9. Isabelle #2
"Stop!" I grab the stranger's arm, trying to pull him away, but it's like trying to move a statue.
He doesn't budge. "Please, stop, you're going to kill him!
" I can hear guests scattering in the background, someone yelling to call the police, but everything dims away as I stare at the stranger currently choking the man I just met to death.
Just like he choked me…
For a moment, nothing happens. The stranger's grip doesn't loosen, Nikos's eyes are rolling back, and I'm absolutely certain that I'm about to watch someone die.
And then the stranger releases him. Nikos collapses to the ground, gasping and choking, his hands at his throat. Someone is shouting in Greek, probably calling for help.
The stranger grabs my wrist. "We're leaving," he says, and before I can react, he's pulling me away from the table.
"Let go of me!" I try to wrench my arm free, but his grip is iron. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
He doesn't answer. He just keeps walking, dragging me through the bar, past the shocked patrons, and out onto the street. I want to scream, to fight harder… do something other than stumble after him like a fucking idiot. But I'm too stunned. Too confused.
And, to my shock and embarrassment—much like the other night when he had his hands around my throat—there's a part of me that's not entirely terrified. A part of me is aroused.
The realization makes me feel unsettled, almost disgusted with myself, but I can't deny the heat pooling low in my belly, the way my pulse is racing not just with fear but with something darker and more shameful.
He just nearly killed a man for touching me, and some twisted part of me liked it.
The stranger pulls me through the narrow streets of Santorini, the white buildings rising on either side, the cobblestones uneven beneath my feet. The streets are steep here, and I'm struggling to keep up in my sandals.
"Slow down," I gasp, but he doesn't. He pulls me deeper into the maze of streets, away from the main tourist areas and away from the lights and music and people.
The streets get narrower and darker, the buildings older and more weathered.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
My wrist aches where his fingers are wrapped around it.
He's going to kill me. My heart pounds harder, almost hurting where my pulse leaps in my throat. But another thought slinks in behind it: if he wanted to kill me, he would have done it already.
Finally, he stops. We're in a secluded alley now, tucked between two old stone buildings, the only light coming from a single overhead fixture that casts long shadows across the cobblestones.
The sounds of the bar are distant, muffled by the buildings and the narrow streets.
He releases my wrist, and I stumble backward, my back hitting the wall.
For a long moment, we just stare at each other.
He looks different from how he did in Ibiza.
Harder. More dangerous. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark and unreadable, and there's a tension in his body that makes him look like a coiled spring ready to snap.
He's wearing black jeans and a black linen shirt, the glint of his gold chain showing in the open neck. He looks fucking deadly.
How did I not see it before?
"Who the fuck are you?" My voice comes out shakier than I want it to. "Why are you following me?"
"You need to get out of here," he says, his accent thicker now, rougher. "Tonight."
"What?"
"You're not safe here."
I laugh, and it comes out short and shocked. "Not safe? You just nearly killed someone in front of me! You dragged me through the streets like—like—" I can't even finish the sentence. I can't find the words to articulate the mix of terror and confusion and shameful arousal churning inside me.
"That man could have hurt you," he says sharply. There's something in his voice—something almost like conviction—that makes me pause.
"Nikos? He was flirting with me. That's it. He wasn't going to—"
"You don't know what he was going to do." He takes a step closer, and I press harder against the wall. "You don't know who's watching you. Who's waiting for the right moment."
"What are you talking about?" My voice rises, panic bleeding through. "What the fuck is going on?"
He runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time, I see something other than cold detachment in his expression. He looks frustrated. Conflicted.
Almost human again.
"You're in danger," he says finally. "Real danger. And you need to leave Greece. Now."
"Danger from who?" I demand. "From you?"
He doesn't answer, and the silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. My mind is racing, trying to piece together what's happening. The way he looked at me when I said my name in Ibiza. The way his hands moved to my throat. The way he ran.
And now this. Following me to Greece. Nearly killing a man for touching me. Telling me I'm in danger.
What the fuck is going on?
"I don't understand," I whisper, and I hate how small my voice sounds, how scared. "I don't understand any of this."
He takes another step closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne and the sweat on his skin. He's close enough that I can see the stubble on his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. Close enough that I could reach out and touch him.
The thought sends a jolt of heat through me, a magnetic, animal pull that feels almost impossible to ignore. Despite everything about the way we left things and what happened tonight, if he kissed me right now, if he touched me, if he tried to fuck me up against this wall…
…I'd let him.
"You need to trust me," he says, his voice low and urgent. "I know you don't understand. I know you're scared. But you need to get out of here. Tonight. Before—" He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening.
"Before what?" I press. "Before you kill me?"
His eyes flash with something, but he shakes his head. "I'm not going to kill you."
"Then what?" My voice breaks. "What do you want from me?"
He stares at me for a long moment, and I see the conflict written across his face. "I want you to be safe."
The words hang in the air between us, and I don't know how to reconcile the man who just nearly killed someone with the man who's looking at me like he's trying to protect me.
"I don't believe you," I whisper.
"You should."
"Why?" I demand. "Why should I believe anything you say? I don't even know your name. I don't know who you are or why you're here or what the fuck you want from me."
"Julian." The name comes out rough, reluctant on his tongue, even though he knows mine. "My name is Julian."
Julian. It suits him, I think, and then shake the thought loose.
I don't know what suits him. I don't know this man, despite all the things I do know about him—the way he kisses, the sounds he makes when he's aroused, the filthy things he says, the way his cock feels inside of me, the taste of his cum.
I don't really know him, and I'm never going to.
This needs to end.
"Okay, Julian." I force myself to meet his eyes and hold his gaze even though every instinct is screaming at me to run. "Tell me what's going on. Tell me why I'm in danger. Tell me why you're here."
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. The conflict on his face is almost painful to watch. "I can't," he says finally.
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
"So what am I supposed to do? Just trust you? Just go home because some stranger who fucked me and then tried to strangle me says I'm in danger?"
He flinches at the words, and I feel a savage satisfaction at the reaction. "Yes," he says simply.
"Fuck you."
The words come out sharper than I intend, fueled by fear and confusion and anger and the shameful arousal still simmering beneath it all. His jaw tightens. "Isabelle—"
"No." I push off the wall, forcing myself to stand straight even though my legs are shaking. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to show up in my life, fuck me, nearly kill me, follow me to another country, and then tell me I'm in danger without explaining why."
"I'm trying to protect you."
"From what?" My voice rises. "From who? From you?"
"From people who want to hurt you," he says, and there's an edge of desperation in his voice now. "People who won't hesitate. People who won't care that you're young or beautiful or innocent."
The words send a chill down my spine. "What people?" I whisper.
He doesn't answer. He just stares at me with those dark, unreadable eyes, and I realize with a sinking feeling that he's not going to tell me. That whatever he knows, whatever danger I'm in, he's going to keep it to himself.
"I need to go," I say, my voice shaking. "I need to get away from you."
"Isabelle—"
"Don't." I hold up a hand, stopping him. "Don't say my name. Don't touch me. Don't follow me."
I turn and start walking, my legs unsteady, my heart pounding so hard I think it might burst out of my chest.
He doesn't follow. I make it to the end of the alley before I look back, and he's still standing there, watching me with an expression I can't read.
And then I turn the corner, and he's gone.
I walk back to my hotel in a daze, my mind spinning, my body trembling with adrenaline and fear.
Julian. The name echoes in my head, along with his words: You're in danger.
I don't know what to believe. I don't know if he's telling the truth or if he's the danger I should be running from.
But one thing is clear: I'm not safe here.
And I have no idea what to do about it.