Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
ISLA
Ocean water clings to my skin like another colder layer of memory as I sit under the scalding shower, knees tucked to my chest, arms wound so tightly around them my fingers ache from the pressure.
I can still feel him.
The echo of Raffael is burned into my nerve endings.
His hands. His strength. His violence.
That goddamn kiss.
I fell hard into the water, my back taking the brunt of impact, the weight of my soaked blazer dragging me under. I tried to claw my way toward the surface, kicking with all I had, my lungs screaming, only for the yacht’s current to seize me, dragging me deeper into the dark.
I would’ve drowned. Been cut to pieces.
Then there he was, yanking me back from the brink. Holding me like I was precious. Smashing his lips to mine like he hated me for almost dying.
But it didn’t stay that way.
Heat bled into the contact.
He devoured me. Ravaged me.
For one suspended moment, it was as if the last two years hadn’t existed. That the cruelty and manipulation had been a fever dream.
I’d let myself hope. Let myself want.
Only for him to push me away and assault a crew member like a madman.
It’s insane.
Raffael doesn’t lose control. He rules through surgical calm.
Well, he did. Until he lost it. John Wick-style.
But why is it a default to romanticize that too? To allow whatever idiotic switch has been flicked in my brain to attribute male rage as protection?
I groan and stand, my legs aching as I fail in trying to exorcise the image of him holding me on his lap, soaked and hostile yet vibrating with palpable concern.
I hate what he does to me. That his nearness adds to the chaos in my mind.
I shut off the water and step out of the shower, towel down, then thread my arms through a fresh robe I find on an overhead shelf. The thick material clings to my damp skin, a poor excuse for armor, but it’ll have to do seeing as though my clothes are a heaping pile of sodden threads in the corner.
As soon as I enter the bedroom, his bathroom door clicks shut.
He waited. For what? To make sure I didn’t collapse?
I bite down on the thought.
Get your head out of the clouds. He’s just buying time. Avoiding you.
I can’t tell what’s real anymore.
I swear Raffael didn’t save me just because he was trying to avoid a manslaughter charge. He dove after me with the conviction of someone willing to risk their life for mine. Touched me as if his hands alone could reverse the trauma the near drowning had caused.
And I’m so goddamn furious that he refuses to admit it.
If he needs me to make a statement, fine. I’ll make a statement.
If he wants me to be scared of him, okay. Sure. After his cinematic display of violence, I’m harboring a little of that, too.
But if he thinks I’ll surrender the reins to my own damn life based on half-truths and cryptic warnings, he’s gravely mistaken.
I know he feels something for me.
I know he won’t hurt me. At least not physically… I think.
And most of all—I know he’s hiding something important. Something to do with my safety. My future. My life.
I drag a brush through my wet hair, the slap of soaked clothes hitting tile carrying from his bathroom. I try not to picture it. Picture him. Naked. Glistening. Seething.
Stop. It.
I yank the brush harder. Faster.
Seems I’m speed-cycling through the stages of an existential crisis as if it’s a fucking side quest—shock, denial, heartbreak, idiocy… now rage.
But of course I end up at his bathroom door seconds later, drawn to him like self-destruction is trending.
The hiss of the shower turns on, followed by the subtle shift in flow that signals he’s stepped beneath the spray. I practically see him, fury made flesh, all carved muscle and brutal grace behind a blanket of steam.
There’s a buzz. The unmistakable vibration of his cell. Followed by the sliver of a muttered curse.
I expect him to end the shower and answer the call. But the sluice of water doesn’t change. He’s still under the spray as the phone continues to dance atop a hard surface.
Is the caller the same person Raffael spoke to earlier? The one he said wasn’t welcome? The reason he declared I was under his protection?
Then again, it could be my father, finally reaching out in a blaze of parental concern—millions in leveraged debt, one sold daughter, and a near-death experience too late.
Curiosity bleeds into my rage. A glimmer of unhinged impulsivity sharpens the edge.
I test the doorknob. Find it unlocked.
Stealing his phone mid-shower isn’t a great plan. But neither was trusting my father. Or believing my CEO title meant I’d earned a seat at the table when all it did was dress up my leash with a prettier chain.
I’m still just a woman.
Decorative. Undermined. Disposable.
Fuck them all.
The phone gives another low-grade buzz. Then silence. The call ends.
Shit.
Only the static hiss of the shower remains as I stare at the door, cursing myself, my shoulders hunching from the shame of hesitation. Of flinching. Of acting like a good girl when a man would’ve already kicked the door down.
All I want is answers. The briefest insight into a game where I’m oblivious to the rules.
It’s literally my job. I discover hidden agendas. Dissect motives. Peel back glossy exteriors to expose the rot beneath. I’ve built a career out of knowing when something doesn’t add up. And right now, the math with Raffael isn’t mathing.
The phone buzzes again, like a loaded gun daring me to pull the trigger.
He snaps another curse.
This time I don’t hesitate.
I twist the doorknob and stride inside, ready to tear through secrets—only to stop dead in my tracks.
Raffael stands under the spray, one hand braced against the tile, the other around the hard length of his cock.
I blink. Swallow.
He’s carved marble. Beauty and violence sculpted into man. The picture of ruinous temptation as our eyes lock.
“You lost, Cross?” He glares. “Or simply waiting for another rejection?”
My cheeks flame, humiliation and vehemence clashing in a visceral spark. I stalk forward and snatch the vibrating cell off the vanity—Eliseo’s name illuminated on screen.
“Drop it,” Raffael snarls, wrenching off the water.
I raise a defiant brow and stride from the room, slamming the door shut behind me.
“Isla,” he roars.
I return to my own bathroom and lock myself inside as the wet slap of his feet hit the hallway floor.
A second later, boom—something collides with the wood.
I gasp, my bravery temporarily waylaid, before I spin and dart for the second door—the walk-in-closet, with access to the main cabin—and lock that, too.
“Open the fucking door,” he warns.
I breathe through the adrenaline spike, blocking out the inner voice that screams that this is it—my crowning act of lunacy—and swipe the cell screen to answer.
“I’ve been calling for a fucking hour,” Eliseo snaps. “Screen my calls again and I’ll find you and take care of that pretty little obsession of yours in ways you don’t want to imagine.”
I stagger backward until my ass hits the vanity.
I don’t know much about Raffael’s youngest brother. Apart from him being Aurelia’s twin. He’s not part of the acquisitions team at the Cavallo Group. But we’ve crossed paths a handful of times. Fundraisers. Business functions. Always brief. Always cold.
Not that I expected warmth.
However, I also hadn’t anticipated threats delivered with arctic chill.
“Did you hear me?” he grates, as Raffael roughly tests the wardrobe door. “Why hasn’t there been a statement? I want her reputation ruined. Her legacy turned into a fucking punch line.”
My palm sweats around the cell.
I should hang up. Pretend this entire stunt didn’t happen.
“Isla,” Raffael growls, his voice now carrying back at the main bathroom door. “Open up.”
Eliseo falls silent.
“Isla,” Raffael shouts, slamming into the door hard enough to rattle the frame. “Open the fucking door.”
A low chuckle carries through the cell.
“Is that you, Cross?” Eliseo asks. Amused. Sinister. Fuck. “Does my brother know you have his phone?”
The pounding of the door continues, the thunderous boom, boom, boom gaining momentum.
“Yes, he does.” I brace my free hand against the vanity for stability. “And he’s not exactly thrilled about it.”
“That’s probably because I’m the last person he’d want you talking to. Has he told you my plans if you don’t comply?”
He doesn’t need to. Eliseo’s callous tone drips with enough foreboding.
“I’m making a statement,” I murmur, my resolve slipping.
“Good, because I stopped by your apartment and claimed a little leverage just in case. I’m not really a cat person though, so I’d hurry if I were you.”
A high-pitched yowl carries in the background. Feline. Frantic.
My insides pitch sideways.
He’s got Nyra.
“Please don’t hurt her.” My pulse forgets how to beat.
“It might be my hands that inflict the punishment, but I assure you it’s your actions that will cause the consequences. My brother may have fallen under your spell, but I have no such compunction.”
“Isla,” Raffael bellows between thunderous booms, the wood near the lock cracking.
The call disconnects.
The screen goes black.
I stand frozen, breaths shallow, my arm falling limp at my side.
Then the bathroom door explodes inward. Splintered wood goes flying. And Raffael charges in, hair dripping, ferocity radiating, with nothing but a towel slung low on his hips.
Shit.
I bolt for the closet, fumble with the lock, and throw myself inside. I try to wrench the door shut behind me—he catches it mid-swing, palm splayed, his murderous eyes locked on mine.
“You answered my phone?” he snarls.
Pretending innocence would be ideal. It’s a shame his blood-thirsty expression says he already knows the truth.
I lift my chin, ignore the arrhythmia, and retreat.
He prowls forward. Menacing. Unhurried. “What did Eliseo have to say?”
Water trails down his chest in slow rivulets, catching on ridges of muscle, disappearing into terrycloth barely clinging to the territory where modesty should begin.
He’s herding me toward the floor-to-ceiling window at the back of the barren wardrobe, each step corralling me deeper, past empty shelves and bare hanging rails, until the closet becomes a cage.
“Isla,” he warns, closing in. “What did Eliseo say?”
My ass hits the cold glass. My back follows.
Then he’s there—looming, seething—all heat and restraint and the sharp promise of retaliation.
I drag in a breath. Realign my softening spine. “He broke into my apartment. He stole my cat.”
His mouth thins. Nostrils flare.
God, how I ache to scream at how my heart takes those reactions as a sign of concern and not contempt.
“Now do you understand the situation?” He leans in, the question silk-wrapped spite. “I doubt your cat will greet him the way your eager pussy welcomed me.”
Mortification cleaves me wide open.
I slap him.
Wild. Instinctive. Stupid.
He jerks back, his eyes narrowing to slits. He grabs my wrists, slamming them to the glass above my head, caging me between his body and the window. “As much as I’ve tolerated your tantrums, this is where it stops.”
“I’ll scream,” I seethe.
“I assure you the crew have turned a blind eye to far worse.”
I don’t want to believe him, but the evidence is stacked—my abduction, his outbursts, Eliseo’s threats.
I twist beneath the weight of him, trying to wrench free.
That’s when I feel it. The rigid length of his cock against my abdomen.
Not deliberate. Not forced.
Just there. Real. And utterly damning.
My body responds like a traitor. Vibrating and desperate.
“It was a mistake to taunt me while half-dressed.” His jaw continues to tick as his gaze drops between us, taking in my gaping robe, the thick material parting enough to reveal the swell of my breasts.
“Believe me, it wasn’t on purpose.”
“No?” Those harsh eyes return to mine. “Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“Because you’re projecting.” I struggle against his hold. “I’m not the duplicitous one here. My clothes are soaked, and I already told you, wearing yesterday’s suit will be a red flag.”
“Forgive me if your blatant display of cleavage doesn’t scream innocence.”
I glower. “You’re right. Next time I’m abducted I’ll remember to pack a turtleneck.”
His gaze remains locked on mine and my predictably pathetic insides stir like this is foreplay, not warfare.
We hover there, motionless and pressed too close, breathing each other’s air as a stray drop of water falls from his hair to travel down my sternum, waking every nerve it passes.
“What else did Eliseo say?” he finally asks, his voice quieter now.
That you’re under my spell, I want to scream, but keep my mouth shut, unwilling to repeat what my body aches to believe.
He leans in, his presence bleeding into mine, his mouth moving to my ear. “What did he say, Isla?”
I close my eyes as shame prickles my skin. Not because I think Eliseo was wrong. But because I hate how badly I want him to be right.
I’ve never gotten over Raffael. He’s always been there, lodged in the quiet between thoughts, pulsing beneath every breath even when I tried to hate him for the way he treated me that day in his boardroom, and the years since.
I let the silence stretch just long enough to pretend I’m not unraveling. But he fills the space like a drug, and I’m already too high to care how this ends.
“He said you’re obsessed with me,” I admit.
He goes still. Only for a beat. Then he snickers. “My brother has always had a flair for the dramatic.” He pauses, his mouth remaining near my ear. “I’ll concede I’ve wanted to fuck you for as long as I can remember. But let’s not confuse lust with obsession.”
Goose bumps race up my arms, unwanted and despised.
“Maybe it’s time I gave in to temptation.” He nuzzles my cheek, the brush of his lips intimate in a way that contradicts every venom-laced word. “I should quit giving you second chances and simply take the trophy wife I’m owed. Just you, on your back, ready and waiting whenever I need a fix.”
He’s trying to disgust me. And it’s working. But again, it’s his words that don’t match his actions.
He could’ve already taken me. Against the window. Against my will.
There’s no one here to stop him. No recourse I could take that wouldn’t destroy my future.
But he hasn’t, because that isn’t Raffael.
“Would you like that, Isla?” he purrs. “Is that what you want?”
I tilt my chin, my heart cracking as I meet his gaze. “What I want is for you to stop playing the monster and tell me what you’re afraid of.”