Page 11 of Unleashed
“How long?” I call after her, and she pauses, looking my way. “How long do I give her?”
“You’re asking the wrong question. What you need to ask is how long do you give yourself.”
And then she leaves me there, alone in the garden where I once played as a boy… now drowning in the weight of becoming a man worthy of the woman I love.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the ring—herwedding ring. After they took her, I found it just outside the safe room they dragged her from. Fuck, I can’t get her screams out of my head. It’s constantly ringing in my ears, making it fucking impossible to let go of the rage. Every ounce of my being is aching to be with her, to put my arms around her and keep her safe. Keep her mine.
I slip out my phone and scroll to the last incoming call, staring at the number, replaying the conversation in my head. Just one click and I can hear her voice. One click and she’ll know I haven’t let go.
One click…and I’ll lose the last chance I have of getting her back.
Chapter 4
EVERLY
“He has Luna?”
Anthony takes a container out of the fridge. “Yeah. There was visual confirmation that he took her with him when he left the island.”
“Thank God.” I almost sag into the counter with relief. I’d much prefer her being here with me, especially now, but at least I know he’ll take care of her.
I glance around the pristine kitchen. Sleek and unapologetically expensive—marble counters gleaming under soft recessed lights, matte black cabinetry standing bold against steel fixtures. It’s the kind of place that screams power and control, curated with precision, yet somehow…inviting. A lot like Anthony himself.
He moves through it with methodical grace, heating food with a familiarity that tells me this is routine, but not intimate.
“You still can’t cook for shit, can you?” I throw it out there, desperate to cut through the tension.
He snorts, lips twitching. “Never claimed I could. That’s what chefs are for. My talents lie elsewhere.”
“Like buying penthouses with extravagant kitchens you don’t know how to use?”
There’s a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Among other things.”
“But your true genius,” I press further, managing a crooked smirk, “resides in hiring chefs to create culinary experiences only for them to be wasted on takeout and reheating.”
His laughter bounces off the high ceilings, a rich baritone that complements the opulence around us. “For your information, this is not takeout.”
I’m glancing over his shoulder to see what it is, the smell of rosemary and something richer, deeper, flooding the air.
“Braised short ribs,” he says, gesturing like a man presenting a gift. “Chef’s specialty. Even I can’t screw up reheating this.”
It smells like comfort. Like the kind of food meant to anchor you when the rest of the world feels like quicksand.
Our eyes meet, his brows furrowed. “Eat.” One word that carries more weight than any long-winded speech.
“Tell me your chef left some of the red wine for guests and didn't pour it all into the pot," I venture, indicating a crystal decanter positioned strategically on the counter.
"I always save a bottle or two," he assures, moving to retrieve a velvety red from the wine cooler, his limp more noticeable without the use of his cane. Guilt sinks deep, threatening to kill the hunger ignited by the food’s aroma.
He uncorks it with ease, all masterful control and understated elegance, filling two glasses and sliding one toward me. Again, our gazes lock, and I’m overwhelmed with relief and familiarity. My best friend. “I can’t put into words how happy I am you’re here, Anthony. Losing you—or rather, thinking I lost you—it was the worst time in my life.”
“And yet you moved on real fast by marrying the man who supposedly killed me.”
It guts me. The way he says it, like a fact. No venom, no fire. Just a flat, clinical dissection of what he sees as my betrayal. But sometimes that’s worse. Sometimes it’s the quiet hurt that cuts the deepest.
My fingers curl around the stem of the wine glass, pressing hard, like the fragile crystal can absorb the ache swelling in my chest. Shame burns hot under my skin…because he’s not wrong. Not entirely.
There’s no way for me to explain it, no way for me to make anyone understand. Fuck. I hardly understand it. It’s like Isaia’s not an option. He’s not a choice I weighed out, not a decision I made after pros and cons. He’s a constant. A solid. An immovable fact in my life. Loving him isn’t something I get to reconsider. It just is. Like gravity. Like needing air to breathe. Like my heart beating without permission. He’s not someone I’m choosing. He’s someone I can’tnotchoose.
