Chapter 24 ISABELLA
Chapter twenty-four
ISABELLA
The boat rocks gently beneath us, carrying us away from the island, away from the nightmare. Through the porthole, I can see the sun getting lower, painting the Aegean in shades of gold and blood.
I'm still wearing the white dress.
It clings to me like a second skin—stained, torn, reeking of incense and fear and Henrik's cologne. Every time I move, the silk whispers against my body, and I feel his hands again. His breath on my neck. His voice promising ownership.
I need it off. I need it gone. I need to burn it and scatter the ashes into the sea.
Antonio's been giving me space, sitting across the small cabin, watching me with those dark eyes that see everything. He hasn't pushed. Hasn't asked questions. Just... waits. The way he's learned to wait for me.
"I can still feel him," I say, and my voice sounds foreign. "His hands. His grip. The way he looked at me like I was already his."
Antonio's jaw tightens, but he doesn't move. Doesn't crowd me. "He never touched you. Not really."
"He touched enough." I wrap my arms around myself, the silk rustling. "All this time watching me. Knowing what I eat, what I wear, how I sleep. He was in my life before I even knew he existed. And now he's..." I gesture at myself, at the dress. "He's all over me."
"Bella—"
"I need a shower." I stand too fast, and the cabin tilts. The drugs aren't fully out of my system. My body still doesn't feel like mine. "I need to wash him off."
"The head's small, but there's hot water." Antonio rises slowly, carefully, like I'm a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. "Do you want me to—"
"Yes." The word comes out before I can second-guess it. "I want you there. I want..." I struggle to articulate the need clawing at my chest. "I don't want to be alone with his ghost."
Antonio crosses to me, and his hands hover at my shoulders—asking permission. I nod, and he turns me gently, finding the zipper at my back.
"This dress," he says quietly, drawing the zipper down, "is going overboard the moment we're done with it."
"Burn it first."
"Whatever you want."
The silk falls away, pooling at my feet like shed skin. I step out of it, kicking it toward the corner, and I'm standing in nothing but my underwear and the bruises Henrik left on my arm.
Antonio's eyes track the marks. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
"He's dead," I remind him and reach for him, tugging at his bloodstained shirt. "Right now, I need you to make me forget they exist."
The boat's tiny bathroom is barely big enough for one person, let alone two. But we make it work—Antonio turning on the water, steam filling the cramped space, both of us stripping away the last barriers between us.
The hot water hits my skin like absolution. I stand under the spray, eyes closed, letting it wash away the island, the ceremony, the hands that weren't his.
Then Antonio's chest presses against my back, his arms wrapping around me, and I finally—finally—start to breathe.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my wet hair. "You're safe. You're here. You're mine."
"Say it again."
"Mine." His lips find my shoulder, the curve of my neck, the spot behind my ear that makes me shiver. "My wife. My Bella. Mine."
His hands slide over my stomach, my ribs, learning me again like he's mapping territory that was threatened but never taken. When his palm cups my breast, I arch back into him, feeling him hard against my lower back.
"I need more," I breathe. "Antonio, I need—"
"Tell me."
"I need you to erase him. Every place he touched, every place he looked—I need it to be yours again. I need to feel you so deep I forget anyone else exists."
He growls—that low, animal sound that shoots straight to my core—and spins me around, pressing my back against the cool tile. The contrast with the hot water makes me gasp.
"Look at me," he demands.
I open my eyes. His are black, the Beast fully present, but there's something else there too. Tenderness. Worry. Love.
"If it's too much, you tell me. Understood?"
"It won't be too much."
"Isabella." His voice sharpens. "Understood?"
"Yes. I promise. Now please—"
He kisses me before I can finish, deep and claiming, his tongue sweeping into my mouth like he's trying to taste every part of me.
His thigh presses between mine, and I grind against it shamelessly, desperate for friction, for pressure, for something to override the sense-memory of hands that weren't his.
"That's it," he murmurs against my lips. "Take what you need."
His fingers trail down my stomach, through the water streaming over my skin, and slide between my thighs. I moan into his mouth as he parts me, finds me already slick with want despite everything, and begins to stroke in slow, deliberate circles.
"Already so wet," he breathes against my jaw. "This is mine, Bella. Only mine."
"Only yours," I gasp as his finger slides inside me, then two, curling to find that spot that makes my knees buckle. "Antonio—"
He works me slowly, relentlessly, his thumb pressing against my clit while his fingers thrust and curl. My hips rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure, water streaming over us both. When I get close, he pulls back, and I whimper at the loss.
"Not yet," he says, voice rough. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, my back sliding against wet tile, my legs wrapping around his waist. I feel the head of him press against my entrance, thick and blunt, and I'm trembling with how much I need this.
"Please," I whisper. "Antonio, please—"
He pauses, reaching past me to a small bag and he pulls a tube out. The cream for the damage the chemo left behind. I used to hate needing it. Now it's just part of us.
"Let me," he murmurs, and his fingers are gentle as he works it where I need it most, warming me, opening me. Taking care of my body even when we're both desperate.
"Now," I breathe. "I'm ready."
I cry out, the stretch almost too much after everything, but it's exactly what I need. He fills me completely, overwhelmingly, leaving no room for anyone else's ghost. For a moment he just holds there, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed against mine.
"Okay?" he grits out, and I can feel the effort it's taking him not to move.
"Don't stop." I dig my nails into his shoulders. "Don't you dare stop."
He pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, and I feel every inch of him dragging against my inner walls. Then he slams home again, and I see stars.
He sets a punishing rhythm—hard, deep thrusts that drive the breath from my lungs and Henrik's memory from my skin.
Each time he bottoms out, his pelvis grinds against my clit, sending sparks up my spine.
The wet slap of skin against skin echoes in the tiny bathroom, mixing with the rush of water and my increasingly desperate sounds.
"Mine," he snarls, punctuating the word with a thrust that makes me scream. "Say it."
"Yours," I gasp, nails raking down his back. "Only yours. Always—ah—"
He shifts angle, hitches my leg higher, and suddenly he's hitting that spot with every stroke. My head falls back against the tile, mouth open, unable to form words anymore. Just sounds. Just sensation. Just him.
"That's it." His voice is wrecked, barely human. "I can feel you getting close. Feel you squeezing me."
I am—I'm right there, every muscle tightening, the pressure building to something impossible. His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit, pressing and circling in time with his thrusts.
"Come for me, Bella." An order. A plea. "Let go. I've got you."
The orgasm crashes through me like a wave, and I scream his name—his name, only his—as my body clenches around him in pulsing waves. He groans, hips stuttering, and I feel him swell inside me.
"Fuck—Bella—"
He comes with my name torn from his throat, spilling hot inside me while my walls milk every last drop. His whole body shudders, pressing me into the tile, both of us gasping for air.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Just the water streaming over us. Just the sound of our ragged breathing. Just the feeling of him still inside me, both of us trembling with aftershocks.
Then he pulls back enough to look at me, and his eyes are human again. Soft. Worried.
"Okay?" he asks again.
I pull him into a kiss, slower this time. Tender. "More than okay."
He carries me out of the shower, both of us dripping, and lays me on the cabin's narrow bed. The sheets are rough against my oversensitive skin. He crawls over me, still half-hard, and starts kissing down my body—my throat, my collarbone, the hollow between my breasts.
"What are you doing?" I breathe.
"Being thorough." His mouth closes over my nipple, sucking hard, and I arch off the bed. "You said every place he looked. Every place he touched. I'm not done reclaiming you yet."
He takes his time. Worships every inch of me with lips and tongue and teeth—my breasts, my ribs, the curve of my waist, my hips. When he reaches the bruises on my arm, he presses kisses to each one, so gentle it makes my chest ache.
"These will fade," he murmurs against my skin. "And when they do, there won't be any trace of him left."
By the time his mouth reaches my inner thighs, I'm trembling again, hands fisted in the sheets. He looks up at me, dark eyes gleaming, and holds my gaze as he lowers his mouth to my center.
The first stroke of his tongue makes me cry out. He's relentless—licking, sucking, fucking me with his tongue while his fingers slide inside me again. I'm still sensitive from before, and it's almost too much, almost unbearable, but I don't want him to stop.
"Antonio—I can't—"
"You can." He seals his lips around my clit and sucks. "One more. Give me one more."
The second orgasm builds faster, sharper, a wave I can't outrun. When it breaks, I shatter completely, pulling at his hair, thighs clamping around his head, making sounds I'd be embarrassed by if I could think.