Page 50 of Unleashed
Her expression softens, lashes fluttering. She squeezes my hand, then reaches for my stomach without asking. Her palm rests gently against me, reverent, protective. “Strong?”
“Strong,” I whisper, and for a second, the ache inside me eases.
“That’s good,” she says softly. “So, why do you look like you've just walked through a hailstorm without an umbrella?”
At first I don’t speak. How can I form a single coherent sentence when his name is playing on repeat in my thoughts?Isaia. Isaia. Isaia.
“Either you're going to tell me what happened, or I'm getting the pint of Häagen-Dazs from the back of the freezer. The one with the brownie chunks I've been saving for a catastrophe.”
That earns her a broken laugh out of me, and she beams like she just scored a win. That’s Molly—knows when to joke, when to press, when to sit quiet.
“He was there,” I finally say, my voice no louder than a whisper.
“Isaia? He was there?”
I nod.
“He was there for the sonogram?”
“No.” I wipe a strand of hair out of my face. “He…um…when I got on the elevator, he was…” I’m still dazed. Confused.
“He was what? Everly, girl? Are you having a stroke right now?”
“He was in the elevator with me. And he…told me I’m still his.” My palm rests on my lower belly. “Said we both are.”
Her eyes widen, then narrow, her mouth falling open before she snaps it shut again. “Hold up. Back up.Rewind.”She picks up the nail polish. “You’re telling me Isaia—six-foot-something, storm-cloud-in-a-leather-jacket Isaia—was in the goddamn elevator with you, and instead of, I don’t know, asking how you’re doing or apologizing for being an ass, he just… laid claim like you were a handbag?”
“Molly…” I rub my forehead, because hearing it out loud makes it sound ridiculous, insane—but it didn’t feel that way. Not in the moment.
“No, no, no.” She waves the nail polish brush at me like it’s a gavel. “You don’t just casually drop‘oh hey, the man who wrecked me and ghosted me after I forgave him for murder and kidnapping showed up in an elevator and told me I’m his’like it’s Tuesday gossip. You gotta give me details. Start to finish. What did he do? Where did his hands go?”
“Molly!” I choke, face burning hot.
She smirks, but the softness in her eyes doesn’t falter. “I’m serious, babe. Because you look like someone just spun you around, kissed your soul, and then vanished. And if that’s what happened…well, no wonder you look like you’ve been struck by lightning.”
I press my palms over my eyes, heart pounding. Lightning. That’s exactly what it felt like. His breath, his touch, his voice—it seared through me, leaving nothing but fire in its wake.
When I drop my hands, Molly’s watching me, expression sharper now. Fierce. Protective. “So…what do you want to do about it?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she says slowly, leaning in, “do you want him back? Or do you want to set him on fire and watch him roast? Because either way, I’m here. With ice cream. Or matches.”
That makes me laugh, but it cracks in the middle, collapsing under the ache in my chest. “I don’t know what I want. I just know that when he touched me…” My voice falters, shame and longing warring inside me. “I felt like I had been holding my breath for weeks and could finally breathe right.”
Molly doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t judge. She just stares at me like she knows what I’ve known all along yet refused to admit. I am his. She knows it. He knows it. I know it.
Molly suddenly pats my shoulder and springs up. “All right. You look like you’re about to unravel, and that means two things. Carbs and trash TV.”
I blink at her. “Carbs?”
She’s already striding toward the kitchen, her oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder. “Yes. Carbs. The universal cure for heartbreak, stress, and growing small humans. Sit tight.”
I half-smile despite the heaviness in my chest, watching as she yanks open the fridge and starts rummaging. A second later, she pulls out leftover pasta, sets it on the counter, and flicks the stove on. “Don’t give me that look,” she calls over her shoulder. “Yes, I’m reheating. No, I will not apologize. Pregnant womenneed fuel. And I refuse to let you wither away on tea and crackers.”
“I miss coffee.”
“Once that baby’s done incubating, we’ll drown you in French roast. Until then, it’s tea since you refuse to drink decaf.”
