Page 45 of His Angel

Silence settles again, and I’m desperate not to have the awkwardness trickle back in. “Have you been working for the Del Rossa family long?”

He straightens, righting the rifle in front of his chest, that tic back in action. “Few months.”

“You’ve worked with Isaia before.”

An air of discomfort settles around him as he scans the area. “No. Just Caelian.”

“I hear Caelian’s a hoot.”

His brow furrows at the remark, a side glance shot my way. “Hoot? I suppose that’s one word for him.” Wyatt’s voice is dry, but there’s a glimmer of something wry beneath it. I can tell he’s holding back—either by habit or orders. Probably both.

I stretch my legs out in front of me, flicking water droplets from my toes. “It’s good to have someone shadow me who actually talks.”

He shrugs again, but this one’s looser. “You’re good at forcing conversation.”

“Guilty.” I smile. “I’m just not used to people watching me without talking. Feels like being stalked by a mannequin with combat training.”

That almost gets a laugh. Almost.

Wyatt shakes his head, looking like he’s about to say something else?—

And then he’s gone.

One moment, Wyatt’s upright—steady, sharp-eyed, that soldier stillness carved into his bones. The next, he’sobliterated. A black blur slices through the air like a missile, and thencrack—he’sslammedinto the sand so hard it shakes the ground beneath me.

His rifle spins away, a useless piece of metal now, skidding across the beach and disappearing into a dune. The wind gusts around us, but everything narrows to a single point.

A blade.

Pressed against the soft, vulnerable hollow of Wyatt’s throat.

Blood blooms instantly.

I can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“Isaia?” My voice comes out as a broken gasp.

But he doesn’t even look at me. He’s not here to talk. He’s here to kill.

“You piece of shit, motherfucker.” Isaia’s voice tears out of him like a growl, low and savage. He straddles Wyatt’s chest, knees grinding into his ribs, knife locked against flesh—unflinching,intentional. He’s breathing hard, face twisted in something close to rage-black madness.

“I’ve been watching you for a goddamn hour,” Isaia snarls, face twisted in fury, eyes blazing with something that looks more animal than human. “Afucking hour, and you didn’t clock me. Didn’t sense me. Didn’t even twitch. You were too busy making fuckingsmall talkto notice.” The knife presses deeper. Blood slicks along the blade now, crimson against silver. He doesn’t even flinch. “If I were an actual threat, you'd be dead, and she’d be gone.”

“Isaia, stop!” I scream, stumbling toward them, heart pounding like a drum in my throat. “What the hell are you doing?!”

He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’thearme.

The blade digs in deeper—just enough to make the blood run now, not pool. A warning. A punishment. The glint in Isaia’s eyes says he’s not posturing. He’s two seconds from feral.

“Isaia, get off him!”

“I’m not paying you to flirt. I’m not paying you to make small talk or swap dog stories. I’m paying you towatch her. Toprotecther. You think this is just another gig, Wyatt? You think she’s just another asset to babysit? Another six-figure paycheck for you?” He leans in close, jaw set, expression hard. “She’s not. Fucking. Replaceable. You get that? She’s everything. And you let your guard down. You failed.”

Finally, his eyes slice toward me—and there’s a wildness there I haven’t seen before. Something that pulses beneath the surface, hot and dark.

“Do you get it now?” he shouts, his voice cracking from how hard he pushes it. “You could’ve been taken. Right from under his nose. And he would’ve been too busy smirking even tonotice.”

Wyatt stays still, face tight, jaw locked. The tic in his cheek is back with a vengeance, pulsing hard and fast. But he doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t resist.

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