Page 33 of His Angel

When I approach the counter, Leandra’s there, gliding through the space like she owns it. As Alexius Del Rossa’s wife, she probably does.

Water hisses as she fills the kettle from the sink, her fingers brushing the handle with a casual intimacy, then setting it on the stove with a soft clank.

She moves with a fluid grace, effortless, like this kitchen’s etched into her bones, a thousand mornings carved into every step. Dark hair spills over her shoulders, catching the sunlight as she reaches for a copper kettle on the shelf. No hesitation. Just instinct.

The cabinet swings open under her touch, revealing rows of porcelain cups, and she takes out two—white, delicate, rimmed with gold—like they’re old friends.

A tin of loose tea leaves sits on the counter—jasmine, judging by the scent wafting free—and she scoops a pinch, dropping it into the cup, her movements precise yet unhurried, a queen in her domain.

Leandra glances my way, her eyes sharp, cutting through the steam rising from the kettle. “Tea?”

“I’m more of a coffee girl.”

“Espresso?”

The way she says that word has me thinking she’s offering rat poison. “I’m…uh. I’m all espresso’d out. One more and I’ll probably start seeing sound,” I manage, my voice flitting between forced humor and genuine discomfort.

She sets the kettle down, her gaze flicking to me, her fingers wrapped around the cup, lifting it to her lips, testing the heat with a sip, every move screaming she belongs here more than I ever will. “Thought we could get to know each other while the men catch up.”

I slide onto a stool, elbows on the counter. “Sure.”

“Do you love him?”

Whoa.That just went from zero to a hundred in a split second. “I’m sorry?”

“Isaia.” She stares at me from under her lashes, cup close to her lips. “Do you love him?”

I blink, stalling for time. A simple yes or no question, but I’m not sure whether there will be a right answer for her. “I do,” I reply anyway.

“You hardly know him.”

Shifting my weight, I meet her gaze. “I think I know enough.”

“Do you?” Her head tilts, dark hair spilling further. “Enough to understand what he’s risking for you?”

“I’m not sure where you’re headed with this.”

“He’s reckless when it comes to you.”

“Isaia strikes me as the kind of guy who’s reckless with or without me.”

“True.” She shrugs, setting the cup down, fingers tracing its rim. “He’s always been a wild card. But you seem to add a layer to it.”

I tilt my head. “So I’m a layer now?”

“More like a thread he’s woven himself into.”

“Himself, yes. I didn’t ask him to weave anything.”

Her lips curve as she steps closer, the kettle’s steam fading behind her. “And yet he has. Now you’re here, both your lives in danger.”

“Leandra, I don’t know what you?—”

“I’ve watched him push limits,” she interrupts. “Sometimes too far. You’re part of that push now, whether you mean to be or not. And I’m afraid…” Her voice trails off, and suspicion rises.

“You’re afraid of what?”

Green eyes find mine. “I’m afraid that he’ll push too far because of you, and we won’t be able to reel him back in.” She pauses. “Or save him.”

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