Chapter Thirty
Colton
Steele’s private jet hummed steadily; the cabin lights dimmed to accommodate Isabella’s exhaustion. She’d collapsed into sleep almost immediately after we’d boarded, her body surrendering to the safety and comfort of the leather seats after the nightmare of her captivity. As promised, I didn’t take her to the hospital. But Steele’s doctor had met us at the jet and had administered a mild sedative before we left London, assuring me it would ease the journey without deepening the chemical dependence her captors had forced upon her. She fought both me and the doctor, but eventually gave in when I begged her, tears threatening to fall from my eyes.
I watched her sleep from the seat across the aisle, cataloging each visible injury the dim lighting revealed. The cut above her temple that disappeared into her hairline. The raw marks around her wrists where restraints had bitten into flesh. Each one made the rage simmer hotter in my chest, even as I maintained the outward calm that had become second nature.
“She’ll need time,” Cooper said quietly, sliding into the seat beside me. He handed me a glass of whiskey I hadn’t asked for but gladly accepted anyways. “And space.”
“I know.” I didn’t take my eyes off Isabella, afraid that if I looked away, even for a moment, she might disappear again. “Steele’s hotel has the security we need?”
“Better than most government facilities.” He took a sip of his own drink. “Allegra’s been preparing the suite. Top floor, medical supplies, everything she’ll need. Then in the next few days, we’ll have the villa ready for you. We don’t want Clara to…”
“I understand,” I said, looking down at the bruises covering Isabella’s face. Clara would be frightened. It was better to let my Bella heal a little before introducing her.
Isabella shifted in her sleep, face contorting slightly as dreams or memories reached for her. I was halfway out of my seat before Cooper’s hand on my arm stopped me.
“Let her sleep if she can,” he advised. “There’ll be time for comfort when she’s ready for it.”
I settled back, recognizing the wisdom in his words even as every instinct screamed to go to her, to shield her from whatever darkness followed her into sleep. This protective urge was new for me—or perhaps not new, just stronger than it had ever been. Now all I wanted was to hold her close and never let go.
“You really love her,” Cooper said quietly. Not a question. An observation.
I didn’t bother denying it. “Yes.”
“Have you told her?”
“No.” The word felt heavy. “And I won’t. Not yet. Not until...” I gestured helplessly towards her sleeping form. “Not until she’s had time to heal. To choose.”
Cooper studied me over his glass. “That’s...surprisingly mature of you.”
“I learned from your mistakes,” I said, the ghost of a smile touching my lips.
That earned a soft chuckle. “Always the smarter twin.”
The Mediterranean gave way to the Italian countryside below, the moonlight casting silver shadows on the olive groves and vineyards as we began our descent. Isabella slept through the landing, the sedative working well. When the plane finally stopped, I gathered her carefully in my arms, her weight barely registering against my chest.
“The car’s waiting,” Stryker said, appearing from the cockpit where he’d been conversing with the pilot. His eyes lingered on Isabella’s sleeping form, rare emotion crossing his usually impassive face. “Steele will keep monitoring the situation in London. No one knows you’re here.”
I nodded my thanks, following Cooper down the aircraft’s stairs and into the Italian night. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of citrus and the distant sea. Isabella stirred slightly as the breeze touched her face, but didn’t wake.
The drive to Rome went quickly, broken only by Isabella’s occasional murmurs as her dreams claimed her. I held her against me in the backseat, whispering reassurances when she tensed, smoothing her hair when she whimpered. Every sound, every movement, made pressure build behind my ribs—a violent rage at what had been done to her, fear for the road ahead, and something deeper, something visceral that I couldn’t quite place.
By the time we reached the city center, the sun was rising, casting dappled patterns across the road. Allegra was waiting inside the hotel lobby, and Cooper gave her a quick peck on the cheek before shifting a small bag Steele had packed for me over his shoulder.
“The penthouse is ready,” Allegra said, leading us toward a private elevator. “I’ve had it stocked with everything Steele’s doctor recommended.”
Cooper rode up the elevator with me, his silence saying more than words could. The weight of what Isabella had endured hung between us. When the doors opened to reveal a spacious room overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea, the beauty of the azure waters seemed almost offensive against the reality of Isabella’s condition.
I carried her against my chest, her weight frighteningly insubstantial. The dawn bathed the room in warm hues, but I barely registered it. My entire world had narrowed to the woman in my arms, her shallow breathing against my neck the only thing that mattered.
Cooper followed behind and set my bag down by a large, cream sofa. He hesitated, concern etched in the lines around his eyes; my mirror image carrying the same weight. “If you need anything, just call.” His hand squeezed my shoulder, a rare moment of brotherly affection. Then he was gone, leaving us alone in our sanctuary.
Isabella remained unconscious as I moved to the bedroom and placed her carefully on the king-size bed. The sheets—crisp, white, expensive—seemed to swallow her diminished form. My heart constricted painfully at the sight. I started running a bath, grateful for the task to occupy my shaking hands.
The penthouse might have been modern and sterile, but the bathroom was luxurious, with soft lighting and warm marble. Steam rose from the oversized tub as I tested the water temperature for the third time—warm enough to chase the chill from her bones, but not hot enough to shock her system. Steele’s doctor had given me detailed instructions about her care, about the delicate balance of warming someone who’d been kept in cold conditions for so long.
A soft cry from the bedroom sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. I rushed back to find her stirring, her face contorted in distress. I scooped her up immediately, cradling her against my thundering heart.
“Hush now…” I whispered, my throat tight with emotion. Fear clawed at me that she might panic, might not recognize where she was or who I was.
Her eyes fluttered open, slightly dilated and rimmed with red. Relief flooded through me when recognition dawned in her eyes. “Colton?” My name on her lips was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.
“I’m here, my Bella. I won’t leave you,” I promised, the words a vow more binding than any legal contract I’d ever signed. I brought her to the bathroom, the steam enveloping us in a protective cocoon. I helped her to stand, steadying her as she swayed slightly, dressed only in my tactical vest.
The harsh bathroom lights revealed what the dim lighting had masked—every rib visible beneath bruised skin, hip bones sharp enough to cut. Rage and tenderness warred within me, but I forced my expression to remain gentle. She didn’t need to see my fury now; she needed only to see my love, even if I couldn’t name it yet.
“Let me take care of you,” I said softly, approaching her like a wounded animal. When she nodded, barely perceptible, I helped her out of the vest. I’d dreamed of Isabella naked for months now, but arousal was the furthest thing from my mind. Each new injury I uncovered made me shudder with anger—infected sores from the restraints, raw patches where concrete had rubbed skin away, marks that spoke of rough handling and calculated cruelty.
“The water might sting,” I warned, lifting her as carefully as possible. She felt impossibly light, like a bird with hollow bones. A small hiss escaped her as the water touched her abraded skin, but then she relaxed slightly as warmth began seeping into her body.
I started with her hair, pouring warm water over the matted tangles with infinite care. The expensive shampoo Allegra had left filled the air with the scent of coconut as I worked it through her dark strands, section by section. My hands remained steady despite the fury building in my chest at each new mark I discovered—a cut behind her ear, bruising along her scalp where someone had pulled.
“Tell me if anything hurts too much,” I murmured, carefully working out a knot. “We can stop anytime.”
“Everything hurts,” she whispered, her first real words since the car. “But don’t stop. Please.”
Her hair gradually softened under my ministrations, dark strands clinging to my fingers as I rinsed away weeks of grime. I took my time, massaging her scalp with gentle pressure, watching as some of the tension eased from her shoulders. The water darkened with dirt and blood, and I drained and refilled it twice before being satisfied.
When her hair was finally clean, I moved to her body, using the softest washcloth I could find. Every touch was careful, reverent. This wasn’t about desire, it was about restoration, about giving her back the dignity they’d stolen. I washed away dirt and blood and horror, keeping up a quiet stream of reassurance when she trembled.
The medical supplies Allegra had gathered sat ready—antibiotic ointment for the infected wounds, gauze for the worst abrasions, cream for the bruises. I treated each injury with methodical care.
“Almost done,” I promised, supporting her as she stood on shaky legs. The water dripped off her too-thin frame, revealing more bruises, more marks that made me want to resurrect her captors just to kill them again. I wrapped her in a heated towel, patting her dry with infinite gentleness. Her skin was like tissue paper, bruising at the slightest pressure.
Allegra had brought some of her own clothes for Isabella, but I ignored them. Instead, I laid out some of mine, cotton sweatpants with a drawstring waist and one of my undershirts. The shirt that usually stretched across my shoulders now drowned her diminished frame, but something in me settled a bit at seeing her in my clothes.
Safe. Protected.
Mine.
“Your hair next,” I said, settling her on the edge of the bed. I worked methodically with the comb, starting at the ends and working up, careful not to pull. The repetitive motion seemed to soothe her, and her eyes drifted closed as I combed each section.
Her hair finally smooth, I moved to treating the raw marks on her wrists and ankles. Steele’s doctor had given me some specialized bandages that wouldn’t stick to the wounds. I worked with careful precision, wrapping each injury while monitoring her face for signs of pain.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, securing the last bandage. She nodded slightly, though exhaustion was clear in every line of her body.
Allegra had not only cooked, but left several options: clear broth, thin porridge, mint tea. The doctor had been clear about starting slowly, about not overwhelming her system, and my sister-in-law delivered. Cooper had relayed what the doctor had said to Allegra, and she rushed to prepare everything she could. I said a silent thank you to my brother and his wife.
“We’ll start small,” I said, helping her settle against the pillows. Allegra must have had the housekeeper pile every soft blanket she could find on the bed, creating a nest of warmth. The broth was still warm in its thermos, and I helped her wrap her hands around the mug, supporting it when her fingers trembled.
“Small sips,” I reminded her, watching as she managed a few swallows. Each seemed to take tremendous effort, but color gradually returned to her lips. When she couldn’t manage any more, I set the mug aside and reached for the lip balm Allegra provided. Her lips were cracked and bleeding from dehydration, and I dabbed the healing ointment on with gentle touches.
“Are you cold?” I asked, noticing her slight shiver. At her nod, I adjusted the blankets, tucking them carefully around her shoulders. The penthouse’s heating was already set high, but her body was struggling to regulate temperature after so long in that cold cell.
“You should rest now,” I said, moving to clear away the medical supplies. Her hand shot out, catching my sleeve with surprising strength.
“Stay?” The word was barely audible, but the fear behind it was clear.
“Always.” I slid under the blankets beside her, letting her determine how close she wanted to be. After a moment’s hesitation, she curled into my warmth, her head finding my chest. I kept my touch light, mindful of her injuries, but she pressed closer, seeking contact.
Her breathing gradually steadied against my chest, but sleep didn’t come easily. Every noise from the street below made her tense. Each time the heating system kicked on, her fingers would clutch at my shirt. I kept up a quiet stream of comforting words, one hand running gently through her now-smooth hair.
“You’re safe,” I said softly when a siren in the distance made her whimper. “I’ve got you. No one will hurt you again.”
After a few hours, the first nightmare hit. She thrashed against invisible restraints, crying out in French. I held her carefully, calling her name until she surfaced.
“Colton?” Her voice was cracked, uncertain.
“Right here.” I reached over to turn on the small lamp, letting her see my face. “You’re in the penthouse. I’m here.”
She blinked, reality slowly returning. “They were...the needles...”
“Never again.” I brushed the damp hair from her forehead. “He can’t touch you anymore. I made sure of it.”
She curled closer, shivering despite the warmth. I pulled another blanket around us, tucking it carefully around her shoulders.
“Do you want to try some more broth?” I asked when her trembling continued. At her slight nod, I helped her sit up, supporting her as she managed a few more sips. The doctor had stressed the importance of small, frequent amounts of liquid to combat the dehydration.
When she finished, I eased us back down, arranging the pillows to keep her elevated slightly, better for her bruised ribs. She shifted restlessly, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt.
“Here,” I murmured, guiding her to lie more fully against my chest. My body heat seemed to help, and she gradually stilled, one hand fisted in my shirt like an anchor.
“Talk to me?” she whispered. “About anything. Just...need your voice.”
So I talked. About Allegra and Cooper’s vineyard where I’d take her to recover. About the roses Allegra grew along the terrace walls. About Clara’s recent fascination with painting everything purple. Anything to keep her mind from dark places.
We stayed in bed the rest of the day, and even into the night. Isabella slept in cycles, brief periods of sleep broken by nightmares, quiet conversations in the dark, small sips of broth or tea. Each time she woke disoriented, I was there with careful touches and soft words, reminding her she was safe.
She finally fell into a deeper sleep, her breathing evening out against my neck. I kept watch as the hours passed by, cataloging what needed to be done. She needed food, more fluids, and antibiotics for the infections. I’d need to move her to the estate soon, somewhere with gardens and sunlight and space to heal.
But for now, I simply held her, memorizing the weight of her in my arms. Every breath she took was a victory. Every moment of peace was precious.
Because she was alive.
Because she was in my arms where she belonged.
The next week passed in a blur of medical evaluations, security precautions, and careful recovery.
We drove her to Cooper and Allegra’s estate. I’d made excuses at work, cited a family emergency. I saw company emails come through on my phone, updates about the missing art authenticator, even though I knew that there were certain people at the bank who knew exactly what happened to her. Hopefully, they didn’t know where she was now.
The Italian sun felt wrong.
The villa sprawled before us, all rich stone and ancient cypress trees, while Isabella slept in the car beside me. She hadn’t stirred during the drive, the exhaustion of her ordeal still evident in the shadows beneath her eyes. Even in sleep, her body remained tense, curled away from any contact.
I bit my lip, remembering how differently we’d sat in my office months ago. She’d challenged everything, eyes burning as she questioned my methods. I’d found her infuriating then—this art expert who seemed to delight in disrupting my carefully ordered world.
Now I couldn’t stop watching her breathe.
“I’m glad you both are coming here,” Cooper said softly from the driver’s seat. “Allegra’s prepared a bedroom in the new addition. Private entrance, good security sight lines.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The clinical instructions from the doctor still echoed in my head. Trauma recovery. Sleep disorders. Possible dissociation. Everything measured and documented, like we could somehow quantify what she’d endured.
What I’d failed to prevent.
“Stop it,” Cooper said, reading my tension. “This wasn’t your fault.”
But it was. I was the one who’d gotten carried away that night. Who’d been too distracted by sex, by how she’d felt in my arms, by emotions I hadn’t wanted to examine too closely. I’d let my guard down, and then they’d taken her. And then I’d acted rash at the docks, and ruined the chance we had to rescue her.
Isabella woke as we pulled up to the villa, that sharp intelligence I’d always admired assessing her surroundings instantly. She didn’t ask where we were, Cooper had explained his offer of sanctuary. But her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the door handle.
“Let me,” I said, moving to help her. But I stopped at her flinch—barely perceptible, but it cut deeper than any wound I’d taken during her rescue.
“I can manage,” she said quietly. Her French accent was more pronounced now, like maintaining her usual precise English required too much energy.
I watched her ease herself from the car, movements careful but determined. Even now, after everything, there was that pillar of strength I’d first noticed during board meetings. The strength that had made her question my authority, challenge my methods, demand better from everyone around her.
The strength I’d fallen in love with before I’d even realized what was happening.
“The add-on has good light,” Allegra said, appearing at the villa’s entrance. Her physical therapy training showed in how she moved—confident but non-threatening, giving Isabella space while staying close enough to catch her if needed. Allegra was the best at what she did—her wellness center was so popular that it had outgrown their estate last fall. Located offsite now and closer to the city, she had an entire staff at her disposal. “And a private terrace. Fresh air helps with healing.”
Isabella nodded once, following Allegra inside. I watched her careful walk and tried not to remember how she used to fill my office with her presence. How she’d arrive with stacks of documentation, determined to prove some point about authentication methods or acquisition reporting.
How I’d found myself looking forward to our arguments, to the flash of passion in her eyes when she challenged me.
“She needs time,” Cooper said quietly, reading my expression. “Space to find herself again.”
“I know.” I watched her disappear into the villa with Allegra. “I just...”
“Want to fix everything?” His smile held old knowledge. “Some things can’t be fixed, brother. They can only be survived. Healed.”
The east wing suite was exactly as Allegra had described, flooded with light from tall windows, a private terrace offering views of the vineyard. Isabella stood very still in the center of the sitting room, hands clasped tightly together.
“The bathroom has a soaking tub,” Allegra said. “And the bedroom gets morning sun. We thought—”
“It’s perfect,” Isabella cut in. Her voice wasn’t harsh, just tired. “Thank you. Both of you. I just need...”
“Space,” Allegra finished. “Of course. I’ll bring dinner later. Light soup, nothing too heavy.”
I set Isabella’s bag near the bedroom door, uncertain of my place here. Steele had been to her apartment in London and sent some of her things over before we had even rescued her.
In London, everything had been clear—find her, save her, keep her safe. But now…
“You don’t have to stay,” she said quietly. “I know you feel obligated—”
“No.” The word came out rougher than I intended. “That’s not...I should go. Let you rest. But I’ll be just down the hall in Cooper’s office if you need anything.”
Her eyes met mine for the first time since the rescue, and for a moment I saw past the new walls she’d built to something raw and uncertain. “Why are you really here, Colton?”
Because I love you , I thought but couldn’t say. Not yet. Not when she was still healing.
“Because you’re not alone,” I said instead. “Not ever again.”
The first days at the villa developed their own rhythm. Allegra handled the medical aspects with grace, while Cooper coordinated security with a network of old contacts. I found myself caught between wanting to help and knowing when to step back.
Memories of our time at the bank haunted me. Walking past her office each morning, that quick mind of hers dissecting evidence and questioning procedures. How she’d lean against my desk during late meetings, gesturing emphatically about authentication protocols while I pretended her proximity didn’t affect me.
“You’re hovering,” she said one afternoon, catching me watching her from the terrace doorway. She sat in a pool of sunlight, a large book open in her lap. The Italian sun had begun returning some color to her face, though she was still too thin.
“Force of habit,” I admitted. “From my days as the bank’s counsel.”
A hint of a smile touched her lips. “Ah yes. Mr. Moreau and his precious procedures.”
The echo of her old teasing felt like hope. Like perhaps somewhere beneath the trauma, the Isabella I’d known still existed. The one who’d stormed into my office that day, demanding explanations for irregularities in shipping manifests.
“You made those procedures very difficult to maintain,” I said, moving to sit in the chair opposite her. Far enough to give space, close enough if she needed me.
“Someone had to challenge your rigid worldview.” Her hands tightened slightly on the book. “Though I suppose recent events have done that more thoroughly than I ever could.”
The shadow that crossed her face made my chest ache. I wanted to reach for her, to offer comfort, but I remembered her flinch that first day. Instead, I asked, “What are you reading?”
She glanced down at the book, something vulnerable crossing her expression. “Documentation methods for Renaissance masters. I was testing...seeing if I could still...”
“Still what?”
“Trust my expertise.” The words came out small. “After they used it against us. Used art to hide...” She couldn’t finish her sentence.
“Your expertise helped us save those girls that were held with you.” I said quietly. “Helped us uncover their network. Saved lives.”
“Not soon enough.” Her hands trembled slightly. “Not for the others in those containers. The ones who never came back. And I lost the thumb drive. All that…for nothing.”
I hadn’t even considered the evidence that we’d stolen that fateful night. To be honest, I’d hardly thought about bringing Devereux Bank down. I was too busy watching Isabella.
I tried to channel the rage I’d felt discovering those shipping manifests. Lives treated like cargo. Isabella was my priority, but we’d still have to deal with the can of worms we’d opened.
“We’ll find them,” I promised. “Your father’s notes, combined with what we discovered—we’ll bring it all down.”
She looked up then, really looked at me, and I saw a flash of her old fire. “We?”
“Yes.” I met her gaze steadily. “If you’ll let me help. Let me...” I struggled to find the right words. “Let me be there. Whatever you need.”
“Why?” That single word held so many questions.
Because watching you challenge every assumption made me question my own rigid walls. Because seeing your passion for justice made me want to be better. Because somewhere between arguments and late nights examining evidence, I fell in love with your brilliant mind and fierce heart.
But I couldn’t say any of that. Not yet. Not when trust was still such a fragile thing between us.
“Because you were right,” I said. “About the bank. About everything that mattered.”
She studied me for a long moment, and I forced myself to stay still under that harsh assessment. Finally, she said softly, “You’ve changed.”
“You changed me.” The admission felt dangerous. Too honest. Too close to everything I wasn’t ready to voice.
Her words echoed in my head that night as I paced the villa’s halls, sleep elusive as usual. You’ve changed . She wasn’t wrong. The by-the-book lawyer who’d lived and breathed order felt like a stranger now. That man would never have defied the board, never have learned combat, never have killed to protect someone he…
A scream shattered the night’s quiet.
I was moving before I even realized it, muscle memory from previous nights taking over. Isabella’s terrace doors were open to the Italian air, the light from the crescent moon spilling across her thrashing form.
“Isabella.” I kept my voice steady, not touching, not yet. “You’re safe. You’re at Allegra’s and Cooper’s villa. It’s Tuesday. It’s 2:00 a.m. You’re safe.”
She awoke with that same awareness I’d always admired, instantly alert but trembling. “Colton?”
“Right here.” I stayed by the door, letting her orient herself. “Just a dream.”
“Not a dream.” Her voice was rough. “Memory. They were...the other girls were...”
“Look at me,” I said quietly. When she did, I continued. “We’ll find them. Every girl. Every trafficker. Every piece of evidence. Together.”
Something shifted in her expression. “Like we did at the bank? Before...”
“Better.” I moved closer, drawn by the vulnerability in her voice.
She was quiet for a long moment, moonlight catching the tears on her cheeks. Then, so softly I almost missed it: “Will you stay? Just…sit with me?”
The trust in that request staggered me. This brilliant, fierce woman who’d challenged my every assumption was letting me see her broken edges. Letting me help her heal.
Letting me love her, though neither of us were ready to name it yet.
“Of course.” I settled into the chair near her bed, close enough to remind her she wasn’t alone, far enough to give her space to breathe. “I’ll be right here.”
She curled onto her side, watching me with those clever eyes that had first captured my attention months ago. “Tell me something,” she whispered. “Anything.”
So I reminded her about our first meeting, how she’d walked into my office on her first day as the bank’s new art expert, already challenging my team’s procedures with that mix of French sophistication and brilliance. How she’d made every board meeting more interesting with her passionate defense of art over process. How she’d gotten under my skin from day one.
She drifted off to my voice, her breathing finally steady. I watched her sleep, remembering how she used to look across my desk—challenging, intimidating, unstoppable. The woman who’d made me want to be more.
The woman I’d fallen in love with, procedure by shattered procedure.
“I’ll make it right,” I promised her sleeping form. “Everything they broke. Everything they stole. Whatever you need to heal.”
Because somewhere between arguments and desperate searches through shipping manifests, I’d learned what really mattered.
Only this moment. Only our connection.
Dawn was breaking over the vineyard when she stirred again. Her hand found mine in the grey light, and for now, that was enough.
We had time. Time to heal. Time to trust. Time to find our way back to the passion we’d glimpsed in that vault kiss, but deeper now. Stronger.
Real.