Chapter Fifteen
Isla yanked the sheets off her body, fury simmering beneath her skin. The warmth that lingered on her flesh, the scent of Matteo still clinging to her—it all made her stomach twist in resentment. She wouldn’t let him have this power over her, not after what had happened. Not after the way he had left without a word, as if she was nothing more than a passing moment in the night.
She gathered her clothes hastily, snatching them off the floor and gripping them tightly as she crept toward the door. Her heart pounded as she cracked it open, peering into the dimly lit hallway. The villa was still, the air thick with the kind of silence that came before a storm. She took a breath and slipped out, moving quickly, her bare feet silent against the marble floors.
Every step back to her room felt like an eternity, the tension coiling tighter in her chest. If anyone saw her like this—disheveled, exposed—it would confirm what they all suspected. That she had given in to Matteo. That she had let him have her in a way that she had sworn she never would. The thought made her teeth grind, her fingers clenching around the fabric of her dress as she finally reached her door.
The moment she shut it behind her, she exhaled sharply, pressing her back against the wood. Her pulse was wild, erratic. She needed to erase the night, needed to reclaim herself before the shame caught up to her.
She stripped quickly and stepped into the shower, letting the scalding water cascade over her, washing away every trace of him. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, no matter how long she stood beneath the spray, she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling of his touch, the memory of his hands gripping her like he never wanted to let go.
It wasn’t just his body that haunted her. It was the way he had looked at her in the dim light, as if he could see the parts of her that no one else had ever dared to. The way his breath had mingled with hers in the quiet moments between the storm, when neither of them had spoken, when the world had been reduced to just them, tangled together in the dark.
She clenched her jaw, gripping the tiled wall as the water pounded against her skin. She was stronger than this. She had always been stronger than this. The world had shaped her to be unbreakable, untouchable. She was Isla Marino, daughter of a king, raised in fire and blood. She was meant to stand on her own, to wield her power with an iron fist.
But with Matteo, she had shattered.
The truth clawed at her chest, sharp and unrelenting. He had taken her apart piece by piece, stripped her of every wall she had built, every layer of armor she had worn. And the worst part? She had let him. She had wanted him to.
She slammed a fist against the tile, anger bubbling in her veins, not just at him—but at herself. Because no matter how much she told herself she hated him, no matter how much she swore that this was a mistake, her body betrayed her. Her heart betrayed her.
Even now, standing beneath the scalding water, she could still feel the ghost of his fingers trailing down her spine, the way his lips had brushed against the shell of her ear, whispering things she should have ignored, but hadn’t. She could still hear the low growl of his voice, the possessiveness laced in every syllable.
Mine.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her forehead against the cool tile. She wasn’t his. She couldn’t be. If she let herself belong to him, she would lose herself. Lose the part of her that was still Isla Marino, the part that had fought to remain untamed, unbroken.
By the time she emerged, her reflection was the only thing staring back at her—her own eyes, hollow yet defiant. The water dripped from her hair, tracing down her bare shoulders like remnants of the war still raging inside her.
She was still Isla Marino.
And she would not lose herself to him.
Dressing quickly, she left the bedroom, her footsteps silent against the marble floors. The villa was quiet, almost eerily so. Matteo was nowhere to be found, and that was fine by her. She needed space. Needed to remind herself that last night had been a mistake.
She made her way through the corridors, passing paintings of DeLuca ancestors who had built this empire long before Matteo had taken the throne. Their cold, judging eyes followed her as she moved, making her stomach tighten. Was this what her life would be? A gilded cage, shadowed by ghosts of men who had decided her fate before she was even born?
But the moment she stepped into the main hall, she felt it—that presence, the weight of his gaze. Matteo was watching.
****
She found him later in his study, standing by the window, a drink in hand, his back turned to her. The tension in his shoulders was unmistakable, but his posture was rigid, composed—controlled. He wasn’t just avoiding her; he was resetting the boundaries they had shattered the night before.
“Leaving so soon?” Isla’s voice carried across the room, cool and detached.
Matteo took a measured sip of his drink before speaking. “I have business to attend to.”
She scoffed lightly, folding her arms. “Of course you do.”
His fingers tightened around the glass, but his face remained impassive. The silence between them stretched, calculated, filled with restraint.
She took a slow step forward, but her voice remained cold. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.”
Matteo finally turned to face her, his expression unreadable, carefully crafted into something indifferent. “It changes nothing.”
The words were clinical, detached. A statement of fact. And yet, Isla caught the flicker in his gaze, the brief hesitation before he spoke. She clung to that fraction of a second, knowing he was lying, but unwilling to acknowledge that she was too.
She tilted her head, smirking as if unaffected. “Good. Then we agree.”
But they didn’t. Not really.
Because even now, as they stood feet apart, she could still feel him. Still feel his hands on her skin, his breath against her throat, the brutal possession in his touch. She knew he felt it too. And that was the problem.
Matteo set his glass down with precise, unhurried movements, stepping closer, but his voice remained impassive. “You think this was a mistake?”
Isla lifted a shoulder in an indifferent shrug, though her pulse betrayed her. “A lapse in judgment.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened, but his smirk was ice. “Then it won’t happen again.”
She mirrored his expression, keeping her voice even. “No. It won’t.”
Another lie.
They were both constructing walls, rebuilding the control they had so recklessly abandoned the night before. Every word was measured, each movement intentional. They were circling each other like opposing forces, neither willing to give ground, neither willing to be the first to break.
Matteo studied her, his gaze sharp, dissecting. “Good.”
She lifted her chin. “Good.”
A silence stretched between them, sharp and unbearable. Neither of them moved. Neither of them blinked. This was the game they knew how to play—denial, control, precision. The night before had been chaos, a moment where power had slipped from their fingers, where raw need had eclipsed logic.
That would not happen again.
Matteo exhaled slowly, as if making a decision. He reached for his drink once more, lifting it to his lips with an ease that spoke of finality. “Get some rest, Isla.”
And then he turned and left, his strides slow, purposeful. A calculated retreat.
She stood there for a moment, unmoving, willing herself to feel nothing. Willing the echo of his touch to disappear.
But the control she fought to reclaim slipped through her fingers the moment she exhaled.
Because no matter how much she willed it away, the truth remained—
She was already losing this war.