Page 19 of His Angel

I open my mouth to argue, guilt still clawing at my throat, but he cuts me off, crashing his lips into mine, swallowing my words. It’s not gentle; it’s a storm.

His tongue shoves past my defenses, tasting of mango and lime and desperation, killing the stupid spiral in my head with every bruising press.

My hands fist his shirt, clinging as he devours me, heat surging through my veins, drowning the blame in raw, unfiltered want. He’s relentless, claiming me like he can kiss the guilt right out of my soul, and for a moment, I let him—let it burn me clean.

Then he pulls back, leaving me gasping, lips swollen, chest heaving. His hands drop from my face, and he steps away, turning to the deck’s edge, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles blanch.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough, staring out at the sea like it’s the only thing keeping him steady. “I can’t…” He trails off, shoulders tense, the unspoken hanging heavily between us.

I touch my lips, still tingling from him, heart pounding as I watch his back. “You can’t what?” I ask, voice soft but pressing, stepping closer.

“Never mind.” He shakes his head, voice low. “All that matters is that you stop blaming yourself.”

“How can I if?—”

“It’s on me, Everly,” he interrupts. “Every death, every drop of blood spilled is on me. Let it stay there. I alone carry that burden. Not you. Understand?”

“Isaia, I?—”

“Say you understand,” he snaps, his harsh tone recoiling up my spine.

“Okay,” I murmur.

“Good girl.” He catches my wrist and pulls me to him, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as my cheek presses into the hard planes of his chest. “Being mine has its perks, baby girl. It means I get to protect you. Keep you safe. Keep you happy. And all you have to worry about is making sure you’re ready to take my cock, whenever. Wherever.”

I snort against his shirt, the sound muffled, half-laugh, half-scoff. “That is such an Isaia thing to say.”

“Isaia thing?”

“Adding some filth to an emotional mess.”

“Oh, did you think I was joking?”

I slap his arm, and he presses me to his chest, his heartbeat thudding under my ear, and it anchors me, pulls me out of the guilt spiral, if only for a breath. He’s warm, solid, a wall between me and the Paladinos’ vengeance, and damn it, I need that right now.

My eyes close as he weaves his fingers through my hair, placing a kiss on the top of my head. “I love you, Everly Beaumont.”

The words sink in, heavy and warm, and I clutch at his shirt, breathing him in—citrus, cedar, that primal musk that’s stitched into this whole damn place.

“I love you, too,” I murmur, and his grip in my hair tightens as a growl vibrates up his throat. There’s no use in denying it, in fighting it. It is what it is, no matter how fucked-up everything is around us, the fact that I love this man is unchangeable.

The deck stretches out around us, pool glinting turquoise, ocean roaring beyond, guards pacing the shore like silent sentinels. This island’s our shield, his kingdom, and I’m here—his bullet, his heartbeat, whatever he calls it—and there is no other place I’d rather be.

“So, what’s the plan? We just sit here? Play house until they forget about us?”

“Play house? Tempting. But the Paladinos don’t forget. This island’s our ground, our rules. You can roam, swim, tan your ass off. Just don’t try swimming to Fiji. Guards will haul you back before I do.”

I huff a laugh, despite myself. “Oh, so I’m free-range now? How generous. What’s stopping me from stealing a boat?”

He leans in, breath brushing my ear, voice dropping low. “No boats to steal, troublemaker. I own the only keys, and my men shoot first, flirt later. You’re stuck with me.” I can feel his smirk against my skin. “Poor you.”

“Tragic,” I deadpan, shoving his chest, but my hand lingers, feeling his heartbeat under the fabric. “You’re enjoying this marooned thing too much.”

“Maybe I am,” he says, catching my wrist, thumb grazing my pulse. “You, me, sand, sea, and all the time in the world to figure out how loud you can scream my name.”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I yank my hand free, stepping back. “You’re the worst.”

“Oh, talking about the worst. That reminds me.” He glances over my shoulder, and I turn in time to see one of his guards opening a glass door off the deck, leading into a side room. Then Luna comes bounding out—well, bounding as much as a basset hound can, her long ears flapping, stubby legs churning, that goofy grin lighting up her droopy face.

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