Page 43 of His Angel

“You got him and Poppy here on the island helping with the protection detail, but other than that, you’re not involving him. In anything.”

“Care to explain why our family assassin is off-limits?”

“Because that’ll start a war we can’t win.”

“We’re already at war, if you haven’t noticed.”

“True. But right now, it’s your war. Getting Davian involved will make it our war. As much as I love you, brother, I have a family to protect. And I’ll always choose them. Remember that.”

With that, he walks out, leaving me alone with my chaos, and I stare at the sprawling mess again, each detail piercing me like a thorn.

Does he honestly think I haven’t run every possible scenario over and over inside my head?

At night, while Everly’s asleep, I’m up here plotting, planning, obsessing over every detail, turning each one over like a puzzle piece until it carves its shapes into my mind. Memorizing each angle, bending and breaking, twisting the edges desperately trying to make everything fit, shaping it into an outcome where I don’t fucking lose her.

I flip open my laptop, the screen flaring to life, a clear image searing into me, jagged and haunting as hell. A picture that slams Alexius’ words into my skull and an image that might prove him right. That I’ll end up losing her.

It’s the face of the one thing that can take her away from me.

My biggest threat.

Anthony. Fucking. Paladino.

Alive.

Chapter14

EVERLY

Isaia goes with Alexius and Leandra to see them off, and he sticks one of the new guards on me since Talon’s tied up helping with the departure. The new guy’s quiet, too. It’s been over an hour, and he hasn’t said a word.

I watch him from the corner of my eye, trying to decipher his stance and the sharp lines of his face.

An unmistakable air of alertness surrounds him, every muscle on edge, radiating tension like a coiled spring waiting to pounce. His eyes rove around our surroundings, missing nothing.

My feet sink into the sand, warm and gritty under my soles, as Luna bounds ahead—floppy ears flapping, tongue lolling. The sun’s dipping low, spilling amber across the waves. Sunsets here on the island are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.

Alexius and Leandra were supposed to leave earlier, but Leandra woke up feeling ill, and they had to wait a while for the nausea meds to kick in and for her to feel better. It was fun having them around, and Leandra and I found some mutual ground, maybe even a little trust. It was needed, to spend time with them. But I’m not gonna lie; having this place to ourselves again excites me.

Isaia’s been holding back when it comes to having sex the last few days, making sure we’re doing things quietly, slapping his palm over my mouth and whispering in my ear how no one but him is allowed to hear me come.

I’ll admit, his possessive side does things to me, makes me all loopy and pleasure-drunk, but the thought of us—ofhimunleashing his dominant darkness I’ve been craving sends anticipation skittering along my skin.

I glance back at the guy trailing me. Wyatt, I think—tall, lean, maybe mid-twenties, with a face carved from stone and a mess of dark hair spilling over his forehead. His jaw’s sharp, shadowed with stubble, and his nose has a slight crook like it’s taken a punch or two. Dark eyes sit under thick brows, one arched permanent-like, giving him a look that’s half skeptical, half bored.

He’s got this tic. His left cheek twitches every few seconds, subtle but there, like a pulse he can’t shake. His boots scuff the sand, rifle slung low across his chest, hands clasped behind him—military stiff but loose enough to move fast.

“Wyatt, right?” I toss it out casually, testing the water.

He nods—a quick dip of his chin—those dark eyes flicking to me, then away, tic jumping. Barely a ripple.

The ocean hums around us, waves kissing the shore, and Luna’s barking at a crab skittering sideways, her tail a blur. I scoop a smooth, pearled shell, rolling it in my palm before chucking it into the surf, watching it vanish with a plop. Then I spin, walking backward, hands stuffed in my sundress pockets, breeze tugging my hair wild.

“So, Wyatt, you from Chicago?”

He cocks that brow higher, cheek twitching twice, lips flat, no hint of a smile. Then he shrugs, shoulders rolling, like I’m asking about the weather. I guess asking someone where they’re from is right up there with asking about the weather when it comes to small talk.

“You like pizza?”

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