Page 48 of Unleashed
The door clicks shut, swallowing me in leather and Caelian’s ego. Chrome flashes across the dash, red stitching screaming for attention. I’d much rather be in my Ferrari than this flashy thing, but right now I’m all for pissing off my brother.
I slam the start button and the engine snarls to life, feral, like it’s hungry for blood. My grip locks on the wheel, pulse hammering as Chicago sprawls ahead—glass, steel, and daylight blurring into streaks the second the tires bite asphalt. Horns blare, pedestrians scatter, but I don’t ease off. Not with every nerve in me still wired from her. It’s like something grabbed hold of me—something dark, something vicious, something hungry for destruction and chaos because I can’t fucking have her.
“Fuck!” I slam my fist into the steering wheel, my knuckles screaming as they collide with the cool leather, the impact rattling through my bones with a fierce kind of satisfaction. I’ve never felt so goddamn empty while fully possessed by one person. Theonlyperson. My fucking person.
Everly’s ghost fills the seat beside me, her sassy remarks tangled with moans, the memory of her thighs spread wide in my Ferrari. One hand on the wheel, the other buried deep in her soaked pussy, finger-fucking her until her voice broke and her body clamped down, hot and slick, milking me for more. She came so hard the city itself could’ve burned, and she wouldn’t have noticed. All she felt was me. My cock aches just remembering the image of her wrecked on leather burned so deep I’ll never scrub it out.
Lake Shore Drive opens up like a loaded artery, spitting me out of the choking grid of downtown Chicago and hurling me straight toward the water. Skyscrapers loom in the rearview, jagged teeth fading behind me, while the lake glitters ahead—blue steel stretched wide, endless, like it could swallow the whole goddamn city.
It’s the kind of road that tempts you to sin. Wide lanes, sweeping curves, perfect for a man who needs to bleed speed, who needs to outrun the ghosts clawing at his ribs. Perfect for a man trying—and failing—to leave behind the woman whose scent still clings to his fucking skin.
It’s the moment when I park the car, almost the exact spot where I had her on my bike months ago, that the rage starts to dissipate, slowly morphing into something heavier, like a weight forcing me down into the leather seat, like a hand pushing me further into the darkness. My chest feels like a drum, and the rhythm stirs up flashes of her hands, her lips, her everything.It tastes so bittersweet—like honey laced with acid, burning and blissful at once.
I close my eyes, lean back, letting the memories in. I remember stroking my thumb against her hip, slow, trying to imprint it into my head like my own personal blueprint of her.
“Do you know why I brought you here?”
“To scare the hell out of me on your bike?”
“No.”
I remember stroking my thumb against her hip, slow, trying to imprint it into my head like my own personal blueprint of her.
“This is one of the only places that doesn’t feel like a battlefield. Everywhere else, it’s war. Even when it’s quiet, even when no one’s shooting or killing, I’m still fighting. Watching. Waiting. But here I almost forget what I am.”
A breeze brushed a strand of her hair over her eye, the hazel one that reminded me of amber lit by the sun, and I gently eased it behind her ear.
“And what are you?”
“A product of everything I was born into. Violence. Power. Conflict. It’s all I’ve ever known, Everly.”
There’s a prickle at the back of my eyes as the memory plays like a movie inside my head. While I told her about my dad, how he tried to break and build me into the son he wanted me to be, not once did she look at me like she pitied me. Not once did her gaze falter. Instead, what I saw was a quiet understanding that grasped the words I didn’t show, the pain I didn’t show.
“You’re not just…whatever it is you think you are. Whatever your dad tried to turn you into.”
“You’ve seen pieces of me but not the whole. You don’t want to see the whole.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe that’s why I’m still here—why I haven’t run.”
“You should.”
The words echo back at me, my own voice cracking through memory like a whip, and I feel that same old choke in my chest. Back then, I meant it. I wanted her to run. To save herself from me. From this life. From what I knew I’d become if I let her too close.
But she didn’t. She stayed. She curled her fingers tighter into me, like she could tether me to the world with nothing more than her stubborn heart. And fuck, for a while, it worked. For a while, I almost believed her—the soft way she looked at me, the fire in her voice when she told me I wasn’t just my father’s son. That I wasn’t doomed to be only violence and ruin.
I open my eyes, drag a hand over my face, but it doesn’t erase the way her voice lingers, sticky and sweet, tangled with everything I’m trying not to feel. The lake crashes softly against the rocks nearby, the same rhythm as that night—like the water itself remembers her laughter, remembers her legs wrapped tight around me on that bike, remembers the way she kissed me like she could inhale all my darkness and breathe it back as light.
Now it’s just me. Me and this empty fucking car, and the truth gnawing at my bones. She was never supposed to stay. She should’ve run like I told her. She should’ve saved herself.
I should’ve let her go. But I couldn’t. And, God help me, I still can’t.
With a grunt, I pull out my phone and dial Nicoli’s number.
He answers on the second ring. “What did you do?”
“I had to be there, brother.”
There’s a pause, then, “Fuck, Isaia.”
