Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Knox
Rain drums against the roof of the Bentley in a relentless rhythm, soft at first, then heavier. Each drop becomes a quiet percussion that competes with the silence Isla has wrapped around herself.
Don sits stiffly behind the wheel, eyes on the road, pretending he can’t feel the tension from us bleeding through the back seat. He’s smart enough not to look in the mirror. And he would never ask questions. Not even to ask if we’re okay.
Even the blind would see we’re far from okay.
I’m pissed as fuck, and beside me, Isla is staring out the window, her reflection ghosting against the glass with the watercolor of city lights and shadows. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. She hasn’t said a word since we left the restaurant.
Fine. I prefer silence when I’m this close to losing my shit.
Anger burns slowly beneath my ribs. Though, I’m not sure what has enraged me most:
The fact that I left L.A. earlier than planned after giving in to the call of curiosity—and yes, desire for my little artist.
The fact that Chad, the ex, who should be far, far, away in Australia and not a problem is now here in New York.
Or the fact that his ass was at the restaurant, talking to Isla, sounding like he was asking her to take him back. I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. I was too far away, but I’m sure that’s what he was asking her to think about.
I saw the way he looked at her, the way his eyes pleaded, the way he hunched over like he was seconds away from dropping to his knees to beg. His entire body language screamed it.
Motherfucker.
He didn’t know who he was dealing with. And I wish I’d wrung his scraggly little neck for his attempt to interrogate us about the ring.
I knew about Chad, the childhood sweetheart, before tonight. Though I didn’t have a picture. I didn’t think I needed one. It would have helped.
When you have potential threats, it’s always good to have a face to a name.
The moment he gave his name and confirmed he was the ex, something primitive and possessive ignited inside me that I couldn’t control. Then everything went dark. As though someone had switched off all the lights in my mind and I experienced a complete blackout moment.
Lightning flashes through the rain, illuminating the hard line of Isla’s jaw before the darkness swallows her again.
I catch the faintest movement in her hands. Her fingers twitch, and she breathes out a slow exhale through her nose. She’s furious. I can feel it rolling off her in waves.
Good. Let her be fucking angry.
I just wonder what she would have said to Chad had I not arrived when I did.
If I’m right about him asking for a second chance—and I’m sure I am—would she have said yes?
Would she have thought about taking him back in six months when we go our separate ways?
Why wouldn’t she?
I know how their breakup went down, but people like her—decent, normal people—cling to their first love far longer than they should. Her file shows she’s known Chad her entire life. They only split three years ago. Not long at all.
He must be back in New York for good or at least long enough to think he can win her back.
Fuck, listen to me.
I have more control than this. I don’t need a pissing contest with this fool.
But he tried to move in on what’s mine.
The thought infuriates me even more, and the last sliver of control slips.
Fuck, I have to say something. Now.
“So, how long is he in town?” I start with that.
Isla cuts me a look sharp enough to draw blood. Her hazel eyes are blazing, pupils dilated with fury, but for a moment, I'm caught off guard by how fucking beautiful she looks when she's pissed. Anger transforms her face, making her look dangerous instead of delicate.
"Don't." Her voice is low and controlled, but a tremor of rage simmers underneath. "Don't you dare speak to me right now."
The words hit like a slap, but they only fuel the fire burning in my chest. She turns back to the window, dismissing me completely. Something savage unfurls inside me at the rejection.
"That's not how this works, Isla." My voice comes out rougher than I intended, barely restrained.
She whips around to face me fully, livid. "How what works?" she hisses, trying to keep her voice low for Don’s sake. "You mean how you showed up like some territorial animal and made an unnecessary scene? Or how you carted me out of the restaurant like I'm your property?"
The accusation hangs between us in the confined space of the Bentley. Outside, the rain pounds harder against the windows, cocooning us in this moment of reckoning.
I want to remind her that I actually do own her ass, but I stop myself, mindful of Don. Like everyone in the dark about us, he needs to believe we’re a happy couple.
“Don’t say such things, love,” I speak through gritted teeth.
“I mean it. Don’t talk to me.”
“Why not?”
She levels me a hard stare. “Because I will either bitch-slap you from here to kingdom come or scream at you so loudly your ears will pop.” The maddening smile on her face could give Hanibal Lecter a run for his money. “And I don’t think either of those things will be acceptable in front of Don.”
Jesus Christ. This woman.
Where the hell did she come from?
She’s going to be the fucking death of me.
No one has ever dared speak to me like that. They would have been too scared to. Yet here she is, doing it with a smile on her pretty face.
I lean in, close enough to catch that soft, feminine hint of magnolia trimmed with defiance.
“Clause ten, love.” I lower my voice to a rasp. “You speak to me whenever there’s a grievance to be settled. Not if. When.”
I’m shocked when she leans in, too. Close enough to whisper a secret. Or kiss me.
“Clause nine, malysh. Public representation. You know the rule. Grievances stay private.”
My jaw tightens. The little rebel just used my own clause against me.
And malysh?
Baby in Russian—an endearment. A direct response to me calling her love.
Her tone was meant to infuriate me. Instead, it sends blood rushing to my dick.
I press my fingers to the smooth skin of her elegant neck and press against her pulse. It leaps at my touch.
The flicker in her eyes tells me she knows she’s far too close to me, and I have the upper hand again.
“Okay, moya lyubov',” I tease, calling her my love in Russian, showing her I speak her language, too. She doesn’t like that. “We will speak in private, then.”
“No, malysh. There is nothing to talk about.”
I move to her ear, brushing my nose against it.
“Yes, there is, malyshka.” I use the female form of the endearment just to piss her off even more. “There’s something to talk about when I see another man sniffing around my woman.”
Appalled, she tries to move out of my grasp, but I hold her in place.
“He wasn’t sniffing around.”
“He wants to fuck you.”
“You are unbelievable,” she fumes.
“If he tries, I’ll cut his dick off. I’m serious.”
In my periphery, I catch Don glancing back at me. I was too loud. I don’t care, though. What I said needed to be said—now. Still, I’ve drawn too much attention to us.
“We’ll finish this discussion at home.” I release Isla and inch away from her.
Her gaze lingers for a moment before she looks away again.
The rest of the journey passes in suffocating silence. Don navigates the rain-slicked streets with practiced ease, but I can feel his discomfort radiating from him.
It takes fifty-three fucking minutes to reach home. Each minute stretched like an eternity while Isla sat rigid next to me.
The moment Don pulls into the private garage, Isla is moving. She doesn't wait for him to come around and open her door. She's already out, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete as she strides into the house. Her spine is ramrod straight, shoulders set in a line that screams boldness.
I nod my thanks to Don then follow my furious bride-to-be. She takes the stairs two at a time. No pause, no hesitation, she just marches like she’s going off to war.
Her jaw lifts higher as she disappears inside the bedroom.
I walk in and close the door, then watch her take her hair down from its tight ponytail.
I’m instantly reminded of my voyeurism from the night before when I watched her strip down to nothing. The memory stirs my cock, and I have to fight to maintain my focus.
"Isla." My voice cuts through the silence.
She doesn't turn around.
"I meant what I said in the car," I speak with more insistence.
"So did I. I don’t want to talk about Chad.”
“Tough. We’re talking about him.”
She spins around, eyes flashing, her hair tumbling down her shoulders. “Did you need to be so damn rude to him?”
“Yes. I told you. He wants to fuck you.”
“How do you know that?” Her eyes blaze.
“I know, trust me.” I’m not just saying that because I want to fuck her. I know because I know what men are like.
“Even if he did, what is it to you?”
Heat streaks through my veins like hot lava, ready to explode. “You’re not to see him again.”
"Are you kidding me? How dare you tell me who I can and can’t see?”
“You fucking heard me. You’re not seeing him again.”
“This is ridiculous. He’s a friend. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“I don’t care. I won’t have another scandal on my hands.” I say that, but deep down, I know it’s not just a public scandal I’m worried about.
“Knox, you’re being impossible.”
“Am I?” I glare at her and cock my head. “Okay. Tell me this, love: is dear old Chad just visiting New York, or is he back?”
“He’s back, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“He asked you for a second chance, didn’t he?” I cut her off, shutting down the argument before it starts. “Well?”
“Yes.”
I close the space between us until I’m a breath away. “You can see the problem, right? My contract was clear—no fucking around. No cheating.”
“Well, seeing as how I’m not fucking around or cheating, I’m still within the contract.”
“And we’re going to keep it that way.” My jaw clenches.
“He’s my friend.”
“You and I both know that’s not entirely true. Your ex can never be your friend. Not anymore. And I don’t share what’s mine.”
She gives me a brazen smile. “I am not yours.”
“Yes. You are, Isla Monroe. Don’t forget it.” I inch closer and grin. “You are mine.”
I step away and turn, heading back out the door.
I need to cool off.
But let her sit with that. A little reminder never hurts.