I feel it before I hear it—the presence of someone else in my room. It’s dark, so I can barely see anything, but my gun is in my bedroom drawer by the bed.
Slowly and carefully, so I don’t make a sound and scare them into running away before I can make good use of the gun, I retrieve it.
If I’m shooting, I don’t intend to miss.
What do they want?
Isabella. My heart lurches. Is there more than one of them? I can’t think about how they got in. I need to make sure she’s safe.
But something about the intruder, as they approach the bed, makes my brows furrow. The smell of alcohol is heavy, yet something underneath…floral and intimate, masks the threat.
I wait, poised for them to come closer.
In one swift motion, I clamp my hand over their mouth and shove the cold barrel of the gun to their forehead. “Don’t make a sound,” I growl, low and lethal. “Don’t make a fucking sound.”
A muffled gasp. I inhale again.
Goddamn it.
The scent hits me fully now. Skin-warm perfume and something faintly sweet, like the lotion she always wears after a shower. I glance down, narrowing my eyes as the darkness shifts. A sliver of light from the hallway sneaks through the crack beneath the door, just enough to cut a line across her cheek.
Long lashes. Soft lips.
Isabella.
Fuck.
I slowly peel my hand away, the gun lowering with it as disbelief knots in my chest. “What the hell are you doing?” I whisper, more to myself than her.
“Roman?” Her eyes are wide like saucers. “Roman?”
I groan, rolling off her and stashing the gun again. I get out of bed, flicking the light switch and flooding the room. She’s in the middle of my bed, wearing the skimpiest dress known to man. Her hair is tousled, and her skin is flushed.
She scurries into a sitting position as the shock wears off, but it only makes the dress hitch higher, showing off her thighs and a peek of her panties.
God. One minute ago, I thought I was going to make an example out of someone, and now I’m thinking about sex.
“What are you doing here?” Isabella demands, folding her arms. “Why are you in my bedroom?”
A short, dry laugh slips past my lips as I shake my head. “What am I doing here? Your bedroom?”
She nods. “Yes. My—” Her gaze sweeps across the room, probably to ascertain dominance, and I watch her expression falter when she realizes she’s in the wrong. “This is your bedroom.”
I nod. “Yeah. It is.”
“Oh shit. Oh shit.” As she tries to scramble off the bed, her foot snags the covers, and she ends up toppling to the floor and dragging the covers with her. Sheets. Isabella. On the floor. I shake my head, sighing in disbelief as I walk over to assess her situation.
She’s crumpled by the side of the bed, half buried. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, lowering her gaze. “I’m going to get up and allow you to go back to sleep.”
Crouching, I wait in silence until she lifts her head, meeting her gaze with a sterner version of mine. “How drunk are you, Isabella?”
Guilt flashes in her eyes, with a nervous lip bite before she shakes her head vehemently. “I’m not drunk. Why would I be drunk?”
I’m not sure which I find more endearing, her ability to lie when she reeks of alcohol or the fact that she’s lying to my face.
“You went out with Leo, didn’t you?”
Her lips press into a tight, bitter line. “How did you know?” she snaps. “Did you have him spy on me? Of course you did.” She scoffs, arms crossing tightly over her chest. “That’s why he’s been hovering. That’s why he returned today after you both vanished like ghosts. You’ve been spying on me.”
“If you’re trying to change the subject, printsessa,” I murmur, the word slipping out as I lean close enough to feel her breath on my face, “it’s not working. I don’t need to spy to know what you’ve been up to. You reek of alcohol.”
And she looks like a vivid picture—flushed cheeks, tousled hair, legs for days. She might be a hot, angry mess, but I’d be lying if I said part of me didn’t want to back her against the wall and kiss the venom off her tongue.
At least now I know she didn’t spend the night in another man’s arms. That knowledge alone settles something inside me. Something I didn’t even realize was clawing at me.
She lifts a part of her dress to her nose and gags. “Ugh.”
“See?” I gesture, a dry smile tugging at my lips.
Isabella shrugs, eyes meeting mine with a fire that’s anything but apologetic. “That’s what happens when you have fun,” she spits out. “I had fun. Sue me.”
That’s the story we’re telling now?
She uses the bed to lift herself off the floor, wobbling slightly before catching herself and straightening with that same stubborn fire.
Her hands thrust onto her hips, and her chin lifts in challenge. “You’ve been gone for weeks, Roman. No calls, no texts. Just disappeared, forgetting that you have a captive wife. Forgive me for thinking I deserved one night to pretend I still have a life that doesn’t revolve around my husband.”
“I’m not judging, Isabella.”
“Really?” she bites out, voice splintering. “Because it sure as hell sounds like judgment to me.” Then, softer, as she looks away, “But whatever. I’m tired. I’m sticky. And if you don’t mind, I’m going to take the hottest shower known to man and pretend this conversation never happened.”
“No.”
She turns sharply, her nose scrunching and her brows drawn. “No?”
I nod. “No. You’re going to spend the night here. You can use my bathroom, and I’ll give you clothes to wear.”
Her lashes flutter for a couple seconds in utter confusion, then she clicks her tongue. “I see. You’re trying to get me to sleep with you, aren’t you? This is about the heir thing Leo was talking about. No way.” Isabella shakes her head. “No freaking way. I’m not letting you put a baby in me, Roman.”
I wasn’t thinking about a baby. Or sex, either. Okay, maybe I was thinking about getting her naked, on her knees, her back arched, and her whimpers louder than the walls can carry, but not when I offered the bathroom.
Now…it’s the only thing I can think about.
How easy it’d be to get the dress off her. To slip my hands under it and trail my fingers over her thighs until they end up buried somewhere wet. Warm. Tight.
And if I end up putting a baby in her…it wouldn’t be the worst thing. A vivid image of Isabella, round and mouthy, fills my head.
I shove it out. “Bathroom.” I point. “Now. I’m not going to risk you tumbling down those stairs.”
She folds her arms and plants her feet squarely. “I’m not drunk.”
I raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That’s exactly what drunk people say.”
“And if I don’t want to?” she challenges.
I step closer, close enough to feel the tremble in her breath. “Then you’ll make me carry you. And I don’t think you want that. It might end up exactly how you’ve described it.”
As she marches to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her, I wreck my hair by dragging my fingers through until I can feel my scalp. It’s been a rough couple weeks.
Leaving the house wasn’t because I wanted to get away from Isabella. After the conversation with Leo and the stab of mercy I felt for Marco after finding Isabella outside the kitchen, I knew I had to end things fast.
I couldn’t let myself be weak to the point where I couldn’t avenge my father. One day turned into two. Two to three, and it grew from there. I couldn’t have put her out of my head if I tried, but it was also the reason I didn’t call.
She’s my weakness. A terrible, dangerous weakness that makes me want to keep her safe from everything that might hurt her…including me.
Sighing, I pick up the sheets from the floor and climb into bed, pulling them up to my shoulders and turning to the wall.
Isabella. I get out of bed, rummaging through my closet for a shirt big enough for her to wear, and drape it on the chair.
In bed again, I close my eyes, shutting my thoughts to the sound of water running in the bathroom.
It’s a soothing sound—too soothing. It shouldn’t make me imagine her under the stream, droplets rolling down her back, the scent of my bodywash mixing with steam and sinking into her skin.
I grip the sheets tighter.
She’ll leave, I tell myself. She’ll step out and go to her room when she’s done because the last place she wants to be is in bed with me.
Minutes pass, and I hear the door open. Footsteps pad on the floor, and my ears perk up, waiting to hear them walk to the door. Instead, I hear the rustling of clothes and then feel the bed dip gently.
She didn’t leave.
Why? Time and again, Isabella’s made it clear how much she doesn’t want me. How much she would rather be free of me. Why would she choose to remain here of her own free will?
She’s so close too.
I can feel the part of the bed where her body takes up space. It’s mere inches behind me, and all it would take is a turn. The shirt wouldn’t stand a chance. Knowing that, I shut my eyes even tighter, forcing my body to focus on sleep.
“Roman?”
No.
“Roman?” she whispers. “You’re probably sleeping, but if you’re not, thank you for not shooting me.”
That’s it? That’s what she’s thankful for? Just when I think I have her all figured out, she goes and surprises me.
“I don’t think I’d like a bullet through my head. Not that it’d matter if I died.”
My chest rumbles with a chuckle, but I still say nothing.
“Would you have shot me, though?” she persists. “If I’d come in smelling like something foul and you didn’t realize it was me, would you have killed me? …Roman?”
I turn so fast she doesn’t register it until her hands are pinned over her head, and I’m staring down at her, my body partially covering hers. “You weren’t stealthy, to begin with,” I drawl, my voice dragging in a rasp. “But even if you smelled like filth—” I let one hand go, holding her wrists with the other.
My finger trails down the side of her face, and I feel a slight tremor run down her spine. “I would’ve known it was you. Your skin…” I murmur the words in her ear. “It hasn’t seen a day of hardship, my darling Isabella.”
“You’re making fun of me,” she whispers.
“Fun?” I lift my head, gazing into her eyes. “No. If you’d been an intruder—” My hand drifts lower, fingers grazing her collarbone. “Your body wouldn’t have responded the way it is now.”
“It’s not responding to anything,” she argues, but her words have no weight.
My mouth lifts in a smile. “Really?” Splaying my palm over her chest, I cup her breast, teasing her nipple between my thumb and index finger. She gasps as her back arches off the bed.
Realizing her mistake, she pulls at her hands—to cover her mouth, no doubt. Her struggle is useless, and my palm drifts to her other breast, cupping and squeezing lightly. Her eyes roll back as she bites down hard on her lip. It only urges me on, to the hem of the shirt and under it.
“Fine!” she exclaims as I hover over her inner thighs. “You win.”
Win? I stopped playing her game the moment I touched her. This—this is more. “What do I win, Bella?” I whisper as my head tilts and my lips graze her neck. She whimpers, then curses under her breath, chastening herself.
“The argument,” she replies. She chokes on the words and the rest tumble over one another. “The argument. You win. You’re smarter than I am. You know me better than I know myself. Can you please let me go now?”
“You could’ve let me sleep,” I say.
“God forbid a woman wants to be thankful that she didn’t die.”
That gets me. I lift my head as my brows furrow. “What?”
“What?” she repeats.
I shake my head as I roll off. “You’re something, Isabella.”
Thanking me because I didn’t kill her? I thought she’d have a sharp remark with reference to how I kidnapped her from her wedding, forced her to marry me, and made several comments about killing her father.
The last thing I expected was gratitude.
“I don’t think it should be weird that I don’t want to die,” she mutters. “I’m not my father, if you haven’t gotten the memo.”
True.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I tossed her over my shoulder, carrying her screaming out of the cathedral, it’s that Isabella isn’t Marco. She’s strong, fierce, frighteningly brazen, but nothing like him.
It should be a comforting thought, knowing that she’s less likely to stab me in the back.
Why then…does it bother me so much?
When I wake the next morning, she’s still curled up in my bed, fast asleep.
One arm is flung above her head, the other curled to her chest. One knee is bent awkwardly, sticking out from the sheets in what might be the strangest—and somehow still endearing—sleeping position I’ve ever seen.
Her lips are parted, breath soft and even, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. My gaze lingers longer than it should as I remember last night.
I came close. Close to breaking the wall I crafted over days.
Carefully, I peel myself away, lifting the sheet and sliding out of bed with practiced quiet. Once I’m out, I crack the door open and step into the hallway, only to find Leo leaning casually against the opposite wall, arms crossed, ankles lazily stacked.
“What are you doing here this early?” I ask, my voice a low growl.
He waves like we’re old friends at brunch. “Good morning to you too, sunshine. I came to check on Isabella. Wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”
I arch a brow, sliding my hands into my pockets as I walk toward him. “So soon?”
He nods, smiling like a man who knows exactly what button to push. “Yeah. You know…the whole self-denial arc? ‘I don’t have feelings for my wife. I’m just keeping her here for leverage.’ That bit? I was wondering how long that performance would last.”
I exhale through my nose, calm but cold. “And so you took her to the club,” I counter smoothly, “without telling me.”
Leo shrugs, his smirk unwavering. “She needed to let loose. Blow off steam. I didn’t plan for her to get wasted, but I wasn’t about to lecture her, either. It’s not my fault you ditched her mid-storm. You should’ve thought about that before you took your little sabbatical.”
I tilt my head. “Is this a confrontation?”
He shakes his head with exaggerated innocence. “Nah. I know how your brain works. So, I’m answering the questions before you ask them. Where did she go? Why was she drunk? Why didn’t I call you? All that.” He grins. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see her come in last night?”
My jaw tightens.
“Where’s Isabella?” he asks.
I shoot a glance over my shoulder, a deflection that he doesn’t miss. When I turn, Leo’s grin widens. I start to defend myself, but I don’t get the chance because the door creaks open behind me, and the truth walks out.
Barefoot, with tousled hair and wearing my shirt, Isabella enters the hallway. Sleepy, blinking hard at the light, and completely oblivious to the world.
“Leo?” she murmurs. Her voice is rough with sleep, eyes squinting. “Hi!”
The smug silence that follows is deafening. Leo looks past me, then back at me, practically glowing. I don’t bother turning around. I already know what he sees.
And I hate that I want to see it too.
