Page 12 of Unleashed
Anthony sighs, loud and deep, like his soul’s tethered to the sound. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
“Yeah, you did.” My eyes meet his. “And it’s okay. You have every reason to feel that way. But I can sit here and try to convince you that it wasn’t easy moving on with him, but thatwouldn’t be true. Moving on with Isaia, falling deeper in love with him, marrying him…right now, it feels like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you, that I didn’t grieve you, that I didn’t cry myself to sleep at night missing my best friend while guilt kept on bubbling up, reminding me of the part I played in it.”
“Shit,” he mutters, pulling a palm through his hair before taking a large gulp of his wine. “Even when I want to be a dick, you make it really fucking hard, you know that?”
I snicker despite the burning tears.
There’s a wave of comfort that settles around me as he takes the seat next to mine. “I need to talk to him, Anthony.” The admission is soft, but it slices deep.
With a sigh, he replies, “I can’t put into words how much I don’t want you to.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but I can hear it—the resentment and desperation buried beneath layers of forced indifference. He leans back against the chair, then places a hand over mine. “I don’t want you near him. I don’t want you to ever see him again. If I could erase him from your life completely, by God, Everly, I would give up everything I have, everything I am to make that happen.”
My heart aches. “Anthony?—”
“Don’t you get it? You’re not safe with him. He kept you on an island so I couldn’t get to you. The extreme measures that man went to in order to hide you. Everly, he killed dozens of my men. Good men. Men who were merely following orders, doing what they had to do to find you because I told them to.”
My chest tightens, an ache blooming sharp and deep, twisting through me like a blade. Because I know what Isaia’s capableof. I know what he’s done, what he’s willing to do. I don’t need Anthony to remind me. I’ve seen the darkness in Isaia’s eyes when he touches me, when he claims me, when he whispers how far he’ll go to keep me his. And God help me… I still love him. With every shattered, bleeding piece of myself, I love the man who painted his devotion in blood. I love the man who would tear the world apart before letting it take me from him.
How do I live with that? How do I carry the weight of a love so fierce, so dangerous, it burns through every rational bone in my body? Isaia’s the hunger and the satisfaction, the threat and the sanctuary, and even knowing the lengths he’s gone to — the lives he’s crushed under his need for me — my heart still reaches for him, raw and desperate, like it’s never known anything else.
I breathe through the ache, taking a sip of my wine, letting it slide down my throat, burning a trail of warmth that does nothing to stifle the chill of my thoughts.
“I just…I need to talk to him,” I whisper again, staring deep into the rich liquid in my glass. “I need to know why he kept this secret.” This time, I glance at him, staring into his eyes. “I have to know why he told me you were dead.”
Anthony’s jaw works. “He’ll just lie to you again.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But he is my husband.” Anthony visibly stiffens. “I owe him the chance to explain.”
He takes a large gulp of his wine, lips curled in a half-smile that’s somewhere between bitter and resigned. “I wish you could realize that you, Everly Beaumont?—”
“Del Rossa,” I correct him with a gentle tone, and he pinches his eyes closed like it causes him physical pain, and I hate it. I hate that I’m the cause of that.
“You are too fucking good for that man. He doesn’t deserve your love, your affection.”
“He deserves the chance to explain.”
His head snaps up. His eyes are dark, stormy. But beneath the simmering anger, there’s something else. Something protective. “You think I’m going to hand you over to him? After everything?”
“I’m not asking you to hand me over. I’m asking for a phone call.” I take a breath, gripping the edge of the counter. “He’s my husband. I deserve the truth. From him. Not through the lens of your hate.”
His lips curl, bitter. “You think this is about hate?”
“I think you’re scared.”
He flinches. Just a flicker. But I see it.
“Of course I’m scared. I almost lost you, Everly. To him. To this world. I’m still not sure I haven’t.”
The weight of his words presses down, suffocating. But I can’t let it bury what I know in my bones. “Anthony, please.”
His fists curl on the counter, jaw clenched so tight I hear the faint grind of his teeth. His chest rises in a slow, shaky breath, like he’s forcing himself not to explode, like every muscle in his body is coiled tight, ready to snap.
For a long, heavy moment, he just stares at the marble, refusing to look at me, as if keeping his eyes down can let him pretend none of this is happening. His hand hovers at his pocket, fingers flexing, knuckles white, but he doesn’t move. I see the fight in him — the desperate, silent plea.Don’t ask me to do this.
Then, finally, with a sharp exhale through his nose, like he’s surrendering to something that guts him, he slips his hand into his pocket. His movements are stiff, reluctant, every inch of him radiating tension as he pulls out the phone, holding it between his fingers like it burns his skin. His gaze flicks up, eyes tight and raw. “This is a mistake,” he mutters.
“Maybe. But it’s mine to make.”
With a bitter scoff, he unlocks the screen and swipes, his thumb scrolling through his contacts. I watch the frown deepen between his brows, watch his jaw flex tighter as his finger finally stops.
