14. Isabella
Chapter fourteen
Isabella
M y thundering heart thrashes in my throat, my temples, tearing out of my chest as we both hold our breath. And yet, even as my fingers tremble holding the icy shard pressed against his skin, his dark gaze locks with mine and I can't look away.
I don't want to look away.
His eyes are challenging me. Dark as midnight. Dangerous. But there's a hint of something else there, too. Something that makes the shard feel heavier in my grip.
My mind races with possibilities as I finally manage to take a sharp inhale. What do I do? Do I press further? Do I let go? Do I make demands he won't fulfill or do I wait until he calls his men and throws me back into my dark and moldy room? The shard found its way to my hand out of self-preservation, a reflex born from confusion dancing with fury after he made me come apart, moaning his name so loudly I'm surprised the entire fortress didn't crumble around us.
His words still resonate in the back of my head, banging and clanging like those hospital monitors I grew to hate. "You're a viper. Like your father." As if I planned all of this. This wasn't a master plan. Sex dreams usually aren't part of anyone's revenge strategy.
I'd laugh if it wasn't so tragically pathetic.
For a moment, in my dreams, we had turned back time. He wasn't spreading his poison in my veins. He wasn't bent on revenge.
And I... I had never uttered a word to my father about his mom.
In my dream, he marched into the ballet studio with his broad shoulders and that half-grin that used to make my heart perform its own dangerous dance.
"Bella," he growled, standing so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body as my back was flushed against the barre. My pulse hammered like a trapped hummingbird. Not like after a performance or the exhaustion of rehearsing, but a rhythm created by him and him only. The Antonio effect, I liked to call it. Antonio who always sent a flurry of butterflies waltzing into my chest when he entered a room, who protected me against Henrik, who jumped into a pool once with his clothes on just to make me smile.
"I've been wanting you for so long it fucking hurts," his voice thick with need as his finger reached out and traced down my jaw, making everything in me tighten like the moment before a grand jeté. "Your laughter. The way you always try to find a silver lining, including in me. The way you dance. So damn beautiful. I've been wanting to taste you, ballerina mia. Will you let me taste your sweet, tight cunt?" He asks and before I can answer, he continues, his voice dropping even lower, rougher. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you, dear stepsister of mine? I can't think straight when I'm around you. You're the air I need, the fire that makes me feel alive. Only you."
At his words, heat pooled low in my belly, my thighs tightened and my treacherous heart sped up because I had imagined this very moment countless times, imagined him as the hero of my own personal romance novel, imagined how it would feel. But nothing compared. Nothing in all those hidden books that got me through chemo compared to this.
In my dream, I had no scars and he hadn't been burned by my father but he was already magnetic and powerful, moving like a panther toward his prey. And I was his willing prey. When his midnight eyes dropped to my lips, caressing my body before lifting back up to capture my gaze, my throat dried up like during those endless hours of treatment. I couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't move. And yet, my body responded, aching and waiting.
His rough calloused fingers moved from my jaw down to the column of my throat and it's not electricity that sparked between us, it's fireworks that set every nerve of my body ablaze with need. "I've imagined how you'd take my cock, too, deep inside of you," he hissed between gritted teeth before tilting my chin up and at his touch, his words, his promises my nipples tightened almost painfully, straining against my pink top. "But first, oh first, I'm going to devour you."
And as his mouth crashed into mine, his thumb traveled down my neck to my chest and a guttural sound escaped him like he, too, had been waiting for this very moment. My lips parted open and his tongue claimed every inch of my mouth, setting even more nerves ablaze until all I could think of was the taste of him, like expensive whiskey and dark promises.
When he inched away, I had to catch my breath but there was no time, no need because he was the air I needed.
"Do you feel how much I want you?" His voice resonated deep within me and the evidence of his desire pressed hard against my stomach. I rolled my hips instinctively needing him closer, eliciting another groan from him that felt like it vibrated through my entire body. "I'm going to make it good for you." His voice was thick with need. "I promise you... until all you can do is moan my name."
And in my dream, those words weren't a prelude to heartbreak. They were a prelude to pure pleasure, but it wasn't enough.
I needed more.
Even as his fingers slipped into my yoga pants and he groaned, "You're wet for me. So fucking wet," I needed more. My face was flushed. My entire body felt flushed like during those fevers that used to keep me up all night.
"I need you," I moaned. "Antonio, please. I need you." Like a prayer, like a confession I'd been holding in for too long.
And right when I was on the verge of waking up, real-life Antonio made it all better. Real-life Antonio with his tattoos and the scars on his face and his body that once made me weep for the man he used to be. Yet, the same scars and tattoos that didn't completely define him but added to his ruggedness, his chiseled jaw, his eyes dark with desire. He was right when he said I wanted his cock inside of me. It's like there's this ache only he can soothe.
When my eyes fluttered open and I saw him there, I didn't care whether it was a dream or a nightmare. I wanted it to be real. I needed him and he was there.
His breath was hot on my skin as his lips trailed down my so-ready-for-him trembling body. The sensations of his fingers teasing and twisting my nipple, of his stubble grazing my sensitive skin, of his tongue circling around it like it was his favorite appetizer had me clutching the sheet with my hands, trying and failing to hold myself together like I used to during treatments when the pain threatened to break me.
The goosebumps that scattered everywhere in his wake? They learned to dance new steps today—a choreography of desire I never knew my body could perform after everything it's been through. As I spread my legs wider for him and he settled between them, his muscular shoulders nudging them and he looked up, groaning "Finally"? The sight of him, all powerful, ready to please me, barely maintaining control with the moonlight filtering through the windows illuminating him like a beast and a hero all at once. Oh, that was better than any dream of mine, better than any fantasy that kept me company in that stone prison.
The heat in my low belly turned flaming hot and the throbbing need that crescendoed called his name or maybe it was me moaning.
And when his tongue lapped my dripping folds, I gripped the bed sheet even tighter because that wet, hot slide had me cry his name out loud.
"So fucking good," he groaned at the taste of me, his voice deep and possessive in a way that made my entire body vibrate and my hips buck to get closer to him. I wanted to hold on to him as he devoured me like I was his last meal. My thighs began shaking when his mouth sealed around my clit, sucking, and teasing before lavishing me again as his fingers played with me. It wasn't a climax surging through me but stars bursting and I wasn't on the edge. My body was bucking off the bed it felt so good and the sounds of him licking me filled the air. Oh no, I free fell into pleasure, screaming his name as I came.
And I hate him for it.
Because in my dream, I still had hope and in this moment? In this moment, in this room, in this place made of lies and revenge, I feel lost and I don't know what to do.
For a second, I shift and it presses the shard harder on his skin. It bites into the corded muscle of his neck, a thin red of line appearing under the silver, a neck I once kissed holding on to him as his very impressive cock plunged inside and out of me, like he was finally home, and he smiles, like he knew that'd be my answer.
But he doesn't know anything.
He doesn't know me.
Not really.
And the ache that spreads inside of me makes me feel like my chest is caving under pressure.
"You think I want to kill you?" I whisper and my voice breaks, but I shouldn't be surprised. After all, he thinks I'm a master manipulator who wanted his mother dead. His mother who I loved so much I'm still mourning her, too. "Give me one reason. One reason why I shouldn't."
He stares at me, those dark eyes assessing, calculating. His jaw clenches in that way I've come to recognize, like he's fighting some internal battle. When he speaks, his voice is low, dangerous, but it doesn't hold the hatred I expected.
"Because you still want answers," he says, not flinching away from the blade. "And dead men don't talk, Bell'cenda."
He doesn't know I have a thousand reasons racing in my mind.
Because he's Antonio. Because I want him to discover the truth. Because of Elena.
Because I don't want him to die.
And my heart desperately wants him to answer in a way that makes me hate him less.
"You want me to tell you why you shouldn't slit my throat?" He tilts his neck further as if to give me better access, but his voice is pure ice wrapped in velvet. "I'm not playing your game, Bell'cenda."
He shifts from above me, holding my wrist in place, not taking the shard away. With one fluid motion that speaks of the power coiled in his muscles, he flips us over until he's on his back and I'm straddling him. I can feel his desire pressing against my core, hard and insistent. Without thinking, my body moves against him, craving more of him like I once craved air during those long nights in the hospital. My nipples harden beneath the thin fabric, and for a moment, I drop my other hand to his chest, riding him, knowing he must feel how wet I am.
For him. Still. Even after everything.
A growl tears from his throat, that dark, dangerous sound that once made me feel like the most powerful woman in the world. "Go ahead. Do it. Slit my throat." He pauses and sits back up, one muscular arm snaking around my waist like a vise, pulling me close enough that I can count his eyelashes. "What are you waiting for, principessa?"
I could bend down and trace those tattoos with my tongue. I could slide the shard across that neck that once bent to whisper Italian endearments against my skin.
But I don't want to.
His scent engulfs me. I can smell my own desire mixing with his, creating something intoxicating between us. His fingers dig into my waist, hard enough that I'll find bruises tomorrow, evidence that this wasn't just another fever dream brought on by isolation.
There's raw want in his eyes, but something else too, something that might be truth when he speaks again. "We both know you won't do it. Because you still want me and it kills you, doesn't it?" His lips trail down my jaw, a maddening brush that promises everything and delivers nothing. "I know because I want you and it fucking kills me, too."
I inhale sharply, feeling like someone's performing grand pliés on my chest. My pulse hammers in my throat as heat ripples up my spine, spreading outward until I'm burning from within.
Because he's right.
He may not have given me the answer I wanted. The one where he admits he was wrong, that he didn't understand how I've been punishing myself for years over what happened to his mother even though I didn't plan anything, that he not only wants me but that he loves me.
Yet, he's not wrong.
I want him. With a fire that chemotherapy couldn't kill. I still want him.
He's giving me a choice. Or at least the semblance of one. After all, he could grab the shard and call for his men. He's stronger than me. More powerful. More vindictive.
I'm not going to slit his throat, and now I'm faced with the consequences of my decision. My heart hammers against my ribs like those first days after treatment when my body forgot how to maintain rhythm.
"I want..." The word sticks in my throat like those pills that were too big to swallow. Memories flood me, the boy who played piano while I danced, the Beast who locked me away, the lover who made me forget about cancer and scars for one perfect night. "I want..."
"What do you want?" His voice scrapes out like broken glass, like he's truly desperate to know. He called me a viper after making me feel like I could dance again. After touching me, tasting me, worshipping me until I dissolved into pure sensation, until all I wanted was to feel him inside me, so we could become one and for a moment, just be Antonio and Isabella again.
But I need to remember that Antonio and Isabella are no longer who we once were. And we're not the people from my dreams either.
Yet... with him, it's like those missing pieces of myself are clicking back together. I can be the new me without forgetting the old. I want to be strong. I want to be... vulnerable. But I've been burned. Torched. Scorched. My feelings are only a weapon he wants to use against me, against the world. The Antonio who used to make me smile, laugh, and feel safe is gone. Obliterated by my father. By his need for revenge.
A tear slides down my cheek, tracing a path I know too well. I can feel it rolling as he waits for my answer, his eyes burning with something I'm afraid to name.
The air around me thickens before disappearing in a whoosh as my heart seems to hold its breath. Slowly, oh so slowly, I let go of the shard. My heartbeat speeds back up, performing its own dangerous choreography. His eyes widen, just slightly, but I see it. I feel it in my very core. He's surprised I'm not trying to kill him, and that alone sends another blade right into my gut.
All I can hear is our breathing as the shard clatters to the floor with a dull thump.
"I was hoping for you," I whisper before he can say another word, the confession scraping my throat raw. "I was hoping for you and you..." A harsh sob breaks free, the sound ugly and broken like everything between us. "You were hoping to destroy me." More tears. More sobs that I can't control anymore. "In the dark of the nights, in the times when I tried so hard to be strong, I was hoping for you. You became a dream and you turned into a nightmare."
His face remains impassive, but something flickers in those eyes, something that might be pain if I believed he could still feel anything beyond rage.
"When I was getting treatment, I wished for your hand to hold mine. I wished for you to come back and tell me it was going to be okay. I wished for you to hold me until those tears that I cried in the shower while begging the cancer to go away would melt into your arms." The sobs wrack my body, but he doesn't move an inch. He stays completely still, staring into my eyes, so close yet universes away, his body almost melding into mine.
"I never wanted your mom to die. I never gave that letter to my father. I told you I shouldn't have told him I'd rather leave with you and her, but it's not like I knew there was a plan when I blurted that out." The words tumble over each other, desperate to be heard. "I told him to fix things. I didn't know..." More sobs. More pain. More memories crashing through walls I thought were strong enough to hold them back.
"I didn't know who he was back then. I danced and danced and danced, and he called me his princess Ballerina. I... You... You wanted the same thing I did. You wanted him to see you, to choose you, to put you on that poisoned pedestal..."
There's a shadow in his gaze, a darkness that tugs at something deep within me. Like he's remembering the boy he was before flames reshaped his face and soul.
But I can't.
I can't let myself spiral back to a place where he'll hurt me again. I can't just forget his words. What he did. I can't let the part of myself that wants to save him from himself rule my choices. Not now. Not anymore. There's an emptiness in my chest that aches worse than any SVT episode. And that achiness spreads to my throat, making each breath a battle.
My body needs to detach from my feelings. I'm not stupid enough to think this chemistry is more than that, a cruel joke played by biology, by memory, by whatever's left of the girl who once loved the boy who played piano.
"I need you to go," I murmur, then find my voice. "Go."
Maybe part of me is hoping he'll beg for my forgiveness. Or that he'll throw another accusation at me that will make it easier for me to bury his memory where it belongs. Or that he'll kiss the pain away, just for one more moment before reality crashes back.
But he doesn't.
Without a word, he rolls away from me, movements fluid as the predator he's become. He gets up and leaves, not looking back, not hesitating. It's like he was never here at all.
Yet the air feels colder, the large bed emptier as I wrap myself in sheets that still smell like him and broken promises.
And I've never felt more alone.