Page 73 of His Angel

ISAIA

It’s way past midnight. I'm on the deck, bourbon in hand, when the quiet of the night snaps like a brittle bone. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you overthink. It invites all your demons to the table while serving them caviar and fucking champagne.

Sleep is a joke these days; my mind won’t shut off, constantly spinning, always pounding with thoughts that won’t settle.

I take a swig of bourbon, feeling it burn down my throat, harsh against the dull ache sitting heavily in my chest. I lean against the railing, looking out over the ocean. It's like a dark mirror under the moon, reflecting the scattered light of stars above.

The last few weeks have been the best of my entire life. Everly is my wife now, and I’ve had this stupid grin ever since we took our vows.

It was a risky, ballsy move planning that night, having our family priest flown in for a fifty-fifty chance she might say yes. But it worked. It worked out perfectly, and it’s a night I’ll never forget.

I touch the vial around my neck. Everly is everything I never figured I needed, a light in all my dark shit, a woman who can look at the mess I am and still say she loves me.

Thinking about her asleep inside, all curled up and peaceful, does something fierce to my heart. She's mine now, Mrs. Everly Del Rossa, and damn if that doesn't pump me full of pride.

I love her laugh, how it cuts through the noise in my head, how she goes toe-to-toe with me, never backing down, and how she melts under my touch, giving me everything I crave.

I love how she fits right into me at night like she was made to be there, her quiet breaths a lullaby.

I love her sharp comebacks, how she doesn’t let me push her around.

I love how she responds to me, how her body arches for more, screams filling the room as I take what's mine. She’s got this strength, this fire that matches mine, and she looks at me like I'm more than the blood on my hands, more than a product of my violent past.

She’s my salvation, the reason I keep fighting, and I’d burn this whole world down to keep her safe. And that's the rub, isn't it? That's where the demons feast.

Every time I close my eyes, I see a different world where she’s taken from me. There's this nagging fear, always clawing at me, that I might lose her. To him. To the lies I’ve told.

I should have told her the day I found out that fucker was still breathing. But I couldn’t do it. I still can’t. Not when I know he meant something to her for so long. Sometimes I catch this look in her eyes, this flicker of sadness when she thinks I’m not looking, and I know she misses him. That gets my thoughts racing.

Would she still be here if she knew he was alive?

Would she still have married me?

Still love me?

“Fuck.” I rough a palm down my face. It’s too much, too dark thinking of losing her, which is why this gnawing need to keep her outweighs the guilt of lying to her.

Davian still hasn’t managed to take him out. He’s losing his patience, and so am I. Time is a luxury we don’t have. But Anthony is guarded like the crown fucking jewels, so damn slippery we can’t get a grip on the motherfucker.

Luckily, Everly hasn’t been too restless. Her mom seems to be on the road to recovery, which sets her at ease. Occasionally, she still asks me if she can see her mother. My answer is always the same. No.

She thinks it’s me being overprotective, but the real reason? Her mom doesn’t want to see her. Her mother doesn’t care that Everly’s been gone for months. She blames Everly for Michele’s death, the reason she’s a widow, mourning the man she says she’d loved. I got word that Anthony has been trying to get her to help him find Everly, but she wants nothing to do with her daughter. And that’s something I don’t have the heart to tell my wife. Every night, she prays for her mother to heal, and I can’t bear to crush her spirit with the cold, hard truth.

No. I’ll carry that burden for her. Be the villain who keeps her from seeing her mother.

I’m about to turn back inside when I hear the heavy thud of boots on the deck, the sound sharp and urgent in the stillness. Warning instantly knocks at the back of my skull.

Talon storms toward me, his face carved with tension, his eyes hard as steel, and I feel my gut twist, my instincts kicking into overdrive. He stops in front of me, his chest heaving, his voice low and urgent as he speaks.

“We’ve got a fuckton of boats and choppers heading our way, Isaia. They’re coming from the north, moving fast, and they’re not ours.”

My blood runs cold, the bourbon in my stomach turning to acid as I process his words, my mind racing with the implications. “Who is it?”

“We don’t know. Somehow, they’re blocking our signals.”

A chill crawls up my spine, seeping through every nerve. "How many are we talking, here?"

Talon’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing as he calculates, his hands already reaching for the gun holstered at his hip. “At least six boats, three choppers, maybe more on the way. They’re moving fast, probably fifteen minutes out, maybe less if they push it. We need to move now, get our men in position.”

---