Chapter Sixteen #2
"He was nice, I guess, just... intense with understanding why people liked her content when he couldn't figure out how to make her happy."
Adrian's smile remained in place, but I felt the change in him—the predatory stillness beneath the charm. "Intense how?” he asked, voice deceptively casual.
"He tried to be good to her," my mother interjected, always fair even when she disliked someone.
"But he had this way of... watching. Like he was studying her, trying to figure out how to keep her happy, but couldn’t. It was just… weird.”
“Weird?” Crew scoffed. “Understatement! Remember when he showed up at that gallery opening? He was stone-cold sober, which was somehow worse. Kept talking about how he'd 'studied' Isla's art and 'understood her vision' better than anyone there."
Adrian's gaze shifted to me, sharp and questioning.
I hadn't told him about Noah at all, much less about him cornering people at my exhibition to explain my paintings to them like he was some kind of expert. Security ended up asking him to leave.
"Ancient history," I mumbled lightly, squeezing Adrian's hand in return. "Really, it's not worth discussing."
"Well, if you ever see him around," Crew said to Adrian, leaning forward with conspiratory bravado, "you should totally punch him. You know, boxer to jerk. Teach him a lesson."
"Crew!" my mother gasped, but then she immediately took a sip of her champagne, hiding the fact that she was definitely down for that idea.
Adrian's eyes went dark, something familiar and predatory flickering across his features. His smile turned slow and razor-sharp. "Oh, I'd love that," he said, voice dropping to a velvet growl that sent heat straight to my core.
"One good hit would put his lights out permanently. But some lessons..."
His inked fingers flexed on the table, and I could practically see him imagining a face under his fists. "Some lessons require more creativity."
Everyone at the table collectively gaped at him.
He laughed then, eerily pleased, his fingers twitching like they were missing the familiar weight of his blade.
"I don't exactly save my violence for the ring," he continued, that dangerous grin widening. "Some problems need to be solved where there aren't any rules."
The temperature at our table dropped about ten degrees. My father, clearly sensing that Adrian wasn't entirely joking, redirected the conversation to Crew’s soccer and Adrian’s upcoming fights.
But Adrian's attention seemed split now, his mind clearly cataloging everything he'd learned and filing it away for future reference.
As dinner wound down, he insisted on paying despite my father's protests, won through force of will and, more obviously, his strength in their little tug-of-war over the bill.
Outside, as we waited for the valet to bring Adrian's space car around, Crew pulled him aside for some final questions and approximately forty-six selfies.
Mom took the opportunity to lean close to me.
"He seems... wild,” she whispered, concern and fascination warring in her voice.
I watched Adrian demonstrate a proper stance to my brother, his movements fluid and dangerous even in this casual moment. "He is," I admitted. "But in the best way."
"Just be careful, baby," she said, squeezing my arm. "You have such a gentle heart."
Before I could respond, the Lamborghini roared up to the curb, causing several nearby people to stop and stare. Adrian thanked the valet generously, then opened my door with a flourish.
"It was wonderful meeting you all," he said to my family, every inch the charming gentleman. "I hope we can do this again soon."
They were all staring at the car in wide-eyed awe, and Crew was snapping more pictures to brag to his friends about .
As we pulled away from the restaurant, I finally relaxed against the leather seat. "That wasn't so bad, right?"
Adrian's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his expression thoughtful. "Your family's great. Your brother's hilarious."
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had an edge I was beginning to crave.
"So. Noah."
The name stretched between us in the car, loaded with questions he wasn't just asking—he was demanding answers to.
"Ex-boyfriend. It's been over for a year," I muttered, disinterested. "Not worth discussing."
Adrian's hand left the steering wheel so fast I barely saw it move.
His fingers wrapped around my throat, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to make my pulse stutter against his palm.
"Angel," his voice was silk over steel, "let's try that again. And this time, don't fucking dismiss me."
An insane heat pooled between my legs like fire at the command in his tone.
His grip on my throat was exactly like those videos I watched on my secret account—the ones that made me squirm and ache and feel shameful afterward.
But this was real . This was Adrian's tattooed hand claiming me while he drove through the city like he owned it.
His thumb pressed against my ribbon. "I can feel when you're not telling me everything. Your heart's racing, your breathing changed."
His smile was mad, predatory. "So let's start over. Who is Noah, what does he want, and how often does he bother my girl?"
"He's..." My voice came out breathy, distant, entirely focused on how hot this was. "He's not really around anymore. But when he was, he was just... weird."
"Focus, Isla." His grip tightened just enough to make me gasp. "I can feel you drifting. Eyes on me, not in your head."
I blinked, pulled back to earth by the edge in his voice, the way his green eyes flicked between me and the road with predatory intensity .
"Tell me about the times he got weird," Adrian continued, his voice dropping to something that sounded like a purr wrapped around a blade.
“The ones you don't talk about because good girls don't acknowledge that kind of shit."
My breath hitched. The way he said 'good girls' made my thighs clench.
"He got fixated when I started getting followers. Wanted to understand it, wanted to... study me, I think. Like... I don’t know.”
"Study you." Adrian's laugh was dark, amused in a way that promised violence. "Cute. Did he learn what makes you tick?"
I was floating again, lost in the feeling of his hand on my throat, the dangerous promise in his voice.
This was exactly like my fantasies—the possessive boyfriend, the threats wrapped in desire, the way submission felt like flying.
"Answer me." He growled, and suddenly his fingers were gripping my jaw, turning my face to him, thumb pressing hard against my lower lip. "I asked you a question, angel."
"He—" I swallowed, eyes wide. "He tried to pull me back when I started pulling away. He got intense about not losing me. But he doesn't... I mean, I don't think he contacts me anymore. Not that I know of."
Adrian's smile was dark and shadowy. "Not that you know of."
He released my jaw, hand sliding back to my throat possessively. "See, that's the problem with pathetic worms like Noah. They're better at hiding than you think."
He was being way too hot.
“Here's what's going to happen," Adrian continued, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my skin while his voice turned to pure threat.
"I'm going to find out where your ex is, what he's been up to, and whether he's been a good boy and stayed away from what's mine."
His grip flexed. "And if he hasn't... I have very creative solutions for problems that don't know when to quit."
His words were a blur to my ears. I was drowning in the dark promise of his tone, the way possession rolled off his tongue like a spell.
I'd never felt so owned or so aroused before. Because Adrian wasn't just possessive. He was absolutely, beautifully, dangerously mad.