Page 9 of His Angel

I jolt, whipping my gaze to the door. “Isaia.”

A smirk that can melt flesh off bones pulls at his lips. “Good morning, troublemaker,”he drawls, voice dripping with that cocky edge that makes my stomach flip.

My mind races as I take him in. Dark irises, deep and consuming, pull me under, that grin curling slow, lips carved for sin, daring me to bite. And I’m suddenly aware that all I’m wearing is a white shirt that smells like him. No underwear.

Oh, God.

A black T-shirt stretches tight over his chest, sleeves hugging his arms, faded jeans slung low, frayed at the knees. He belongs here, in this salty, wild air, like it’s just another piece of him.

I ignore the heat licking at my skin, focusing on the rage bubbling beneath my ribs instead.

“Where the hell am I?”

He tilts his head. “Somewhere safe.”

“I didn’t ask if I was safe.”

“It’s the only question that matters.”

I lurch off the bed, legs quaking like they might give out, but Isaia’s faster. His hands snatch me mid-stumble, yanking me hard against his blazing heat, and my chilled skin ignites where it meets his.

The familiar scent of him slams into me. Wooden amber, black pepper, and that raw, primal musk that’s all him. It’s a gut punch, unraveling me, reminding me how I missed him, and before I can think, my lips crash into his.

He doesn’t hesitate. He devours.

One arm locks around my waist, crushing me against the solid wall of his body, while his other hand twists into my hair, wrenching my head back with a sting that makes me gasp.

All I think about is how I longed for him. How my soul ached every day we were apart. How pieces of me broke, little by little, while I had to play my part and plan a wedding I didn’t want. How I looked Anthony in the eye and wished it was Isaia.

I ached for this man in the most brutal ways, and now I’m taking my fill, like salve to an open wound.

Isaia’s mouth claims mine, hot, vicious, tongue shoving past my lips to fuck my mouth like he owns it—he does. It’s not soft. It’s not tender. It’s a goddamn inferno, a collision of need that steals my breath and sets my blood ablaze. It’s always like this with him, uncontrolled and raw.

I claw at his shoulders, nails biting into muscle, anchoring me as the world shrinks to the wet slide of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, the heat rolling off him in waves. It’s a frenzy of lips and hands, his fingers digging into the curve of my ass, hauling me tighter against him until I can feel every thick inch of him pulsing against me.

A moan rips from my throat, half-choked, and he swallows it, growling into my mouth as the kiss turns savage—teeth clashing, lips bruising.

My pussy clenches, already slick, every nerve screaming for more as his grip in my hair tightens, forcing my neck to arch until my throat’s bared to him, vulnerable and so fucking willing.

He pulls back just enough to bite my lower lip, dragging it between his teeth, and I whimper.

“You taste like mine,” he rasps. “Are you mine, baby girl?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. It’s the truth. I’m his. I’ve been his since we crashed into one another at the park.

He squeezes my naked ass hard, so hard my pussy lips part, and I’m trembling, burning, lost in the wildfire of him. But then it hits—sharp, jagged, like a blade through the haze.

The church. The chaos. The blood.

Anthony.

I gasp and break the kiss, stumbling back, and my fingertips touch my lips as if I can wipe away the fire he’s left there.

“Don’t do that,” he warns. “Don’t pull away from me.”

“You—” My voice cracks. “You killed them.”

His expression doesn’t shift. No twitch of guilt, no shadow of regret. Just that cold, unrelenting stare, like the blood on his hands is nothing more than paint drying on a canvas he’s already forgotten. It’s chilling, but God help me, it’s magnetic, too, and I hate myself for it.

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