Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
RAFFAEL
She disappears over the edge, leaving nothing but riotous panic in her wake.
I drop my cell to the floor and sprint for the rail as shouts of “Man overboard” erupt around me. Radios crackle to life. The air pulses with the chaos of life or death but I’m already airborne, diving in after her.
The ocean hits hard, cold enough to steal the breath from my lungs and gut-punch my instincts. I open my eyes underwater and scan the murky turbulence while the yacht continues to glide forward.
The captain should’ve killed the engines, but the propellers won’t stop on a dime. It’ll take at least thirty seconds for them to wind down, and until then, the back of the yacht is a death trap.
Which is exactly where Isla is—ten feet below the surface, thrashing, flailing but not getting anywhere as the props drag her along with the yacht.
I kick toward her. Arms slicing. Lungs rebelling.
The propellers slow as I fight to get to her, every foot of space a battlefield of exertion.
But even as the death drag dies down and the hull glides away without her, she doesn’t rise. She’s losing strength, her eyes wide and wild as they lock on mine, a silent scream sending a rush of bubbles toward me.
I push harder, legs burning, throat closing.
She’s starting to sink as I reach her. I grab her fingers, then her wrist, before locking my arm around her waist.
I kick for the surface, my pulse slamming through my head, my lungs demanding a breath I can’t give. The threat of suffocation cinches around my throat, tightening with every heartbeat.
Time bleeds out.
Then—finally—we breach the surface, both of us gasping for air.
I suck in gulp after heaving gulp, regaining some semblance of life. But Isla struggles. Choking. Retching.
“Breathe.” I don’t let her go, my hold unforgiving around her waist as I fight to keep us afloat. “I’ve got you.”
She clings to me like a lifeline instead of the inherited anchor I’ve become.
“Just breathe.” I scan our surrounds. Life preservers litter the water in between us and the yacht, ten yards away and drifting farther.
A cluster of crew lines the swim platform, faces taut with alarm, hands clutching their radios. A mechanical arm unfolds from the foredeck, steel cables glinting in the sunlight as it lowers the rescue boat down the side of the yacht.
I lean us forward, trying to propel us toward the closest life preserver as Isla continues to choke and retch.
“The crew are on the way.” I keep kicking, not letting the trembling dead weight of her body sink under the surface. “Just hold on.”
The RIB slams into the water. Mitch jumps aboard. Two others join him. The engine roars to life and the boat tears across the softening wake toward us.
“You hear that?” I tread water and hold her close. “Help is coming.”
She whimpers.
Fucking whimpers.
Then the boat is in front of us, hands reach out, and Isla is hauled over the side.
I follow, pulled up by rough arms to find her hunched on the floor, dripping, breathing ragged. I stumble to maintain my footing as the RIB takes off toward the yacht, my gaze stuck on the blanket of hair shielding her face, her hands splayed before her as she sways and splutters.
I’ve never seen anyone so vulnerable. So goddamn shattered.
The fact it’s Isla, the woman I’ve always known to be a powerhouse in cock-hardening heels, makes me fucking nauseous.
I snatch a towel from one of the deckhands and drop beside her, wrapping it around her trembling body. “You’re safe.”
She curls away from me, the dismissal inflicting a mortal wound.
We reach the yacht before I can process what the fuck to do.
Mitch grabs her, handing her to a deckhand waiting at the lowered swim platform who places her on her feet like she isn’t seconds from collapse.
Motherfucking idiot.
I jump from the RIB and scoop her up. She’s freezing. Shaking. Breathing in shallow, broken bursts.
Shock.
I carry her into the lounge area and fall to my knees on the floor, cradling her in my lap.
She’s limp against me. Soaked through. I need to get her warm. Get her lucid.
“Towels,” I bark.
They come instantly, the crew offering them from every angle.
I peel the soaked blazer from her shoulders. Her blouse clings to her skin, sheer and drenched. I wrap her in thick material, swaddling it around her trembling frame, then draw her into my chest.
“Out,” I snap to the milling crowd. “Now.”
They scatter. Some climb back into the RIB and take off toward the winch. The others scurry through the internal door.
It isn’t until we’re alone that reality has time to fully marinate.
I could’ve lost her.
Not just to circumstance or fucked-up parentage—but for good.
I wrap my arms around her. Hold her closer despite her whimper of protest.
“Give me this, Isla,” I murmur into her hair. “Just for a minute.”
There’s no response. Nothing but the continued shudder of her body and the limpness of her limbs. Then slowly, finally, she melts, resting her head on my shoulder, her wet hair splayed across my drenched shirt.
“You’re safe,” I murmur against her temple. “It’s over.”
Is it though?
We’re still locked in a war we can’t escape.
Minutes pass and all I do is hold her, caught in a punishing replay of her fall. The wild panic in her eyes. The stunned screams from stewardesses.
She almost fucking died.
“Tell me you’re okay,” I demand, because relinquishing control, even now, feels like weakness I can’t afford.
She nods.
It’s not good enough. There’s no fucking relief.
“Look at me.” I pull back, gently guiding the wet hair from her face. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Why?” Her gaze remains downcast. “So you can stop worrying about this getting back to the authorities?”
I deserve that. And then some.
But navigating this situation is, and always has been, a fucking minefield.
I can’t do what I want to do. Can’t tell her what she wants to hear.
Slowly, her chin raises and those glassy, devastated eyes meet mine. She’s pale. Wrecked. A ghost of the woman who boarded the yacht yesterday.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she rasps. “I lost balance when he grabbed my leg. I was never going to jump.”
“I know.”
God help me, I do.
“I feel so fucking stupid.” Her lips tremble. “I never would’ve climbed the railing if you’d…” She winces. Pauses. “I just wanted to know the truth.”
Sharp pain stabs between my ribs, past skin and flesh and bone.
I ignore it.
I have to.
She’s not to blame.
My father is. Hers too.
This is on Eliseo and his hunger for revenge. On Miko for caving to sibling pressure.
But most of all, it’s on me.
She collapses against my chest, her cheek resting on my shoulder, her trembling limbs threateningly close to shaking my foundations.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
Every muscle in my body tenses.
“I hate you so much.” Her fingers tangle in my shirt, tugging, kneading. “But I still can’t stop hoping the man I once believed in is still buried somewhere beneath the surface.”
I clench my jaw, battling to ignore her faith. Fighting not to care.
“I’m sorry to disappoint,” I murmur.
She pulls back again, her expression filled with exhaustion, the hint of building tears threatening to break me.
“Are you really?” she whispers. “Do you truly feel sorry?”
Her questions don’t just pierce—they calcify, adding more weight I’ll be forced to carry without complaint.
I could say yes. Give her that much. But the truth?
It will endanger her life. And my siblings’ along with it.
So I look away. Briefly. Just to get a goddamn grip.
Delicate fingers graze my chin, lightly coaxing and fucking dangerous as she drags my gaze back to hers.
“Do you care?” Her voice is steadier this time. “Do you understand that I once adored you?”
“Isla…” Her name scrapes out, raw, frayed, more warning than warmth.
“One kiss,” she says softly, still shivering. “That’s all it took for me to feel like there would never be anyone else.”
I drop my arms to my sides. Clench my fists to keep from touching her.
She needs to stop this spiral—hers and mine.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve thought…” Her voice trails. “How many times I’ve wondered…”
“What?” I bite out. Too fast. Too rough. Because I need the answer, and I fucking hate that I do.
“If it would still feel the same.” Her focus drops to my mouth. “If I’d still lose myself a second time after all you’ve done.”
Shit.
I grab her hips, intending to push her back. To place space between us.
Instead, my grip lingers.
I should end this. Shut it down. Walk away and salt the goddamn earth.
But she’s trembling, soaked, wrapped in towels and heartache, and still somehow looking at me like I’m something worthy of the wreckage.
I shake my head.
This isn’t safe.
Isn’t smart.
It’s exactly how people make mistakes they can’t undo.
Say something cold. Something cruel. Remind her who you are. What you’ve done.
But I don’t. I just sit there, my fingers aching from my tight grip, my attention lowering to her lips like a fucking addict.
“Kiss me, Raffael,” she whispers. “Make the wound fresh. Remind me how easy it is for you to act like you care.”
My stomach knots.
She’s dressing it up like a dare, as if that’ll make it hurt less when I give her exactly what she’s asked for.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” I growl through the temptation. “Something sterile to decimate your misguided fantasies?”
She swallows. Nods.
My pulse fucking surges.
Fine. If she needs proof I’m still poison, I’ll give her a full dose.
“With pleasure.” I slide a hand into her hair, grip tight, then crash my mouth down on hers.
She gasps, grabbing at my shoulders.
I kiss her like she asked. Cold. Detached. Nothing but pressure and purpose.
That’s all it is.
All it can be.
Her palms move up, framing my face, drawing me closer.
Still, I feel nothing.
Not the catch in her breath. Not the warmth building between us.
This is a controlled detonation. A calculated hit to snap her out of whatever daydream she built in my absence.
I need to remember that.