Page 40 of The Scars We Keep
That fire in her eyes, that refusal to submit, that razor-sharp tongue that gets me hard in a way nothing else does.A woman with no fire is a corpse in silk, and Isabella has never been dead a day in her life.
But this is… different.
This is her taking my men and driving across the city to meet with her father.The same man who has his own agenda and reasons for wanting to know what goes on inside these walls.
The question that’s been eating at me since I found out is: why?
Maybe she wanted to shove my authority down my throat and watch me choke on it.
Or maybe because blood calls to blood, and no matter how much she hates him, he’s still her father.She’s feeding him information.Telling him what I’m doing, where I’m going, who I’m hunting, and if I’ve found Matteo yet.
I know I’ve been different with her since that night in the kitchen.Since I fucked her against the counter and let something slip just enough for her to see underneath, to catch a glimpse of the man instead of the monster.I don’t know what possessed me to show her softness when softness is where men get slaughtered.Soft kings lose kingdoms.Soft men end up in shallow graves with bullets in their skulls.
But when she said she didn’t feel safe in my house, I heard the fear in her voice, and it affected me.I wanted to protect her from this world hurting her the way it’s hurt everyone I’ve ever cared about.
I can’t afford that weakness I have with her.
So I’ve been intentionally distant since then.
I make sure the space between us feels colder than the marble floors beneath her feet.I pretend I don’t notice how she moves or breathes, and I keep my responses short and clipped, giving her nothing to cling to.And I avoid her eyes because if I look too long, she’ll see that I’m not at all who I pretend to be.
I fuck her most nights because I want to.Because my cock has no control when it comes to her, no discipline, no restraint.It wants what it wants, and what it wants is her.That fire.That defiance.The way she fights me, even when she’s underneath me, even when she’s coming apart on my fingers, my tongue, my cock.That’s what makes it the best fuck I’ve ever had.
I have never fallen for anyone.
Women have always been bodies, heat, and distractions.A place to bury my cock when the pressure gets too loud and the ghosts start pacing the halls of my mind.I’ve fucked plenty.Enjoyed it, and forgotten their names by morning.
Then Isabella walked into my damn life, and everything fucking changed.
I hear her in the house, and my pulse changes—quicker, sharper.My attention immediately shifts to her location, like a compass finding north.I catch the sound of her voice when she’s talking to Carlo in the kitchen, and I have to stop myself from following it.From seeking her out just to be near her.
It’s pathetic.It’s dangerous.And I can’t seem to stop it.
Men in my position keep a wife at home and a mistress in the city.They fuck anyone they want and call it their right.But I have no intention of looking elsewhere, because no one else would be her.No one else would claw at my back and bite my shoulder, making me work for every moan, every gasp, every shudder.
Isabella doesn’t bend.
That’s what I love about her and that’s the fucking problem.She defies me in ways that would get anyone else killed.She mouths off when she should shut up, and still breaks into rooms I’ve told her to stay the fuck out of.
I take another drink, slower this time.Let it sit on my tongue before I swallow.Let the anger spread through me evenly, like a clean layer over the uglier stuff underneath.The gnawing question of whether I can trust her at all.
There is movement at the front of the house.Footsteps on stone, muffled but clear.The door opens.My men’s voices reporting in.
I remain seated in the armchair, a glass in one hand, the other resting loosely over the armrest with fingers arranged with practiced ease.
Anyone walking in would assume I’m calm and relaxed.Just a man enjoying a drink after a long day.
Anyone who knows me would know better.
The footsteps get closer.
Isabella’s halfway through the doorway before she sees me, her attention elsewhere, probably still preoccupied with whatever the hell happened at her father’s house.Her hair is pulled back tight, and her lips are painted that bold red I both love and hate because it makes me think about smearing it, about marking her mouth with my thumb, my tongue, my cock.
She falters.It’s just a brief pause in her stride, a split second where her body notices my presence before her mind reacts.But I catch it.
Good.
At least she knows enough to be nervous.
