Chapter 19 – Isabella
ISABELLA
Iopened my eyes, and light sliced through my lashes like shards of glass. I flinched away from it and turned my head to escape the pain, but the movement sent the room spinning wildly around me, and my stomach lurched in protest.
Where was I? The ceiling above me was unfamiliar—a light grey rather than the pristine white of my guest room. The sheets beneath me felt different, too—softer, higher thread count, with a scent that was different, as well. Something masculine and clean with notes of sandalwood.
I tried to piece together what had happened. Grey’s villa. The needle in my neck. Truth serum. Something about my mother, Iset, and a request from him to hack into a database. Did I succeed? Then darkness and fragments—being carried, voices arguing, someone saying my name with urgency.
Ivan.
The memory of his face, tight with concern as he lifted me from Grey’s guards, floated through my hazy consciousness. Had he brought me here? To this room?
I inhaled again. Yes, the sheets smelled like him.
I shifted slightly, tested my limbs. Everything felt heavy, disconnected, as if my body was responding a second too late to my brain’s commands. The drugs were probably still in my system. But at least I made it out alive.
Through half-lidded eyes, I scanned what I could see of the room without moving my throbbing head too much. Sparse furnishings, no personal items. A table near the window where a man sat hunched over, studying something. He was surrounded by what looked like stacks of files and a laptop.
Ivan. His broad back and shoulders were tense as he studied whatever was in front of him, occasionally making notes. The light caught in his dark hair, highlighting strands of chestnut I hadn’t noticed before.
I tried to speak, but my throat felt like I’d swallowed broken glass. All that I got out was a pathetic croak. Still, it was enough to make him snap up and turn around.
His eyes met mine across the room, and something flickered in their depths—relief, perhaps? He rose immediately, moved across the room with that predatory grace that seemed so natural to him.
“You’re awake,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “How do you feel?”
I sat up, but before I could answer, a wave of nausea crashed over me so violently, I couldn’t even warn him. My body convulsed, and I barely managed to turn my head before retching over the side of the bed.
Nothing came up—my stomach was empty—but the spasms continued, painful and humiliating. I closed my eyes, mortified that he was seeing me like this, so pathetically vulnerable.
“Bathroom,” I gasped between heaves. “Please.”
“No,” Ivan said firmly. “You’re too weak.”
Another spasm wracked my body, and I felt tears of frustration burning behind my eyelids. “Per favore,” I begged, not caring anymore about pride. “I can’t—not here—”
Without another word, Ivan’s arms slid beneath me.
He lifted me from the bed with effortless strength.
I was vaguely aware that I was wearing one of his T-shirts—it hung past my thighs, swallowing my frame.
Had he changed my clothes? The thought should have alarmed me, but I was too miserable to even care.
He carried me to the bathroom, let me down to the floor gently in front of the toilet just as another wave of nausea hit.
I clutched the porcelain, my body convulsing as I dry-heaved. Ivan knelt behind me, one hand gathering my hair back from my face, the other steadying me with a firm arm around my waist.
“It’s the drugs leaving your system,” he explained, his voice clinical but not unkind. “Grey gave you quite the combination. Your body’s trying to get rid of it.”
I nodded weakly, unable to respond as another spasm gripped me.
His hand on my hair moved in slow, soothing circles, the gesture so unexpectedly gentle, it nearly broke me.
A flash of memory—Ivan cleaning my head wound at the cabin, his fingers careful despite his harsh words; him pulling me against him in the cold night, sharing his warmth without complaint; him stepping between Grey and me to protect me.
When the spasms finally subsided, I slumped down and basically sat on his lap.
He guided me sideways until I leaned against the cool tiles, utterly drained.
Ivan didn’t speak—just rose and moved to the sink.
I heard water running, then he was back, a damp washcloth in his hand.
He crouched before me, hesitating slightly before bringing the cloth to my face.
“May I?” he asked, surprising me with the request for permission.
I nodded, too exhausted to speak. His touch was careful as he wiped my forehead where cold sweat had gathered, then my mouth. The cool cloth felt heavenly against my feverish skin.
“Take a sip,” he instructed. He helped me back up, then held a glass of water against my lips.
I took it with trembling hands, then took a sip. The need to puke lessened though it didn’t disappear entirely.
“What happened?” I managed to ask, my voice hoarse. “How did I get here?”
Ivan sat back on his heels, studying me with those intense eyes. “Grey’s men were returning you to your room. We intercepted them outside.” His jaw tightened. “You were barely conscious. When I saw the injection marks on your neck…”
He trailed off, and something dangerous flashed across his face before he controlled it.
“Vince wanted to take you away immediately, but I brought you here instead.” He paused. “That was yesterday afternoon.”
“Yesterday?” I echoed, shocked. “I’ve been unconscious for—”
“Eighteen hours,” he confirmed. “You’ve been in and out. Mostly out. Mila helped administer an antidote for the truth serum, but the other drugs… We just had to wait for them to metabolize.”
I tried to process this information, but my brain felt sluggish, unwilling to cooperate. “Grey,” I whispered, a shudder running through me at the memory of his cold eyes and possessive touch. “He wanted me to hack into something—Paraskia’s database.”
Ivan’s expression hardened. “Did you?”
I closed my eyes, tried to piece together the fragments floating through my mind. “I don’t know.”
He sat down next to me on the floor. “What do you remember?”
I sighed when he pulled me between his legs.
“He talked about my mother. Said he loved her before my father. That she was supposed to be his.” My voice cracked.
“He’s been watching me since I was a child.
Manipulating things. And he was running some kind of trafficking operation that I interfered with as Iset last year. ”
Another wave of nausea hit me, this one milder but still unpleasant. I breathed through it, grateful when Ivan handed me the glass of water again.
“Small sips,” he instructed.
I obeyed, then continued, “It’s all blurry after that. He injected me with something else when I wouldn’t cooperate. Said it would make my brain work better.” I laughed bitterly. “Clearly it didn’t.”
“It could have killed you,” Ivan said, his voice tight with controlled anger. “That enhancer is still in trials. It’s not meant to be mixed with other compounds, and you were tranqued just a couple of days ago.”
Tranqued… An involuntary shiver ran through me, my body suddenly ice cold despite the bathroom’s warmth and Ivan’s body heat around me. I wrapped my arms around myself, teeth chattering. “Why am I so c-cold?”
“Side effect of the drugs, probably,” Ivan said. He reached out and pressed his palm against my forehead. “You’re not running a fever anymore, but your body’s still fighting the chemicals.” He studied me for a moment. “A hot shower might help. Think you can stand?”
I wanted to say yes, to prove I wasn’t as weak as I felt, but another violent shiver wracked my body, making the decision for me. I shook my head, hating my own helplessness.
“I’ve got you,” Ivan said simply.
Before I could protest, he got up, took the glass from my hand, and placed it next to the sink, closed the toilet lid, lifted me, and sat me on the closed lid.
“If you’re getting dizzy, tell me.” He turned to the shower, waited, then adjusted the temperature with practiced efficiency.
Steam began to fill the room, but I couldn’t stop shaking.
“I can do it myself,” I insisted though we both knew it was a lie. My limbs felt like they were filled with lead, and the room wouldn’t stop tilting at odd angles whenever I moved my head.
Ivan turned back to me, his expression unreadable. “You can barely sit upright, Shorty.”
The familiar nickname, delivered without its usual edge of mockery, somehow made my eyes sting with tears. I blinked them back furiously. I would not cry in front of him. I would not.
“Can you lift your arms?” he asked.
I tried, managing to raise them a few inches before they fell back to my sides. Betrayed by my own body. I couldn’t even undress myself. The humiliation burned worse than the fever.
Ivan crouched in front of me, his eyes meeting mine directly. “I need to get you clean and warm. The drugs are still in your system, and your body temperature is dropping. This isn’t about anything else. Understand?”
I searched his face for any sign of the predatory interest I’d seen before—in the pool, on the plane, in countless small moments where tension had crackled between us. There was nothing but concern in his gaze now.
I looked at the shower. I could either accept his help and surrender the last shreds of my dignity or refuse and be miserable. Pride versus practicality. Independence versus necessity.
I hesitated, then whispered, “If you approach, remember that a lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, and from matrimony to murder in a moment.”
The quote was mangled, delivered through chattering teeth, but a smile tugged at the corner of Ivan’s mouth. “You must feel a lot better than you look. But your brain might’ve taken some damage since you’re now butchering Jane Austen quotes.”