Chapter 8 Isabella
Isabella
My hands shake as I make my way down the hardwood stairs, each step echoing in the silence like a countdown. The message was simple, delivered through the house's intercom system in that deceptively calm voice: "Library. Now."
I know why he's summoned me. The office door I tried this morning. The one that was supposed to be locked, but wasn't. The one I slipped inside for exactly thirty-seven seconds before the alarm system betrayed me with its soft, accusatory chime.
Thirty-seven seconds. Long enough to see the monitors, the files spread across his desk, the weapons cabinet in the corner. Long enough to understand exactly what kind of man is keeping me here. Not long enough to find anything useful.
Long enough to get caught.
My pulse hammers against my throat as I reach the bottom of the stairs.
Five days. Five days since Matteo Rosetti turned my carefully ordered world upside down, and I've just handed him the perfect excuse to make things worse.
The smart play would be to apologize, to play the contrite captive and hope for mercy.
But I'm done being smart. I'm done being perfect.
The late afternoon light slants through the library windows in golden bars, painting stripes across the hardwood floor.
My palms are damp with nervous sweat, and I wipe them against his oversized sweatpants that hang loose on my frame.
I'm still wearing his clothes, still surrounded by his scent, still playing the role of the compliant prisoner.
Except I'm not compliant. Not anymore.
I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene before me, my heart sinking at what I see.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line every wall, leather-bound volumes creating a warm cocoon that feels more like a trap than comfort.
The air smells faintly of woodsmoke and paper, with an underlying hint of his cologne that makes my pulse quicken despite everything.
A grandfather clock ticks steadily in the corner, each sound like a judge's gavel marking my fate.
Matteo sits behind the massive oak desk he's moved into the center of the room, and everything about his posture screams controlled fury.
His auburn hair is perfectly styled now, not the casual mess I've grown used to.
His white dress shirt is crisp, sleeves rolled with military precision.
His hands rest flat on the desk surface, completely still.
He doesn't look up when I enter, but I can feel his awareness of me like electricity in the air. His tablet displays what looks like security footage, and my stomach drops as I recognize my own image on the screen, frozen in the act of reaching for his office door handle.
"Sit." The word is quiet, calm, and absolutely terrifying.
I'm wearing his clothes again: gray sweatpants rolled at the waist and an oversized black hoodie that swallows my frame completely.
The fabric smells like him, clean and masculine, a constant reminder of who controls every aspect of my existence here.
Nothing in this place is mine except the space I'm allowed to occupy.
I remain standing, my chin lifting in defiance even as my knees threaten to give out. "I need to talk to you about something first."
Now he does look up, and those amber eyes are arctic cold. His hands remain motionless on the desk. "First? You think you're in a position to set the agenda here, Isabella?"
My throat feels dry, but I force myself to speak. This is my only shot, my one chance to turn this disaster into an opportunity. "There's a gala on Friday night. The Callahan Foundation is hosting it at the Plaza, and I'm expected to be there."
The silence that follows is deafening. The grandfather clock's ticking seems to grow louder, marking each second of his consideration. His gaze never leaves my face, and I can practically see him recalculating, reassessing.
"Expected by who?" His voice is dangerously soft.
"Chase." The name feels strange on my tongue now, after everything that's happened. "It's a public event. Donors, board members, society photographers. If I don't show up..." I trail off, letting him fill in the blanks.
"People will ask questions." His voice is thoughtful, not dismissive. That's something I've learned about Matteo in these five days. He listens. Really listens, in a way that most people don't.
"Yes. And Chase knows I never miss foundation events. My absence would be..." I search for the right word. "Conspicuous."
Matteo is quiet for a long moment, that coin dancing between his fingers again. When he speaks, his voice carries a new edge. "Then you'll go."
Relief floods through me so quickly it makes me dizzy. "Really?"
"On my arm."
The relief evaporates. "What?"
He stands, and suddenly the spacious library feels much smaller. He moves with that predatory grace I've come to recognize, closing the distance between us in three measured steps. "You'll go to your gala, bella. But you'll go as mine."
"I can't." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "People will see. They'll talk. Chase will—"
"Chase will what?" His voice drops to something dangerously soft. "Realize that his perfect niece isn't untouchable anymore? That someone else has a claim on her?"
My hands clench into fists at my sides. "I'm not a possession to be claimed."
That smile spreads across his lips, the one that makes my stomach flip and my thighs clench. "Aren't you?"
Before I can answer, he continues, his voice taking on a businesslike tone that somehow makes everything worse. "If you want to go to this gala, we need to set some ground rules." His voice takes on a casual tone, like he's discussing dinner plans rather than my captivity.
I bristle at his tone. "More rules? You're like a damn police manual."
His smile turns sharp, and he takes another step forward. I can feel the bookshelf at my back now, solid and unyielding. "Would you prefer to stay locked in your room instead?"
The threat is delivered casually, but I hear the steel underneath. My mouth goes dry. "What kind of rules?"
"First, no escape attempts. You stay close to me at all times." He braces one hand against the bookshelf beside my head, and I catch the scent of his skin, warm and clean. "Second, any conversation you have with Chase happens where I can see and hear every word. No private chats."
The analytical part of my mind catalogues the positioning, the way he's using his body to cage me in without quite touching. It's a calculated move, designed to overwhelm and intimidate.
But that analytical distance is crumbling fast.
His silver coin appears between his fingers, flipping in that steady rhythm I've learned means he's calculating something dangerous. Now I'm completely trapped, surrounded by leather-bound books and the heat radiating from his body.
"Third," he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper that makes my skin prickle, "you smile when I touch you. You wear what I choose. You play the part of a woman who wants to be there with me."
My breath catches in my throat. The careful control I've been clinging to starts to fracture. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you stay here." His face is inches from mine now, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his amber eyes, close enough that his breath warms my skin. "But I don't think you'll refuse, Isabella."
Heat blooms in my chest, spreading downward, and I hate how my body responds to him. "You don't know anything about me."
His laugh is low, rough, and it sends vibrations through my chest where we're almost touching. "I know you've been wearing my clothes for five days and you haven't complained once. I know you watch me when you think I'm not looking. I know your pulse races every time I get close to you."
His fingers brush against my throat, finding the rapid flutter of my heartbeat there. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, but it brands me all the same. "Like right now."
Then his other hand moves, sliding beneath the hem of my hoodie.
The touch of his palm against my bare breast makes me gasp, my back arching involuntarily against the bookshelf.
He doesn't move his hand, doesn't caress or tease.
He just holds me there, claiming me with the weight and heat of his skin against mine.
The leather spines of the books press into my shoulder blades, grounding me even as I feel like I might float away.
"Tell me to stop," he whispers, his thumb tracing my pulse while his other hand stays perfectly still, a brand of possession that makes my nipples tighten painfully.
Every rational thought I have screams at me to push him away, to maintain some shred of dignity, some vestige of control. But my body has other ideas. I'm melting under his touch, my carefully constructed walls crumbling like sand.
Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch, my lips parting on a soft gasp that sounds like surrender.
"You're wrong," I whisper, but even I don't believe it. My body is screaming its need, my skin burning where he touches me. The grandfather clock chimes the hour somewhere behind him, marking time while my world narrows to this moment, this touch, this impossible want.
"Am I?" His hand shifts slightly against my breast, and I bite back a moan. "Then prove it. Tell me to stop."
The words should come easily. Two simple words that would end this, that would put distance between us, that would restore some measure of control to this situation. But they stick in my throat like stones.
Because the truth is, I don't want him to stop. The truth is, his touch makes me feel more alive than I've felt in years. The truth is, I've spent my entire life being the perfect niece, the perfect curator, the perfect Callahan, and I'm tired of being perfect.
"I..." I start, then trail off as his hand tightens possessively against my breast. The sensation shoots straight through me, molten and devastating.
"You what, bella?"