Chapter 29
EVERLY
I t’s nearly the end of my shift at the café, and I’m wiping down tables, counting down the minutes, when the doorbell jingles.
Isaia strides in like he owns the world, his presence dark and magnetic. Heads turn as they always do when he walks in, and my stomach flips with a thousand fluttering butterflies.
He’s wearing his usual all-black ensemble, the leather jacket fitting him too perfectly, to be fair, and when he stops a few feet from me, his gaze pins me like he’s got the answer to a question I didn’t know I asked.
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
I freeze, blinking at him. “What for?”
“You’re my plus-one.”
My brow furrows, my curiosity sharpening. “To what?”
“A fundraiser. Don’t ask me for what. All I heard Alexius say was everyone needs to attend. So, we’re attending.”
“A fundraiser,” I echo, my tone flat, suspicion flaring. “You mean an event where the rich and powerful flaunt their wealth while pretending to care about whatever cause they're supposedly there for?”
“Call it what you want.” He shrugs. “Be ready.”
“I’m not exactly ‘fundraiser material,’ Isaia.” I gesture to my coffee-stained apron and the stray strands of hair that have escaped my messy bun, which is definitely leaning more messy than bun at this point. “Besides, I don’t even know what to wear.”
“Already taken care of.” He steps closer, the air between us shifting as his dark eyes lock on mine. “Everything you need is in your bedroom.”
My jaw drops. “What—how—wait a second, did you?—”
“Yes,” he cuts me off, his tone casual, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Of course I did. I also replaced the bourbon Anthony drank. Filthy bastard has no respect for good liquor.”
“Isaia, you can’t just break into my house whenever you feel like it,” I snap, gaping at him—and he just tilts his head, his lips curling in that infuriating, maddening way that makes him even more irresistible.
“Of course, I can. Plus, Luna doesn’t bark at me anymore, so I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘breaking in.’”
I huff in indignation, crossing my arms over my chest. “I told you…you broke her.”
The laugh he lets out is a low rumble of amusement that wraps around my bones.
“Be ready at seven. Wear the dress.” And with that, he heads out the door.
Molly walks up behind me. “What just happened?”
I huff, my heart beating fast. “Isaia happened.”
When I get home, I barely reach my bedroom before stopping dead in my tracks.
The dress is hanging on the closet door—a vision in soft pink, the intricate lace catching the fading sunlight spilling past the curtains. It’s breathtaking, the kind of dress that would have made me stop and stare in a store window. Feminine yet daring, with a plunging neckline and a thigh-high slit that strikes the perfect balance between elegance and allure.
I step closer, my fingers brushing over the fabric. It’s soft, luxurious, every detail meticulous—exactly the dress I’d choose. But Isaia picked it. The thought that he sees me this clearly, that he pays attention to details I didn’t even know I showed, makes something bloom in my chest. It’s disarming yet comforting in a way I didn’t expect.
A nervous energy builds inside me as I hang the dress carefully and start getting ready.
I pull out my makeup bag, spending more time than usual, experimenting with subtle tones and highlights, anything to make sure it complements the dress. My hands tremble slightly as I curl my hair, working strand by strand to get it just right.
The excitement swirling in my chest mixes with a touch of apprehension—because this isn’t just about the dress. It’s about him. Isaia. And the way I want him to look at me tonight.
I think about how his eyes swept over me at the café, the faint curve of his lips when he told me to be ready. The way his voice dipped when he said, “Wear the dress.” Something about him makes me want to step up, match his intensity, meet his gaze and hold it—not as someone intimidated, but as someone equal to it.
I glance at the clock as I slip into the dress, the soft fabric molding to my skin. The plunging neckline feels daring, the slit teasing with every movement—the dress feels like armor, like something that’s more than just clothing—it’s a statement. One that says I belong here. That I’m not afraid to stand at his side, no matter what world he’s pulling me into.
With a final touch of perfume and a pair of heels that make my legs look longer than they are, I take one last look in the mirror.
My nerves buzz beneath the surface, my stomach flipping, but there’s also something else—an unfamiliar confidence rising, one that feels like it’s been waiting to be found.
I turn to Luna, sprawled out on her bed, lazily wagging her tail without lifting her head.
“Well, what do you think?” I ask, twirling for her.
She lets out a soft huff, her droopy eyes barely acknowledging me before she rests her head back down with all the enthusiasm of a creature utterly unimpressed.
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “You’re no help.”
At precisely seven, Isaia’s yellow Ferrari purrs to a stop outside my house, the sound vibrating through the stillness of the evening. My heart stutters as I open the door and step outside.
The cool evening air against my skin does nothing to ease the heat already moving through me.
I smooth my hands over the soft fabric of the dress, my nerves dancing, but when my eyes land on him, every coherent thought dissolves.
Leaning against the Ferrari like it’s a throne, Isaia’s wearing an all-black suit draped over him with the kind of precision that looks effortless but screams power.
The jacket hugs his broad shoulders, the cut of his shirt teasing the hint of a muscled chest beneath. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, and those piercing brown eyes find me instantly with a magnetic intensity, leaving me rooted to the spot. He’s not just beautiful and hot and gorgeous—he looks like a warning wrapped in temptation, danger personified.
Sinful. Seductive. Completely untouchable.
And he’s here. Waiting for me.
His lips twitch slightly as he takes me in, head to toe. His eyes burn a slow, deliberate path over me, lingering just a moment too long on the plunging neckline, the curve of my hips, and the slit in the dress that reveals more leg than I’m used to showing.
When his gaze snaps back to mine, it’s like a physical caress, the heat in it making my skin flush. “Has anyone ever told you just how beautiful you are?”
I swallow hard, my skin tingling with awareness. “You don’t look too bad yourself.” I smile.
The way his eyes burn into me as his tall frame closes the space between us has me holding my breath, every inch of my skin prickling with awareness. It’s not just a glance—it’s a caress, like he’s peeling away every layer of fabric, every shred of composure, leaving me utterly bare and exposed just for him.
He stops a mere breath away, then drops to one knee in front of me, the movement smooth, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I blink, glancing down, realizing the strap of my heel has come loose. Before I can utter a word, his hands are on me—warm, steady, and impossibly sure.
One hand wraps around my ankle, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin just above the strap. The touch ignites a spark that travels up my leg, setting my nerves alight and flooding me with desire in every conceivable way.
His other hand gathers the strap with precision, and his fingers gently squeeze as he secures the buckle with a patience that feels nearly…indulgent. There's an intimacy in the action and a tension that straddles the line between unbearable and intoxicating.
His thumb sweeps over the arch of my foot, lingering for the briefest moment, and I swear I feel it everywhere. My pulse thrums in my ears, and I’m painfully aware of how close his lips are to the bare skin of my leg, the heat of his breath grazing me like a whispered promise.
Watching him fasten my heel with an intoxicating mix of power and gentleness takes my breath away. It’s like he could snap me in half with one hand but chooses to wrap me in silk instead.
“There.” He secures the strap, his hands lingering and his thumb making another slow pass over the curve of my ankle. His gaze lifts, locking onto mine, and the intensity in his dark eyes rattles my bones, searing through me with a promise of everything I should resist but find myself incapable of doing. “Can't have you tripping, now, can we?”
“Wouldn’t want that,” I manage.
Then, just as smoothly as he went down, he rises, and it’s almost impossible to breathe with him towering over me.
My knees threaten to give out, but I lock them, desperate to hold my ground. He’s too close, too much, yet I can’t bring myself to step back.
“I have half a mind to take you back into that house,” he murmurs.
I shiver. “To do what?”
“To see you unravel while I fuck you in that dress.” His words burn a path right to my core, heat pooling there with a need to be filled. I’m trying to think of something to say, but my brain is useless while my body wants only one thing. Him.
He reaches out and touches my face with an aching tenderness. “You ready for this, troublemaker?” His thumb traces the curve of my jaw, every stroke a reminder that he’s in control—of this moment, of me, and maybe even of my heart. And damn it, I hate how much I want to hand him every piece of it.
“For what?” I whisper, and he leans in just enough to brush his lips against the shell of my ear, his breath hot and full of promises I’m not sure I’m ready to hear.
“To show the world there’s no one else who gets to have you but me.”