Chapter 13 Isabella
The warmth of Ice’s body lingers as I lie in the tangled sheets, the remnants of last night’s recklessness still clinging to my skin. I lost count of the number of times he pulled me against him. We made love for hours and hours, yet somehow, I’m not tired. Instead, I’m invigorated. And hungry.
“Blue’s on her way with some clothes for you,” Ice murmurs. His hypnotic eyes hold me captive for just a moment longer before he adds, “I’m gonna grab a quick shower before she gets here.”
“Sounds good,” I reply, my voice softer than I intend. The coolness of the room is beginning to seep into my bones as he disentangles himself from the sheets. He stands next to the bed in all his naked glory. All I can do is stare. He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen, and I can’t believe he wants to protect me. It’s a fantasy come true.
“I told the prospects to let Blue past when she gets here.” He gestures toward the door. “They won’t let anyone through but her, so when she knocks, you can open the door. I’ll be quick.”
“Don’t rush. Have a nice shower.” I crawl to the edge of the bed where he’s standing. After getting on my knees, I reach for him. He leans down to meet me, and I press a tender kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
“You know, it would be a lot more fun if you joined me.” He waggles his eyebrows, making me giggle.
“As much as I’d love to get wet again...” I pause, waiting until his eyes darken with desire, “...let’s not keep breakfast waiting.”
“You could be my breakfast,” he says, splaying his hands across my waist.
“Not enough protein,” I tease, giving him a playful shove.
His laughter follows him into the bathroom. Once he’s gone, I’m left alone in the silent motel room. Outside, I can hear men from the club splashing around in the pool. It’s far too early for a party, but maybe they never went to sleep. I’m still not entirely sure what everyone’s roles are and how the club works. Finding out more is high on my agenda for today.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I slide off the bed, suddenly self-conscious about the mess in the room. When I open the door, a prospect, young and eager, nods at me with respect that feels unearned.
“Isabella, this is Blue,” he says, stepping aside.
Blue sweeps in like a cool breeze, all grace and poise. She’s effortlessly beautiful, one of those untouchable women who command attention without trying. She’s carrying an armful of bags, and as she sets them down on the rumpled bed, I wince inwardly, wishing I’d made it.
“Hey,” I greet her, trying to ignore how domestic this all seems.
“Morning, Isabella,” Blue replies, her voice bright as she begins to unpack. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine.” I rub my hand across my shoulder. “What’s all this?”
“Just enough to get you started,” she says, still unloading the giant haul.
Clothes spill out onto the bed. Jeans, shirts, even a new bra and panty set. I blink in surprise, a small laugh escaping my lips. “You didn’t have to bring so much.”
“This isn’t even enough for a week. Besides, as cute as you are, we can’t have you parading around in Ice’s t-shirts all week.”
I glance down at the helm of the shirt and tug it lower. Sifting through the pants, I’m shocked that everything should fit. “How’d you know my size?”
“Got all the details from Ice,” Blue responds with a knowing smile.
Heat crawls up my cheeks. Ice is always one step ahead.
“Thank you,” I say, genuine gratitude mixing with the odd vulnerability that comes from accepting help. The world of the MC is still new to me, but their loyalty seems to run deep. Now that Ice has me under their protection, I feel safer than I’ve ever felt in my life. It’s a level of comfort I didn’t realize I was craving.
“Anytime you need anything, let Ice know and we’ll make it happen.” There’s a note of solidarity in her words, making me feel like I’m already a part of their tribe. That’s what the club feels like, one big happy family.
I finger through the options, selecting an outfit. The jeans are buttery soft, as if they’ve been broken in already, but they’re brand new. The tags are still on them. I also grab a flowing, colorful top that looks like an abstract watercolor. It’s gorgeous and looks incredibly comfortable.
“This should work,” I say, setting the clothes aside. I add a deep blue satin bra and panty set to the small pile.
“You don’t have to pick one thing. This is all yours,” Blue says, grinning.
“That’s… It’s really generous, and I appreciate all this, but I can’t take everything. I can pay you back when I’m able to work again.”
Blue shakes her head, a cascade of coppery waves shimmering in the morning light filtering through the curtains. “Don’t worry about it, hon. All these are for you. It’s how we roll here. We’ve got each other’s backs.”
I pause, struck by her generosity. “That’s really kind of you. Thank you.” It’s not just the clothes, it’s the acceptance, and the sense of belonging that comes with them.
“Of course,” she says, glancing at her watch, a hint of anxiety flickering across her emerald eyes. “I’ve got to run. Doctor’s appointment.”
“Everything okay?” Concern edges my voice as I catch the undercurrent of her nerves.
“I hope so. This is my first baby.” She rubs her belly, a protective gesture that speaks volumes. “It feels more real every day.”
“First baby? Congratulations!” A smile tugs at my lips.
“Thank you. I just hope the morning sickness ends before I go into my second trimester. It’s gross and I’m completely over it at this point.” She rolls her eyes.
“My abuela knew heaps about herbs for mothers-to-be. I can send you a list of some herbs she used to steep in teas if you’d like?”
“Really?” Blue’s expression brightens. “I would love that.”
We exchange numbers, and she promises to keep me updated on how her appointment went.
“I’ll text you the list later,” I assure her as she heads for the door.
“Thank you,” she calls over her shoulder. Then she’s gone, leaving a lingering scent of honey in her wake.
Alone now, I feel the weight of the MC’s camaraderie wrap around me like a well-worn leather jacket—comforting, protective. I may have been born into a world of ruthless cartel dealings, but here, in this new brotherhood, I find an unexpected kinship. The simple act of dressing in these clothes makes me like I’m a part of something bigger than me, something fierce and unyielding.
I slide into the chosen jeans, the fabric hugging my curves like it’s tailor-made. The soft cotton of the flowing shirt whispers across my skin as I pull it over my head. I fold the rest of the clothes and place as much as I can fit in one of the empty dresser drawers. Before I close it, I gaze at the array of colors and textures. There’s no place to put all the other bags, so I stack them on top of the dresser. It all seems too extravagant for just one person, but I’m grateful. Somehow, I’ll find a way to pay Blue back.
The sound of running water stops, and moments later Ice emerges from the bathroom. Water droplets glisten on his skin, trailing down from his hair to bead on his shoulders. The towel sits low on his hips, a dangerous distraction. My eyes linger longer than necessary, tracing the lines of ink across his torso.
“God, I could eat you up instead of going out,” I tease, my voice huskier than expected.
He chuckles, a deep rumble that resonates through the small motel room. “As tempting as that sounds, Bella, I’m starving. Last night’s workout has me famished.”
His words bring a flush to my cheeks as memories of our entwined bodies flood back into my mind. But hunger—real, gnawing hunger—reminds me that food is indeed necessary.
“Then let’s not waste any more time,” I reply, pulling on a pair of boots Blue thoughtfully included.
The NOLA morning air greets us with its signature blend of jazz and jasmine as Ice drives me to one of his favorite hideaways. It’s a quaint café nestled between the vibrancy of the French Quarter and the hushed whispers of the Garden District. We weave through the labyrinth of cobblestone streets until we reach the unassuming entrance, guarded by nothing but a faded sign and a few potted plants.
Inside, the courtyard is a hidden sanctuary. Greenery cascades from wrought-iron balconies while the trickle of a fountain plays a soothing counterpoint to the distant city hum. Ice picks a table in the corner, strategic and secluded. From here, he can watch the entrance without making it obvious. I’m impressed by his protective reflexes. It all seems to come naturally to him.
“Nice choice,” I murmur, sliding into the chair opposite him. Scanning the menu, I spot the perfect New Orleans breakfast.
“Find something good?” he asks.
“Beignets with pralines and pecans,” I say, my mouth already watering. “What are you having?”
“Shrimp and grits with chicory coffee.”
“Really?” I scrunch my nose slightly at his mention of grits.
“Not a fan?”
“Reminds me too much of atole .”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a corn-based beverage thickened with masa, which is ground corn treated with lime. Usually, you’d add spices and sugar to it, but no amount of sweetening could ever make me like it. My abuela used to make it. Her atole was supposed to be the best in Mexico, but I never developed a taste for it. Grits are thicker and heartier, but still, not my thing.”
“Everything here has a little extra soul in it.”
“A little too much soul, if you ask me,” I grumble.
After ordering, we fall into a comfortable silence. Birds chirp from their nests in the hanging baskets of flowers. The blue sky overhead is filled with puffy white clouds. It’s the perfect day to spend with someone you care about.
The waitress returns with our meals. My beignets take center stage, served hot and golden, buried under a generous snowfall of powdered sugar that leaves my fingertips deliciously sticky. Accompanying the iconic pastries is a creamy praline spread, rich with caramelized pecans, perfect for smearing on toast or croissants or a man.
I smile wickedly.
“What’s that about?” Ice asks before spooning grits into his mouth.
“Nothing.” I grin as I take a sip of creamy café au lait. “I haven’t had a breakfast this indulgent in a long time. Not since my abuela was alive.”
“Tell me about her. What was it like growing up in Mexico? You mentioned your abuela’s atole , but what else do you remember?”
I lean back in my chair, the wrought iron cool against my skin. “Mexico is always alive with color, sound, and energy,” I begin, my mind drifting back to the cobblestone streets of my hometown. “My abuela , Valentina, was the heart of the small town. She knew everyone, and on Sundays, her kitchen became the town’s gathering spot.”
“Did she serve family meals?” Ice asks, his curiosity genuine, eyes softening at the edges.
“More like feasts,” I laugh, remembering the spread of food that seemed endless. “ Mole rojo that simmered for hours, fresh tortillas, and tamales wrapped in banana leaves. The flavors were as bold as the stories shared around the table.”
He nods, taking in my words. The warmth in his eyes makes my heart melt. I wish he could have met my grandmother. She would’ve loved him.
“Speaking of my abuela , do you still have her watch?” I ask, shifting in my seat.
“Her watch?”
“The one she gave me. I lost it that night we…” I trail off as I give him a knowing smile.
Ice’s expression shifts, a hint of guilt crossing his features. “Yeah, about that… I took it to an antique specialist’s shop.”
“Why?” My voice is sharper. My heart hitches at the thought of losing one of the last pieces of Valentina I have left.
“I wanted to know who bought it for you.”
“Why? Trying to find out if I had another admirer?” I tease, trying to mask the worry snaking through my veins.
Ice snorts, but there’s a glint of something in his eye. “Just digging for clues, Bella. That’s all.”
I study him, the hard lines of his face that soften just for me, and I realize I’m not just forgiving him. I’m trusting him, too. “Just make sure you get it back. That watch is the only thing I have from her.” My fingertips play with the edges of the paper napkin, twisting it as Ice’s gaze holds mine.
“I’ll get it back to you, promise,” he assures me, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “Tell me more about your life. When did you leave Mexico for the States?”
I draw in a deep breath, feeling the weight of memories press against my chest. “I was sixteen. It happened because I started seeing a guy, Gael. His dad was with the Policía Federal.”
“That had to be a huge problem for a cartel family.” Ice leans forward, his interest piqued.
“Biggest one you could have.” My laugh is humorless. “My abuelo Diego ran things back then. Having any connection to cops was inviting trouble. My grandfather wouldn’t stand for it.”
“What was he like? Diego.”
“Charming and ruthless in equal measure,” I say, thinking back. “People either loved him or feared him. Often both. When he found out about my secret relationship with Gael, he promoted my father to lead the NOLA branch of the cartel. We moved to the U.S. within days.”
“Your father jumped at the chance.”
“Exactly. Antonio didn’t care about anything but money and power. That seems to run in the family. He expanded operations in New Orleans. But five years ago…” My voice trails off. Even though I hated moving away from Gael and my grandmother, Antonio was still my father. The pain never really dulls.
“Shot by a rival cartel,” Ice finishes for me, his tone solemn.
“Juan stepped up to take his place.” I can’t hide the bitterness that creeps into my voice. “He’s been running the show ever since.”
“I was thinking… did Antonio set up shell companies here?” Ice’s question is sharp, cutting through my moment of grief.
“Maybe.” I shrug, not wanting to think about the business side of my father’s life. “I never paid much attention to any of it. I was too busy being angry about leaving Gael behind.”
“Did you ever try to reach out to Gael after you moved?”
“Once.” My heart aches with the memory. “Found out he’d married someone else. They were expecting a kid. That’s when I knew it was over.”
“Have you had any other serious relationships since then?”
I shake my head, the answer clear and simple. “No. Never found anyone worth the time.” I pause, my gaze locked with his. “Until now.”
The words hang in the air, charged with something new, something electric. Ice leans across the table, and without another word, his lips meet mine. In this moment, with his taste on my lips, the past doesn’t seem quite so bad, and the future doesn’t look so bleak.
Our breakfast plates sit forgotten, the last remnants of grits and eggs growing cold as the morning air shifts around us.
“I’m gonna have Fang look into your father’s real estate holdings.” Ice leans back in his chair, arms folded, the picture of calm calculation.
My stomach knots. I can’t imagine there being anything left behind, any clue that would lead us to the kids. “My father was meticulous. He wouldn’t have left a trail. He had to be perfect, you know? To make my grandfather proud.”
Ice nods, his expression unreadable. There’s a flicker in his eyes, though—a look that tells me he won’t let this go, not until every stone is turned.
“Would you ever go back?” he asks. “To Mexico?”
“No.” The word tastes bitter on my tongue. “After my abuela passed, I went home for her funeral. It felt like walking through a ghost town.” My hands fold into tight fists on the table. “New Orleans is my home now. But if Juan finds out about us…” I glance at Ice, watching his jaw set with resolve.
“Whatever happens, Bella,” he says, his voice firm but soothing, “I’ll make sure you have a safe place. You’re not facing this alone.”
I nod, holding back tears. His promise wraps around me like a lifeline—solid, unwavering, the one thing keeping me from sinking.
My phone vibrates against the wrought iron table, a sharp buzz that slices through the murmur of the café and the distant hum of New Orleans waking up. My hand trembles as I pick it up, the screen lighting up with Juan’s name like a beacon of dread.
“ Sigues siendo una puta. Ahora estás muerta para mí ,” the message reads, each word a stab to my chest. I can’t help but glance at the door, half-expecting Juan’s shadow to loom there, his wrath made flesh.
“What is it?” Ice asks.
“Juan. He says—I’m still a whore and now I’m dead to him.” The words come out strangled. Ice’s silver-blue eyes lock onto mine, a storm brewing as he absorbs the venom of my brother’s words.
“Bella, look at me.” His command is gentle, so I comply. “You’re under my protection. He won’t touch you.”
“He’ll try,” I say, knowing Ice means well, but even fortresses can be besieged.
“We can’t take chances out in public right now,” he continues, his tone low but firm. “And we need to sort out your phone situation. Juan might be tracking it.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “I thought of that already. Installed software to alert me if he tries.” Paranoia has a way of making you resourceful.
Ice nods, but his expression tells me he’s not satisfied. “We’ll go see Fang. He’ll make sure you’re clean, no tails, digital or otherwise.”
“Okay,” I agree, though my mind races with what-ifs and maybes. The café’s cute courtyard feels suddenly claustrophobic, the wrought iron now resembling prison bars rather than decorative swirls.
“Let’s finish up here,” Ice says, standing to throw on his leather jacket, the one that molds to his body like a second skin. “While Fang does techie stuff, we’ll plan our next move.”
“Okay.”
The weight of Juan’s threat lingers, heavy as the humid air around us. But as I climb onto the back of Ice’s bike, I find the strength I need to push back the shadows. I cling to Ice with the hope that somehow, we’ll navigate this storm together.