Page 4 of Accidental Alliance

It is a bone-deep hunger that gnaws at me day and night. My hands itch to touch her.

Not to hurt her, but because I want to drag her out of this room, out of the reach of every gaze lingering too long, out from under her father’s umbrella, out of the game she was born into before it finishes swallowing her whole, and pin her to the nearest surface so I can rip that soft cream fabric off her and see whether she would still look so composed with my hands on her body and my name in her mouth.

Isabella is far too smart to have missed what happens to me when she is near.

Maybe not fully, because I would rather cut off my own hand than let anyone witness me stripped that bare, but enough to know she affects me.

I think some part of her likes knowing.

Because if she truly understands the effect she has on me, then every dress becomes a provocation disguised as elegance, a private message passed across a crowded room with no one else aware a conversation is even taking place.

It means this is no longer one-sided torment, no longer just me standing in the dark wanting what I should never touch.

It means she has been standing in the fire too.

That thought makes my jaw tighten.

All I can think about is ruin—not hers but mine. That is the sickness that lives within me, the contradiction I can’t help but want and crave. It is my one fatal flaw.

I watch as Amos Russo’s arm drapes across her shoulders in a gesture that would look paternal to anyone watching casually, but I know better than to mistake possession for tenderness in rooms like this one.

A man like Amos does very little without purpose.

Even affection becomes strategy when hoarding power is the family business.

He keeps her close, not only because she is his daughter, but because she is valuable.

She is beautiful, well-bred, clever enough to be useful, and young enough to still be placed where she can strengthen political ties, repair alliances, or settle debts dressed up as marriage.

The thought blackens my mood instantly.

At nineteen, she should not be here.

She is too young, too bright for the rot wandering around on the marble floors and under the glittering chandeliers.

These halls do not preserve innocence. They stain it, feed on it, and Isabella, for all her intelligence, still carries something in her that has not yet been fully corrupted.

I do not know whether that makes me want to protect it or possess her before someone crueler gets the chance to.

Maybe both.

Then, as if she feels the weight of my stare, her gaze shifts and finds mine.

Something dark and hot unfurls in my chest. It spreads slowly like ink dropped into water.

Around everyone else, desire is simple, a bodily urge with an expiration date. Around her, it becomes something with teeth that sinks in deep and refuses to let go.

Suddenly, I am no longer the city’s most feared weapon, no longer the underboss to one of the most dangerous families on this coast.

For one single moment, I am simply a man standing in the dark wanting something he should never touch.

And worse than the wanting is the waiting. Because that is what this has become between us, hasn’t it?

A long, silent war of glances and restraint.

A series of half-seconds stretched into hours-long torture as I wait for her to look at me.

Waiting for the slightest invitation I can pretend is enough of an excuse to take what I want.