Chapter 19
Raze
I woke to warmth.
Not the sharp, alert kind I was used to—no adrenaline spike, no instinctive reach for a weapon. Just warmth. Soft and steady.
It took a second to remember where I was.
Izzy’s room. Her bed. Her.
She was pressed into me, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, breathing slow and even. The bruising along her jaw had darkened overnight, turning deep violet against her skin. The cut on her lip was less angry, but still visible. Evidence.
My chest tightened.
I lay still, watching her for longer than I should have. Studying the way her lashes rested against her cheeks. The faint crease between her brows even in sleep, like her body hadn’t fully accepted safety yet.
A strand of dark hair had fallen across her face.
Without thinking, I reached out and tucked it gently behind her ear.
She shuddered at my touch—not away, but toward me. Her body instinctively settled closer, pressing into my side like she belonged there. A small, contented breath left her, and a faint smile tugged at her lips, still asleep.
Something in my chest moved. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was fierce.
The urge to protect her. To keep her. To make sure no one ever laid a hand on her again.
It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t selfless. It was possessive.
I’d grown used to her presence in this house. The way she filled space with noise and argument and stubborn honesty. The way she looked at me like I was human instead of the monster the world knew me as.
And now that she’d been hurt, something in me had changed permanently.
Anyone who came near her would answer to me.
I let my hand fall away slowly, careful not to wake her. She needed sleep more than she needed me hovering.
I slipped out of the bed with practiced silence, moving slowly so the mattress wouldn’t dip. She didn’t stir.
For a moment, I stood there watching her. Then I forced myself to leave.
The shower was scalding.
I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat loosen the tension that had settled into my shoulders overnight. My mind didn’t quiet. It just rearranged its priorities.
Names. Addresses. Russians.
Nathan.
And Izzy.
Always back to her.
I shut the water off and stepped out, wrapping a towel around my waist. Steam fogged the mirrors. The house was subdued in the way that early morning usually was.
I left my bedroom door open deliberately.
After last night, I didn’t want her waking in silence. If she stepped into the hallway and called out, I wanted to hear it. If she panicked, I wanted no barrier between us.
So the door stayed open.
I moved around the room, toweling my hair dry, then tossing it onto a chair. I crossed to the dresser and opened a drawer, pulling out clean clothes but not bothering to put them on yet.
I felt it before I saw her.
That slight prickle between my shoulders.
There were eyes on me.
I turned.
Izzy stood in the hallway just beyond my open door.
Barefoot. Hair loose around her shoulders. Wearing one of the shirts Tone had slipped over her head, oversized and falling mid-thigh. Her bruises were visible in the soft morning light.
She’d clearly meant to walk past. But had stopped.
There was a long, suspended silence.
Her gaze flicked—quickly, involuntarily—over my chest, down the line of my torso, then back to my face.
I angled my head slightly.
A slow grin tugged at my mouth.
“Enjoying the view?”
Her eyes widened a fraction. “Your door was open.”
“I know.”
Another silence.
Charged this time.
She shifted her weight slightly, like she wasn’t sure whether to retreat or stay. There was color rising in her cheeks, but she didn’t look embarrassed.
She looked… curious.
I leaned one shoulder against the dresser, deliberately relaxed.
“You can come in, you know.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“Is that wise?”
“Probably not.”
That earned the faintest smile.
She hesitated one beat longer. Then she stepped inside. Slowly.
I guess she wasn’t used to taking the wiser option.
The air in the room tightened as she crossed the threshold. The scent of her—clean, warm and faintly sweet—cut through the lingering steam.
She stopped a few feet away.
Her eyes moved over me again, slower this time.
“You’re staring, Izzy.”
“So are you.”
“Fair.”
She crossed her arms loosely, but it wasn’t defensive.
“You left your door open.”
“I was worried about you. I didn’t want you waking alone.”
That made her pause. The teasing edge softened.
“Oh.”
We held each other’s gaze.
“You didn’t sleep properly.”
“I slept,” I told her.
“In my bed.”
“Yes.”
She tilted her head slightly. “You’re full of surprises.”
“I try my best.”
Her eyes dipped again, tracing the lines of my torso. I saw the exact moment she realized she wasn’t subtle.
Her chin lifted.
I pushed off the dresser and took one step closer. Not enough to crowd her. Just enough to feel the space tighten.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes drifted to my chest again, slower this time. They traced the ink across my skin, following the lines like they were trying to make sense of them—like the tattoos were a language she might be able to read if she studied long enough.
I knew what she saw.
I’d studied my own body long enough to understand how it looked to other people.
Broad shoulders. Thick muscle built from years of discipline and damage. Skin not entirely smooth—scar tissue tucked beneath the ink in leathery patches, reminders of things that had tried and failed to kill me. The tattoos didn’t hide the past; they layered over it. Marked it. Claimed it.
None of them were decorative. Every piece meant something. Every line carved into my skin marked a time, a place, a version of myself I could never return to.
At thirty-two, I was already a widower. Already a father without a child. That kind of loss doesn’t soften you. It calcifies. It strips away excess until only function remains.
Six years.
Six years since I’d buried my wife. Since I’d stood at the graveside and lowered my son into the ground beside her.
Six years of existing instead of living.
I went through the motions. Built the business. Expanded the territory. Managed the violence. But I felt suspended, like the world had moved forward and left me fixed in a moment I couldn’t escape.
Six years without touching another woman. Not because of loyalty. Not because of virtue. Because there had been no desire. No spark. No urge to feel anything beyond the steady hum of grief and responsibility.
I hadn’t wanted to protect. I hadn’t wanted to claim. I hadn’t wanted to risk losing again. Until now.
Izzy stood in my room with bruises on her skin and defiance in her spine. Sweet. Too sweet for this world. Too trusting. Too willing to sacrifice herself for men who hadn’t earned a fraction of it.
She didn’t see how she destroyed herself in the name of preserving others. And I couldn’t decide what unsettled me more. The fact that I wanted to protect her. Or the fact that I wanted to keep her.
My grief had kept me numb for six years. She had walked into my house and disrupted that numbness without even trying.
Her gaze finally lifted to meet mine. There was no fear in it. Just awareness. And something fragile beginning to form between us—something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in a long, long time.
The urge wasn’t gentle. It was primal. To stand between her and every threat. To ensure no one ever touched her again. To take what was left of my broken heart and wrap it around her like armor.
That was the real danger. Not the Russians. Not Nathan. Her. Because wanting her meant I had something to lose again. And I wasn’t sure I remembered how to survive that.
Her hand lifted slightly—like she might touch me. Then stopped.
“You should probably get dressed,” she spoke softly.
“I probably should.”
Neither of us moved.
The tension wasn’t explosive. It was steady. Building.
Finally, I stepped back, breaking the spell just enough.
“Coffee?” I offered.
She blinked, like she’d forgotten the rest of the world existed.
“I’ll make it,” she said.
And as she turned to leave the room, I watched her go with the same certainty that had settled in my chest earlier.
She was under my roof. In my territory. And anyone who mistook that for weakness was going to learn exactly how wrong they were.