Page 54 of His Angel

“Isaia…”

“Say you want my cum, or I swear to God, I will pull out and waste it all over this hardwood floor.”

“No,” she pants. “Please, no. Just…come inside me, Isaia. I want your cum. I want it all inside me.” It’s a desperate plea that pulls me over the edge.

It’s one more deep, hard thrust, and pleasure tears through me, warmth spreading from my balls to the tip of my cock, spilling into her.

“Oh, God, I can feel it,” she pants. “I can feel you come. Fuck.” Then she shatters. Soaking me. Pussy gushing, body trembling, and I keep on moving in and out of her, riding her through the pleasure until she goes limp in my arms. Exhausted.

Her head slumps against mine, breath jagged, hands softening as they trace the carnage of my skin. “You’re insane,” she whispers, a wrecked laugh spilling out, “and I love it. I love you, you psycho bastard.”

I grin, dark and feral, and rasp, “Seems like my crazy matches yours.”

She nods, spent, clinging to me, and I feel it—her surrender, her love, binding us in this madness. But as I hold her, a terrifying thought crushes my lungs. A crippling fear that makes my blood run cold.

What if she finds out?

What if he comes for her?

And what if…what if she picks him?

Chapter17

ISAIA

It’s midnight.

I’m sitting in a chair watching her sleep like I’ve done many times before.

Her chest rises and falls rhythmically, a soft sigh escaping her lips every now and again. The moonlight peers through the crack in the curtain, illuminating small parts of her face. She looks serene, beautiful, and utterly oblivious to the truth.

Anthony’s alive. The fucker survived, and all he has left of my wrath is a goddamn limp.

He was supposed to die. I put a bullet in him, watched the blood bloom, heard the gurgle in his throat. He was supposed to go to hell where he can’t touch her. Where he can’t even come close to her. Instead, he’s living and breathing and tearing through cities trying to find her.

I swallow a large gulp of bourbon, no longer feeling the sting as it settles.

I should have told her. The second I found out, I should have told her. But she was so heartbroken over losing him, so guilt-ridden for his death, I feared she’d want to run back to him the second she found out. My fear of losing her birthed the lie.

I thought he was dead. Thought I erased him, only to be informed that the son of a bitch is alive and breathing. Imagine the large dump of disappointment. Now, I’m scrambling. Every false lead I throw at him, he burns through way too fast. I’m running out of time. Running out of options.

At first, I thought it would be only a matter of time before he gives up on trying to find her, crawl back to his Paladino throne, and lick his wounds. But I underestimated his feelings for her, his desperation to have her.

Now, I see it clearly.

He’s not stopping, not until he’s got her or he’s dead. And I’m left with one option, the only one that sticks. I have to kill him again, finish it right this time, make sure his blood stains the ground and stays there.

But then what? Take her back to Chicago thinking we can live a normal life? Let her flip open her phone and read the headlines screaming across the web—Anthony Paladino Murdered Months After Wedding-Day Death? Let her piece it together—his limp, my gun, the church floor red with his blood—while she stares at me, eyes wide, knowing I lied? Knowing I kept her here, locked in this island cage, while he clawed his way back?

No. Too risky. I’d lose her, maybe not to him, but to the truth I’ve twisted to keep her safe, to keep her mine.

I swirl the bourbon, watching it catch the light, and lean forward, elbows pressing into my knees, staring at her sleeping form. Her hair spills across the pillow, and her lips twitch—just a flicker—like she’s dreaming something I can’t reach.

My chest tightens, a vise clamping my ribs, and I scrub a hand over my face, bourbon fumes clinging to my skin. I love her—fuck, I love her so much it’s carving me hollow—and that’s why I can’t let her go, can’t let her know.

Not yet.

Not until he’s dead, really dead, and the world’s ash around her feet.

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