’t resist. When I lay her down on my bed, she doesn’t protest. The mattress dips as I lower her onto the sheets, my body hovering over hers. She watches me with those dark, knowing eyes, her hands sliding up my arms, over my shoulders, pulling me down until our mouths meet again.

The world outside doesn’t exist. Not tonight.

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