Last night I’d spent too long watching Isla sleep. The steady tide of her breathing and the peace of knowing she was safe made way for my first real dose of rest in more than a week.
And while I slept, Eliseo broke into her goddamn apartment and stole her fucking cat.
I uncap the whiskey, pour, and take a hefty swallow.
You’d think the verbal strips I tore from him this morning would keep him in check for years to come. But my baby brother has always been hard to predict, let alone contain.
Was he repentant? No.
Still, he agreed to comply when I issued a text demanding he return Nyra safely home.
Hours dissolve in the burn of whiskey. Each swallow of the seventy-five-thousand-dollar bottle left by my father settles like battery acid in my gut as I wallow in the empire he damned us with.
His will has been a curse. The trust left to me and my brothers an inherited dynasty of power and corruption that I can’t risk anyone finding out about. It’s bad enough that I brought Isla here. That she’s on a yacht that was once his.
“Sir, dinner is almost ready.” Elena’s voice pulls me back to the present. “Shall I serve on the upper deck?”
I nod. Short. Sharp.
She lingers. “Will Ms. Cross be joining you?”
I picture Isla seated at the outdoor setting, surrounded by the sunset glow, hair in the breeze, her all-consuming gaze on me.
It’s better we eat separately.
“Would you like me to ask her?” Elena smiles with the trademark ease that never ceases to put me on edge.
“Fine,” I mutter, the heat of my irritation turning inward for folding so fucking fast.
I pour another drink, sip it slowly, and convince myself Isla won’t join me for a meal after all the shit that’s unfolded. But when I stride up the outdoor stairs to the dining area Elena is setting two places at the table.
“Ms. Cross will be here shortly.” She beams.
I grit my teeth and take a seat, dismissing her with a scowl.
I drain a glass of water. Then another for good measure. Neither does a damn thing to steady the thud of my pulse when Isla steps out onto the deck ten minutes later, still in her tailored skirt and blouse, her hair kissed by the light of the falling sun.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to stay in the cabin or…” She nibbles her bottom lip.
It takes all my fucking goodwill to gesture toward the seat opposite mine. “The formalities are over. As far as I’m concerned you’re a guest.”
She gives me a skeptical look but sits carefully. Guarded.
Elena sweeps back over to offer her wine. Then we’re left alone. Just two people clinging to alcohol like it might rewrite history and erase our sordid mistakes.
Isla sips her French chardonnay, eying my bottle of whiskey. “I guess a stiff drink is called for.”
I raise my tumbler in toast and use the excuse to drown in more liquor, but the stretching quiet is worse than the prospect of discussing our current situation. “Did you speak to Quinn?”
She opens her mouth, pauses, then closes it.
“Is there something I need to worry about?” I grind the words out, more growl than question.
“No.” She winces. “She’s just… hypervigilant. She zeroes in on inconsistencies and has noticed my behavior isn’t tracking.”
“Will she be a problem?”
“No.” Her stare is unflinching. “I told her it’s transitional chaos with the promotion. She’ll believe me soon enough.”
