"I understand that you're trying to protect us. That this is the only way you see." She pauses, her thumb stroking across my hand. "I don't like it. But I understand it."
I turn my head and kiss her palm.
"We should tell Elena in the morning," Isabella says quietly. "At breakfast. Tell her you're going on a work trip."
"A work trip," I repeat. The lie tastes bitter.
"She's three. She doesn't need to know that her—" Isabella stops, swallows. "That you might not come back."
Her father. She almost said her father. Because that's what Elena calls me now. What she thinks I am.
"Okay," I say. "We'll tell her together. In the morning."
We're both quiet for a moment, the weight of tomorrow pressing down on us. Then Isabella shifts over on the bed, pulling back the covers.
"Come here," she says softly.
I strip down to just my boxer briefs and climb in beside her. She's wearing a thin nightgown, and when I pull her against me, I can feel every curve of her body. I've held her like this dozens of times over the past few weeks. But this is different.
This might be the last time.
"Isabella." My voice is rough. "I need—"
Her hands are already on me, sliding up my chest, around my neck. "I need you too."
When she kisses me, it's nothing like our usual goodnight kisses. This is desperate. Hungry. Like we're both trying to pour everything we can't say into the contact of lips and tongues and teeth.
I respond with the same desperation, rolling to pin her beneath me. She makes a small sound—need and want and goodbye all mixed together.
"Lupo." She's breathing hard, her pupils blown wide. "Don't hold back. Not tonight."
"Isabella—"
"I mean it." Her hands go to my shoulders, her nails digging in. "I need to feel this. Feel you. I need—" Her voice breaks slightly. "I need to remember everything about you."
The words demolish what little control I have left. I capture her mouth again, kissing her hard enough to bruise. My hands find the hem of her nightgown and I pull it up, over her head, toss it aside. She's bare beneath me now, all smooth skin and soft curves.
"I can never get enough of you," I murmur against her throat.
Her hands are urgent now, pushing at my boxer briefs. "Stop talking."
I strip them off and then there's nothing between us. Just skin and heat.
My mouth finds her throat, her collarbone, the soft swell of her breast. She arches into me, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
I work my way down her body—kissing, tasting, memorizing. The curve of her waist. The hollow of her hip. The soft skin of her inner thigh.
When my mouth finally finds her center, she gasps, her hands flying to my hair. I work her with my tongue, with my lips, now knowing what makes her moan, what makes her shake, what makes her whisper my name.
She comes apart beneath me, her thighs trembling, and I drink down every sound she makes. But it's not enough. I need more. Need everything.
I kiss my way back up her body and she pulls me into a kiss. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer.
"Please," she whispers against my mouth.
I reach between us, line myself up, and then I'm pushing inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust. She's tight and hot and perfect, and the sensation steals my breath.
For a moment we just stay there, connected, breathing each other's air. Her eyes are locked on mine, and I see everything in them—fear and need and something deeper that neither of us can name.
