He takes another step, eyes searching my face for something I can’t give. “You want to hate me. I get it. Except you don’t. Not really.”
My throat closes up. I want to scream at him, to claw at his face until I draw blood. “Don’t you dare tell me how I feel.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, watching me struggle to hold myself together. When he finally speaks, his voice is almost gentle. “I never meant for it to be like this.”
Tears sting my eyes, hot and helpless. “You killed my brother and ruined my life,” I choke out, the words slicing the air between us. “You took everything from me. I can’t pretendanymore. I don’t want any of this. Not your house, not your name, not your hands on me. I just want you to let me go.”
He stands there, stone-still, his expression unreadable. I see the flicker of pain, the shadow of guilt, but I don’t care. I want to hurt him. I want him to feel even a fraction of what he’s done to me.
He swallows hard, his voice rough. “Your brother’s death—Enzo’s death—it wasn’t without reason.”
The words hit me like a slap. I shake my head, refusing to hear more. “No. Don’t explain. Don’t justify it. I don’t care why. He’s dead. You’re the reason. That’s all that matters.”
He tries again, softer. “Isabella—”
I’m already backing away, shaking, tears streaking my cheeks. “You don’t matter, Emil. Not anymore. Nothing you say can change what you’ve done.”
I storm out, slamming the door behind me, my heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else. I don’t look back, don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. I run down the hall, up the stairs, to the only place in this house that still feels like mine—the window seat where I used to watch the city and dream of escape.
I press my forehead to the cold glass, sobbing, my whole body shaking with grief and rage and relief.
For the first time since all this began, I don’t want to survive for him, or for revenge, or even for my brother. I want to survive for me. For the girl I was before the blood and the lies, for the woman I still hope I can be.
In the silence that follows, I make myself a promise: I will never let him see me crumble. I will never let him be the reasonI give up. No matter how much I want him, no matter how deep he gets under my skin, I am still my own. I will find a way to be free again, even if it means burning down everything he’s built around me.
Downstairs, I know he’s still standing in that library, jaw clenched, eyes cold and empty. Maybe he’s thinking of Enzo. Maybe he’s thinking of me. I don’t care. For now, I am alone with my pain, my anger, my hope.
***
That night, I can’t sleep. The mansion is quiet. There are no footsteps in the halls, no laughter, no music. Even the guards seem to move more softly, as if my outburst earlier cast a hush over the entire house.
I close my eyes and will myself to rest, but my body betrays me: every muscle is tense, every breath too shallow, every nerve singing with the memory of him.
The sheets are smooth beneath my skin, cool at first, but they grow warm with my restlessness. I turn, once, twice, then bury my face in the pillow and groan in frustration.
It’s no use. I can’t shake the feeling of his hands on me—rough, certain, possessive—the way his mouth claimed me against the wall, the heat of his body pinning me so tightly I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began. Even now, my skin tingles at the memory, my thighs press together, my breath catches in my throat.
I hate him. I do. I hate him for everything, for what he did to Enzo, for tearing me from my family, for making me want him when I know I shouldn’t. I hate the hunger he leaves in me, the ache that won’t go away no matter how hard I fight it. I wantto scrub myself clean, to wash him out of my thoughts, to forget how it felt to come apart in his arms.
My body has learned a new language, one written in bruises and stolen gasps, in the secret heat that coils through me whenever I remember the way he says my name.
I pull the covers up, curling around myself, trying to be small, to disappear.
I can’t escape him. The air in the room is thick, heavy with the scent of him that lingers on my skin and in the pillowcase. My mind drifts back to the way he looked at me, after—eyes dark, mouth set in a line I’d never seen before, as if he were the one who’d been conquered, not me. I remember the press of his lips against my jaw, the soft, dangerous promise in his voice.
A tear slips down my cheek, hot and shameful. I hate that I’m crying for him, for myself, for everything I’ve lost and everything I’m afraid to want. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to chase his memory away.
He returns, again and again—ghost hands tracing the lines of my hips, phantom kisses down my throat, the low growl of his voice at my ear.
I whisper into the darkness, furious and pleading, “I’ll never be yours.” The words sound empty in the quiet room.
Still, my body won’t listen. I can feel myself grow warm, the ache at the center of me sharpening, breath coming faster with every memory I try to smother. It’s humiliating how easily I can be undone by the thought of him. I press my palms to my eyes, fighting the tears, the longing, the pulse of need that’s become my secret curse.
A knock at the door startles me. I stiffen, heart pounding. It’s late, so late that only a fool or a madman would seek me out now.
For a moment, I imagine it’s him, come to claim me again, to tear down the walls I’ve rebuilt in the last few hours. I want to scream, to tell him to go away, to beg him to come in.
The knock doesn’t return. Whoever it was, they’re gone now, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
