Page 14 of The Cost of Silence

She looks at me like she’s trying to understand something, something I’m not ready for her or anyone else to see. The second I heard her scream, every part of me that was grieving woke up hungry, and that unsettles me.

“You followed me. You’ve been watching me,” she whispers.

“Yes.”

No apology. No justification. I’m here because she opened the door, because she came after me and my family. But maybe that’s not the whole truth. I’m not here because she’s a threat to me physically. I’m here because something about her has been crawling under my skin since the second I read her name, and she’s in danger. Following her gave me information, information I need. That’s what I tell myself. Yet the thought of her getting hurt makes me feel psychotic.

I don’t care that she wrote the article, or that she’s a thorn in our side. A man twice her size laid hands on her, and that made this personal. She may be my enemy, but something in me still sees her as mine to protect.

“You had no right.”

“You painted a target on yourself, and I have every right to keep an eye on my enemy.”

“I’m not your enemy.”

“So that article was an attempt at friendship?” I smirk in derision at that.

“I wrote the truth.”

“And nearly died for it.”

Her spine stiffens, defiance, pride, rage, fear, all of it mixing in one beautiful, infuriating line.

Fuck, she’s sexy when she looks like that. Fired up, cheeks pink, eyes blazing instead of flat with fear.

I stand and offer her my hand to help her up. It feels wrong to let her get up alone when she’s in pain. She takes it reluctantly, her fingers gripping mine tight as she rises, a grimace of pain on her face. Her balance wavers, and I catch her waist without thinking.

The contact jolts through me like static. Her warmth. Her softness. The tremble she’s fighting, whether from pain or something more visceral, I don’t quite know. Isabella isn’t someone I can read easily, and that both intrigues and frustrates me.

I release her too fast, watching her stumble slightly before regaining her balance. “Get your things,” I say. “You’re not staying here.”

Her eyes narrow, fire returning. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.” I move to the kitchen, grab a clean towel, run it under cold water. “Pack.”

“You can’t just walk in here and—”

“I just dragged a man off you who was trying to beat you to death. I can do whatever I need to keep you alive.”

“I don’t even know you. Andbeating me to deathis a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

My jaw works once as I move into her space, her body heat burning against my chest. “I don’t do drama, Ms. Romano.” Iwatch the pulse shift in her throat before she shoves me away with little force.

“I hardly know you, and what I do know isn’t exactly good.”

She’s not wrong, although I did just save her ass. She could show a modicum of gratitude. “You know what I want you to know.”

“Yeah, well, that’s more than enough. I don’t want to know more.”

But the truth is, she may not know me, but I feel like I know too much about Isabella Romano. The last twenty-four hours have been an insight I hadn’t anticipated. I notice how she walks too fast when she’s nervous. How she hums when she’s typing on her phone. How she curls her fingers into fists like she’s bracing for bad news. How she helped that old woman in the street yesterday without even thinking.

“You will,” I say. It comes out too rough, too honest.

I hand her the towel. “That should help the swelling.”

She presses it to her cheek, wincing. Her eyes shine, but she forces the tears back, stubborn to the bone. “What do you care?” she whispers.

I stare at the broken glass on her rug, the shattered lamp, the candles lying sideways. Anything but her.