25. Isla
CHAPTER 25
ISLA
When I opened my eyes, his side of the bed was still warm.
His scent lingered in the sheets, heady and grounding and somehow laced with tension that I could still feel in my bones. He’d come home in the early hours of the morning.
Quiet. Controlled.
I hadn’t been sleeping, waiting for his return, and my eyes opened the second he stepped into the room. I’d seen the storm in his eyes. I’d watched him as he took his boots off at the dresser, shrugging off his jacket.
“You did something,” I said quietly as he approached the bed. Even when he wrapped an arm around me and pulled me close, there’d been something unspoken in the way he held me. “Everything okay?”
“It’s handled.”
I turned to look at him, meeting his stare. “Zayn?”
“I made sure they know.”
I feel like I should hold my breath. “Who knows? Know what?”
He had been so calm, so serious when he answered. “That there’s a line.” He’d kissed the tip of my nose. “The kind you don’t cross without bleeding. ”
I didn’t ask for details. Zayn didn’t offer them.
Should I have pushed? I didn’t know what to ask. All I knew was that whatever he had done it felt…final.
I slid out from under the covers, careful not to disrupt the room's sense of peace, and walked across the floor to the window. Looking out over the grounds behind the house, I watched the morning light struggle to break through the clouded, soft, gray sky.
It looked deceptively calm as if nothing had changed. But I knew it had. Zayn didn’t tell me what he’d done. He didn’t have to.
A line? What did that mean? Was it a line that shouldn’t be crossed? Because of me. Or was I the line?
I should’ve been grateful. Relieved. But all I could think about was the price he might have to pay. Or worse—the price we might pay. Turning away from the window, I reached for his hoodie, pulling it on and wrapping it tight around me. The same one he’d told me to put on instead of Rye’s.
It smelled like him. Wrapped around me like something steady. Familiar. Once, I believed safety was just part of life—a comforting lie we told ourselves when the world closed in.
But now I knew the truth.
The only real safety I had…was Zayn.
And that truth didn’t scare me anymore.
A soft knock pulled me from my thoughts. “Yeah?” My voice cracked.
The door opened just enough for Rye to appear, holding two mugs of coffee, eyes narrowed as they scanned the room. Always assessing.
“He told me not to bother you. But you’re up.” He set one of the mugs on the windowsill beside me. “He went into the club early.”
Early? Had he even slept? Looking at Rye, I wasn’t sure he had either. I took the cup, grateful, and kept my thoughts to myself. “Thanks.”
Rye didn’t leave. Instead, he placed his mug down and crossed his arms. “You know what he did, right?”
I didn’t answer.
“I mean, maybe not the details,” he went on, watching me carefully. “But you get it now. What being with him really means.”
“I’m starting to.”
He tilted his head slightly. “And?”
I took a long sip, letting the warmth settle into the cold edges inside me. “And I’m still here.”
Rye’s jaw ticked as if he wanted to say more but thought better of it. Instead, he gave a sharp nod. “Then I hope you’re ready,” he muttered. “Because the fuckers won’t care why he claimed you. Only that he did.”
“ Claimed me?” I asked, hearing the incredulity in my voice.
Rye let out a loud sigh. “You need a crash course, and we don’t have the time for you to take it.”
“Then what do I do?” I asked, feeling helpless.
“Stop letting Julian fucking Turner into the house. And…be smarter.” Then Rye turned and walked out, taking his coffee cup with him.
I was stunned, and then I was pissed. Without thinking about it too much, I hurried after him. “Hey! Hey, dickhead! Stop .”
“Dickhead?” Rye looked up the stairs at me, and I lost a little bit of courage as I saw his irritation.
But fuck him.
Fuck him.
“Why do you hate me?” I demanded as I walked slowly down the stairs. “I’ve done nothing?— ”
“You’ve done plenty.”
We both looked surprised at his sharp outburst. But Rye wasn’t the kind of man who backed down once he was committed. On any other day, I would have admired that. Today, when his frustration was aimed at me, I wished I hadn’t come down the stairs with a fire in my belly.
“I—”
“You have messed with his head the moment you batted those eyelashes at him.” Rye’s hand gripped the banister. “You don’t belong here, Isla. You aren’t part of this world. You’re…confetti.”
My mouth dropped. “Confetti?”
“Shiny, pretty to look at, and, at best, a momentary distraction.”
Bastard .
“I am not confetti!” I marched down the remaining steps until I was at eye level with him. He was tall, stupidly tall like Zayn, and it made me want to poke him in the eye for spite. “You know what you sound like? A jealous little girl .”
“Fuck off, Wells.” Rye turned and headed for the kitchen, but to hell with that; I followed, full of righteous anger.
He called me confetti .
“I’m not confetti. I’m, I’m…” What? Permanent? Committed? In love? “ Glitter !”
Not my best moment.
Rye gaped at me and burst out laughing. It wasn’t the happy joyous kind, and it only made my cheeks burn hotter.
“Glitter?” He made a show of wiping his eyes. “You’re glitter ? You’re right, you are glitter.” He swept his eyes over me with contempt. “Cheap, easy to come by”—he leaned into me—“and sticks to fucking everything .”
I slapped him. I wasn’t proud of myself. I want to say it didn’t make me feel better, but I wasn’t a liar .
Rye didn’t move.
I don’t think I breathed.
He leaned back, his look once more assessing. He sucked his teeth. “Not bad,” he said, taking a drink of his coffee. “Needs more power. A punch would have been better, possibly more impact, though you have little muscle mass, so probably not.” He scanned me from top to bottom. “You work out at all?”
“What?” I gave my head a shake as if to clear it. “What’s happening?” I’d expected anger, the explosive kind, maybe a shove, but…assessment?
Rye finished his coffee. “I need to know how far I can push before you break, Barnie.” His tone was so matter-of-fact. The earlier animosity he had shown me had vanished. “Name-calling and bitch slaps aren’t enough. Do you want to punch me?”
“Every time you talk.”
He grinned. “That’s better.” He walked past me, his hand clasping my shoulder. “Zayn claimed you, Barnie. You need to be ready to fight for him as he is for you.”
“Fight?”
He looked at me over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll teach you.”
“Why do you keep calling me Barnie?” I yelled after him, hating how frustrated I sounded.
He didn’t answer and left me standing in the kitchen, thoroughly confused about what had just happened. I heard him call out a goodbye, leaving behind the echo of what I now knew was coming.
A reckoning.
I pulled into The Grand’s back lot and turned off the engine, but I stayed in the driver’s seat a moment longer than necessary. It felt different being here today.
The building was the same. The parking lot. The ivy-covered trellis near the entrance. But something inside me had shifted, and the life I’d so carefully compartmentalized—work, structure, control—suddenly felt like a paper shield.
Still, I gathered my belongings, adjusted the strap of my tote bag, and stepped outside. Work felt normal. It was what I excelled at. Work felt safe.
Right?
I passed through the main entrance and smiled at the concierge as I made my way to my office. My heels clicked against the marble tiles. I took a detour into the conservatory, where breakfast was still being served to the last-minute rush of guests eager to grab a meal before heading back to their rooms to prepare for their day.
It was the same as any other day. My coffee order was still waiting to be poured, and I took it with a murmured thanks before carrying on my way to my office.
This was my routine. It should’ve felt grounding. Instead, it felt surreal. Nothing had changed, kidnappings aside; nothing was different.
Everything was different.
I waved at Russ who was in deep conversation with one of the bellhops, and I wondered what that was about before I saw Gerard and instantly ducked into the first meeting room I could to avoid him.
I didn’t have it in me this morning to talk yurts. How many times could you tell someone the same thing? Eight yurts were ideal, if they could squeeze it, twelve would be better. Twelve was the maximum. Eight offered exclusivity, and twelve offered maximum exclusivity. I sipped my coffee as I waited him out. He would get distracted by something shiny, and I could slip out and finally head to my office.
Something shiny. Like…glitter.
Glitter . Why would I even say glitter? I mentally face-palmed, rolling my eyes at myself for letting Rye goad me. But then he was all...normal. I can only assume it was a test, but he didn’t need to test me; he just needed to talk to me. Maybe I needed to talk to him. This constant bickering between us was draining, and he was obviously important to Zayn, so I needed to do better. Or he needed to do better, and I needed to be the adult and tell him to share his favorite toy… Be nice, Isla . I was nice; that was the problem. I was a nice person. Therefore, I would make the effort with Rye.
And maybe that would make Rye better. I huffed out a laugh. “Maybe pigs will fly…”
I opened the door a fraction, and seeing the coast was clear, I hightailed it to my office. This was not the best demonstration of professionalism or niceness , but I needed more than this cup of coffee before I could deal with Gerard today.
Settling in behind my desk, I pulled my laptop, tablet, and notebook from my tote because a paper backup was always needed in case technology failed. Opening everything up, I relaxed into my chair, ready to tackle the day.
I had a breakfast convention seminar scheduled for tomorrow in one of the smaller boardrooms. Fifty-five attendees were expected, starting at seven a.m. and wrapping up at eight thirty. Breakfast pastries, tea, and coffee would be provided. The promotional materials had already arrived, and I needed to double-check the boxes for the notepads, pens, keychains, and other items that these morning conventions always equipped their delegates with. A morning seminar meant I would set up the tables tonight and be on-site tomorrow by six or six fifteen at the latest.
I hesitated. Did I need to tell Zayn? Was that who we were now? Did I tell him my comings and goings?
Did we live together? I had no idea what we were.
I had been kidnapped. Julian’s fault, not Zayn’s.
Zayn had claimed me last night in his strange, dangerous world I wanted nothing to do with. He had stuck his neck out for me—not once but twice. I needed to tell him. He would tell me, wouldn’t he?
My fingers tapped against my notebook. He knew I had events this week; it was one of the reasons he let me leave the house. Let me ? I was a strong, independent woman. I didn’t need a man to let me do anything. Definitely not Zayn McCabe.
“This is ridiculous,” I mumbled as I picked up my phone. I shot out a text.
I have a morning event tomorrow. Starts at seven. I need to be at work for 6:15
His reply was instant.
Okay
That was it? Okay ? I gnawed my bottom lip. All that inner turmoil for okay ?
It’s an early start…will I go back to my apartment tonight?
That is not what I wanted, but I needed to be realistic and knew I had to return sometime. I lived there. It’s why I paid rent, after all.
Why would you do that? You’re waking me either way. I’d rather you did it at the house.
I read his text twice. It irked me. I wasn’t sure why. Yes, I did know why. He just assumed he would come home with me. While that might be what I wanted, he wasn’t allowed to just assume it.
Guess I needed to add Zayn to the list of people I needed to talk to.
Weirdly, I felt better and more in control. There were aspects of my life I knew I wouldn’t be able to control if I stayed with Zayn. I wasn’t a fool; I understood that. I was aware his life was dangerous, and I knew what I was walking into by choosing to be with him, but I still needed to be myself .
I tapped out a message to him.
We’ll talk about it later
I received a thumbs-up emoji. My dad texted using emojis. He was in his sixties. Apart from the laughing emoji he sent me that time I was having dinner with Julian, Zayn didn’t use emojis; he didn’t seem like the type to be an emoji person. In fact, now that I thought about it, I bet he was precisely the kind of person who used emojis. It would drive Rye insane. I could already envision the dramatic eye roll from the blond giant at receiving a thumbs-up. It made me smile.
Maybe I needed to text Rye more…
The door to my office creaked open, revealing a familiar face. Pete appeared panicked, and I suppressed a sigh.
“Yurts?” I asked as I stood.
“Isla…you need to rein him in. Again.”
Yup. Just another day at the office. I grabbed my phone and tablet and followed Pete to the conservatory to reason with Gerard before he ruined all our careful planning. Still, I welcomed the feeling of familiarity. I took what felt like my first full breath in days. This was good; this was...normal.
That feeling lasted until I heard a throat clear behind me. I turned and saw someone I didn’t recognize. The man was well-dressed but not overly so; he didn’t stand out too much. He just...stood out. He was watching me intently as guests milled about the foyer, checking in and checking out.
When his eyes met mine, he smiled. It wasn’t friendly or unfriendly, but it was cold. My steps slowed as I watched him approach. His movements were measured and casual, as if we were old acquaintances, but I knew there was nothing casual about this man.
“Ms. Wells?”
I blinked, gripping my phone tighter. “Yes?”
“Big event coming up?” he asked, nodding toward the delivery being unloaded at the front entrance. His voice was smooth, polished, and p racticed.
“Can I help you?”
His gaze drifted from mine, taking in the hotel and its activity. It lingered on Pete, who hadn’t noticed that I’d slowed behind him. “No need. Just admiring the work.” He smiled again, this time a bit wider. “I hear you’re very…thorough.”
“Is there an event you need help planning?” I asked him, aware my voice was slightly higher than usual, which would attract attention. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Russ look up from behind the front desk.
Good.
The man noticed as well and chuckled, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Just passing through. I wanted to see what was so alluring at The Grand.” He turned to leave but paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. “Must be a lot to juggle,” he said, his tone light. “Planning events…and other entanglements.”
My stomach dropped.
He gave me one last look over and then walked out the front door.
I stood frozen in the middle of the foyer, my heart pounding and skin prickling with dread. I didn’t know who he was, but I knew exactly what that had been.
A message.
Not to Zayn.
To me.