Page 67 of His Angel

I shake my head, a bitter edge creeping into my voice as I correct him. “That would make me his widow.”

Something hard flashes across his expression, and he cuts his gaze to the side, as if he’s trying to get rid of a thought before he looks back at me.

“Isaia, what is this?”

“This is us.” His answer is simple but holds a depth that drowns me.

His hands settle on my waist, warm through the fabric, and I feel his steady strength, the way he holds me like I’m something precious. As if on cue, music begins to play—“BeautifulThings” by Benson Boone, its haunting melody filling the air with a bittersweet ache.

“I love this song.”

Isaia pulls me closer. “I’m not really good with words, but this song is everything I feel when it comes to you.”

We sway slowly, our bodies pressed together, and I feel the steady beat of his heart against mine, a rhythm that grounds me in this moment.

His fingers trace the curve of my spine, sending shivers through me, and I rest my cheek against his chest, breathing in his scent—something uniquely Isaia.

He twirls me gently, my dress flaring out around me like a cloud, the slit parting to reveal my leg as I spin. The fairy lights blur into streaks of gold, and I laugh softly, the sound swallowed by the music as he pulls me back into his arms.

At the chorus, where the lyrics speak of a man’s fear of losing what he loves, Isaia dips me low, his hand at the small of my back, his face inches from mine, and I can see it in his eyes, everything this song’s about, reflecting in the way that he looks at me, like I could slip away at any moment.

He pulls me upright, spinning me once more before drawing me close again, and we sway, lost in the music, in each other. He leans his forehead against mine, eyes closed, like he’s praying. Like he’s talking to God, pleading to the heavens something I can’t understand.

His thumb traces the line of my jaw, tucks a stray curl behind my ear, and whatever this is, it’s so powerful it brings tears to my eyes as my heart swells in my chest.

“Isaia, what’s wrong?”

He’s pressing his lips together, eyes still shut, brushing his fingers down my throat. “I can’t lose you, baby girl.”

“You won’t.”

His lips find mine in a kiss that’s soft and searing, a promise in every brush, and I melt into him, the world narrowing to the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the way he holds me like he’ll never let go.

Without pulling his lips from mine completely, he lingers. “He can take you away from me.”

I feel it. His fear. His desperation. It thrums between us, bringing tears to my eyes, ensnaring my heart. I rest my hands on his chest and look up at him.

“Don’t think like that, okay? It’s just a song.”

Shaking his head, he takes my hand, clutching it tight, bringing it up between us, kissing my fingers tenderly.

“The fear of losing you is constant, like a shadow, baby girl.” His voice is a low rumble, barely audible over the melody, and I wrap my arms around his neck, leaning my head to the side.

“We don’t know what’s going to matter tomorrow, the day after that, or the day after that. All we know is now, this very minute, and right now I promise you…you won’t lose me.”

Isaia hugs me closer in response, his body tensing. The weight of his arms around me intensifies, as if he wants to make sure I'm still there, secure in his hold.

For a moment, we hold on to each other so tight we almost merge into one, the song rushing toward its end, our heartbeats pulsing in harmony. His breath hitches against my ear, a silent sob, a fear of tomorrow and of the days that will follow.

With both hands, he frames my face, his lips so close, and our noses touch. “I can tell you I love you a thousand times, scream it from the rooftops, write it in the sky, but it’s only words. And what I feel for you, it’s beyond words. It’s too deep. Too raw. I’ll never be able to make you understand what I feel for you.”

A tear slips down my cheek. “Isaia?—”

He steps back, and before I can process what’s happening, he sinks to his knees before me, the movement so unexpected I can’t breathe.

He pulls a small velvet box from his pocket, and my hands fly to my mouth as he opens it, revealing a ring that glints in the fairy lights—a simple band with a single, flawless diamond, elegant and timeless, like a star captured in metal.

“Everly Beaumont,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, “I’ve been born into privilege, given everything this world can offer. But you…” His gaze pierces me. “You’re the one thing I want to earn. Marry me. Be mine, not because I demand it, but because you choose it.”

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