9. Isla
CHAPTER 9
ISLA
The drive had been mostly quiet. Rye wasn’t a talker—at least, not when I needed him to be. And today? He must have sensed I was seconds away from breaking down again.
I’d been sitting in the back, staring out the window, of his SUV with its dark tinted windows and dark leather seats and hadn’t been paying attention to the outside at all. So, when the car slowed, awareness kicked in. He drove us through tall iron gates that whispered wealth and privacy, winding up a perfectly manicured driveway that looked like something out of a magazine.
The house was set back from the road, modern and minimalist, all glass, black steel, and sharp angles—exactly like Zayn.
The way the lines cut through the afternoon sun and the sharp silhouettes of the design, I recognized Julian’s design. Was that what they said? Only three of them knew it was here?
I peered out of the car, pressing too close to the glass in my curiosity to see more.
Rye pulled the car to a stop, and with no preamble, he got out, and by the time I had the sense to follow, he was already at my side of the car, opening the door for me. Stepping out, I looked around.
It was too quiet. Too perfect. And I knew, somehow, it was exactly what I needed. Rye didn’t say anything as I looked around, but he glanced at me with an expression I couldn’t read. Pity? Concern? Resignation?
All three?
“I won’t break if you talk to me.” I hovered uncertainly at the car.
“Break all you want.” He started to walk past me to the front door. “No one here to hear you.”
There was one low step to the entrance of two solid-looking black wooden doors. “Wait a sec,” Rye said as he approached the door. “Let me go in first, make sure everything’s good.”
My brows drew together. “Why? You think someone’s hiding behind the door?”
Rye gave a small shrug. “You’d be surprised.”
I would. I thought about it… Would I really? Then I remembered that only three people knew about the house, so who was hiding? I loitered in the driveway for one more moment, and then I followed him into the house.
The moment I stepped inside, it hit me.
Not a smell. Not a sound. Just a feeling.
Like the house had been waiting.
“Knew you wouldn’t wait,” Rye mumbled as he brushed a finger over the bottom of the banister.
I followed him as he walked farther into the space, toeing off my boots just inside the doorway. The polished concrete floors were cold against my skin, and the entire space was impossibly clean and open.
Not a single thing was out of place .
The house was sleek and modern with sharp lines and smooth finishes, much like the exterior. Glass, steel, muted grays, and charcoal walls caught the afternoon light just enough to prevent it from feeling sterile.
It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It was…deliberate.
Every piece of furniture was placed like it had been calculated. Nothing cluttered. Nothing soft. Even the throw pillow on the huge L-shaped couch was arranged with military precision. I wondered if they had ever been touched. If anyone had ever leaned against their softness, seeking comfort.
Even the air was still. Settled. But not stale. Like everything here had been paused, frozen in time, until Zayn walked back through the door.
And yet, as I followed Rye through the house, taking in the precision, noting how unlike me the house was…I felt safe.
Not because it was welcoming. But because it was his .
I let out a slow breath as we entered the kitchen. My hands were still trembling even now, even knowing it was over. Even knowing I was safe. Whatever that meant anymore.
“The kitchen’s stocked,” Rye said as he opened the fridge door. “If it’s not in there, we’ll get it. The bathroom you’ll be using has all the mod-cons and flowery stuff you like.”
That surprised a laugh out of me. “You don’t strike me as the type to notice what I like.”
Rye smirked. “I’m observant.”
“Is this really where Zayn lives?” I asked as I looked around the kitchen. It was sleek like the rest of the house; the cabinets were dark-toned, stark against the white background, and soft pendant lights hung above a stone island the size of my apartment.
“Sometimes,” Rye said, taking two bottles of water from the fridge and handing me one. “It’s one of his safer properties. Less known.”
I took the water, twisting the cap slowly as my mind caught on the word properties. “So what is it then? It’s pretty big to be a panic room.”
Rye chucked. “Is it? You’re the first person he’s brought here.” He held my gaze. “Don’t betray that.”
“What? His trust?” Something flickered in my chest. Jealousy? At Rye’s protectiveness of his friend? The thought was ridiculous. I shoved it down. I had no right to feel anything. I took a sip of water. “So…how long have you worked for him?” I thought about it. “With him? I…I don’t know your relationship.”
Rye’s lips curled into an empty smile. “Long enough.”
I narrowed my eyes as I watched him. “Is that your way of saying ‘mind your business’?”
“Is that your way of asking questions you’re not sure you want answers to?” he volleyed smoothly.
I blinked. Touché.
Rye leaned against the counter, watching me in that careful, quiet way that resembled Zayn so much that I shuddered. “Zayn’s not like the others,” he said finally.
I didn’t respond even though he gave a long pause, anticipating I would. When I said nothing, he carried on.
“He operates in a dangerous world and he competes there, sure. But he’s not one of them. Not really.”
“Because he’s better?” I asked, bitterness creeping into my tone. “Or worse?”
Rye gave me a small, unreadable smile. “Depends who you’re asking. ”
“And if I were asking you?”
He hesitated. “He keeps his word. He doesn’t like mess. He hates leverage being used against him. And he never—ever—lets someone touch what’s his.”
My heart thudded once, hard. I looked away. “I’m not his.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I hated how the words stuck in my throat. How they felt true. How they made my chest ache.
“He would’ve torn Gracemont apart looking for you if he had to,” Rye added like it was just a passing comment. “You know that, right?”
My lips parted, but no sound came out.
“You were gone for six hours,” he said, pushing off the counter and moving past me toward the living room. “That’s all it took.” He glanced back at me over his shoulder. “Less time than that because for a few hours, he never knew you were missing. That’s all it took.”
Six hours? Was that all it was? It felt like days. But knowing it had only taken him less time than that to find me…I didn’t have words.
I still didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know if I wanted to know.
I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, which overlooked nothing but trees and the sky, clutching the bottle of water tightly in my hand. The view was stunning. So peaceful.
“Isla.”
I turned to Rye. He was watching me, looking as if he was about to say something but then thought better of it. “I’ll be on the other side of the house if you need anything. Zayn will be here later.” He hesitated. “There’s a housekeeper, a chef, and a groundskeeper. The housekeeper comes early in the morning. None of them know who owns the place. They don’t see anyone. The chef sticks to the kitchen and comes three times a week. The groundskeeper doesn’t come inside, and the housekeeper won’t enter any room where the door is locked. Locked doors are off-limits to them. If the door is closed, she’ll check to see if it’s locked, and then she won’t come in. Do you understand?”
I nodded slowly, unable to find the words to say I understood I was to stay out of sight.
When I remained silent, Rye nodded and walked away, leaving me in the expansive living room, gazing out at the view. As I heard him move farther away, I exhaled, releasing my tension, and whispered the one thing I hadn’t been able to acknowledge aloud.
“I understand I’m trapped if I stay here.”
The house had settled into silence, the kind that felt too heavy to be peaceful.
I wandered through it barefoot, my water bottle long forgotten on a marble counter, fingers trailing along surfaces too smooth to belong to real life. Everything was immaculate and controlled.
The whole house was devoid of personality, but yet everything about it screamed Zayn. Which was a complete contradiction, but it made sense in my head.
I should’ve known the loft was not where he lived full-time, that he’d have a place like this—cold on the outside, untouched, almost intimidating. And yet, for all my negativity, I felt sheltered.
I found myself curled up on the massive couch in the living room, knees pulled to my chest, wearing one of the hoodies I’d found tucked into a linen closet. It swallowed me whole.
It was clean, had no lingering scents, and could have been Rye’s or Zayn’s. I didn’t think it mattered. Theft was theft, and I had stolen this hoodie.
It was the one part of the last twenty-four hours that felt real.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, just listening to the wind shift through the trees outside. Long enough for the adrenaline to wear off. Long enough for the edge of fear to dull.
The sound of the front door unlocking was so soft I almost didn’t hear it.
But my whole body tensed.
Then I heard his voice—quiet, clipped, talking to Rye just outside. A few seconds later, the door clicked shut.
I didn’t move.
I felt him before I saw him, his presence cutting through the quiet like a blade. When he finally stepped into view, his eyes locked on me immediately.
He looked tired. No…that wasn’t right. He looked wrecked .
His sleeves were pushed up, his forearms tense, and the moment his gaze landed on my hoodie, something in his jaw flexed.
“Didn’t think you would still be here,” he said softly.
I blinked in surprise at the admission. “Where else would I go?”
Zayn didn’t answer that. He came a few steps closer but didn’t sit. Didn’t crowd me. He just stood there, watching me like I might vanish if he blinked.
“I’m fine,” I said even though my voice betrayed me.
“You’re not. ”
I looked down at my hands. “Fine. I’m not.”
Silence stretched between us—the kind that always carried weight. He finally moved, lowering himself onto the other end of the couch, still keeping his distance, like he was afraid to crowd me.
And that? That broke something in me. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked back at him. “You didn’t need to come for me.”
Zayn looked up, and the look in his eyes—raw, fierce, tired—was enough to make them spill over.
“Yeah, Is,” he said, voice rough. “I did.”
The tears kept falling silently. I hated that he could do this to me. That he could look at me like that and make everything inside me shift.
I forced a laugh. “You weren’t supposed to matter.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look smug. He just watched me, steady and patient. “I know.”
“I had a plan,” I whispered, my confession low in the early evening light. “I was doing fine. I was moving on.”
“Were you?”
I looked away. “I wanted to.”
His voice dropped lower. “But you didn’t.”
“No.”
Silence again.
Then I heard him move closer—slowly, like he knew I could bolt at any second. He stopped just short of touching me, close enough to feel the heat from him, close enough my breath caught.
His hand hovered above mine on the couch, not touching, just…waiting.
“I won’t break,” I told him softly. “I survived this,” I said with conviction. “I would have survived you.” I looked up, determination in my look making me sit straighter. “I would have gotten over you.”
“I don’t want to be something you survive, Is.”
My chest ached. “Then stop doing things I need to recover from.” I broke his gaze.
Zayn exhaled a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I’m trying.”
“I found your knife.” I glanced back and saw him look at me in confusion. “The first night you came to my house, you dropped it. It landed under my bed. You hadn’t taken your wallet, so we had no condom, remember? But you’d taken your knife . Who does that?” I looked back at him. “Who remembers to pick up a knife and not their wallet?”
“I don’t leave home without one,” he told me, a small smile curling his upper left lip. He looked good enough to eat. “I rarely carry a wallet,” he added. “I don’t need to leave any identifying things behind me.”
“You left the knife.” I screwed my face up. “It would be covered in your fingerprints.”
“The morning I left your bed, my fingerprints were on more than a knife.”
I huffed out a laugh, looking away at the easy familiarity that arose between us. I sat slowly for a moment, and then gently, I slid my hand beneath his. Just barely. Not lacing fingers, not holding on. Just enough to close the space.
Zayn didn’t move. He didn’t have to. The weight of that touch said more than either of us could right now.
“Where’s Julian?” I asked him eventually. “Still got all his teeth?”
“I hit him once.”
I looked up. “Really?”
Zayn gave me a flat look. “I’m not a teenager anymore. I can control my temper.”
“Were you ever a teenager?” I asked, only half joking. “ You were always so much older than us. Not in age, obviously, but maturity, I guess. I was listening to boy bands, and you were in underground fighting circuits.”
“Different lifestyles,” he said easily. “You were focused on school, on grades, and college. I was focused on…other things.”
“Like?”
“Surviving in a world that was ready to chew me up and spit me out.”
I stared down at where our hands barely touched, my thumb brushing the edge of his. It wasn’t a promise, and it wasn’t an acceptance.
It was permission—for both of us to just exist in this moment without all the noise pressing in.
But the silence didn’t last.
My voice broke it, quiet and brittle. “Julian’s going to ruin himself.”
Zayn exhaled slowly. This time, he was the one to break the stare. “He already did.”
I flinched at his bluntness, but it wasn’t cruel. Just honest. That’s what Zayn did—he spoke truths you didn’t want to hear. Truths you needed to hear.
I nodded, more to myself than him. “He was never supposed to be the one I had to worry about.”
“No,” Zayn agreed, looking back at me. “That was always me.”
The blunt reminder was what should’ve made me pull away. Should’ve reminded me exactly who he was— what he was. Who he worked with.
Instead, I let my fingers turn under his, slowly curling into the space he offered. His hand closed around mine, warm and solid.
And for the first time since I’d been taken, since that moment I’d heard a stranger say “Got her,” I felt the ground had stopped tilting beneath me.
Not steady. Not yet. But still.
“Can I stay here?” I asked him quietly. “Not for long, just until I feel more like myself.” I looked past him to the huge house. “I’ll stay out of the way and your staff’s way.”
“Stay as long as you need.”
I bit my bottom lip to stop from crying again. “Thank you.” I sniffed.
“One thing, though?” His hand tightened its hold on mine.
“Yeah?”
“Take Rye’s hoodie off,” he told me, his eyes light for the first time since he’d come for me. “The only male clothing you’re going to wear is mine.”
“Seriously?” I protested, watching as his eyes narrowed. “It’s just a hoodie.” He didn’t blink. “It’s clean .” I tugged my hand, but his grip held me tight.
He held his hand up before me, counting off the fingers. “My clothes, your clothes, no clothes,” he said with two fingers still held down. “No other options.”
“What are you going to do if I say no clothes?” I asked him, laughing at his silliness. It felt freeing, as if it were the first time I’d felt like this in what seemed like years.
“I say that sounds like a plan.”
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. I hated that he could do that—make me feel lighter when I still had every reason to feel heavy.
“Zayn,” I warned.
He leaned in, eyes fixed on mine, voice low and full of mischief. “Don’t test me, Wells. I’m hanging by a thread.”
I didn’t pull away. Not this time. Instead, I loosened my grip on his hand, tugging at the hoodie’s hem. “Fine. I’ll take it off. But only because Rye doesn’t exactly seem to scream that he’s the sharing type.”
Zayn grinned, and damn, if it didn’t hit that part of my chest that shouldn’t still be soft when it came to him.
I stood up, his fingers slipping free from mine, and I caught his gaze tracking me as I walked towards the hallway. I paused in the doorway, just for a second.
“Zayn?”
His eyes lifted. “Yeah, Is?”
“This whole thing, me and you, it’s still complicated.”
“I know.” His voice was quieter again. “But at least you’re here.”
And I was. Still here.
Still his.