Chapter Eighteen
Adrian
I sprawled across Isla's bed like a conquering king, tattooed arm wrapped possessively around her waist as she slept.
The moonlight filtering through her delicate lace curtains painted her skin silver, turning my angel into something so ethereal I could probably break her just by breathing too hard.
The thought made me grin into her hair—not because I wanted to hurt her, but because the power trip was fucking intoxicating.
Four hours had passed since I'd carried her inside, her body limp with exhaustion against my chest.
She'd barely stirred as I'd stripped her out of her dinner clothes, sliding one of her t-shirts over her head and a fresh pair of panties over her pretty pussy.
The ones I'd cut off her in the car were safely hidden in my glove compartment, a treasure I'd transfer to my pillowcase tomorrow, ensuring her scent would surround me even when we were apart.
Especially when we were apart. Because I was that fucking whipped already .
The night replayed in my head like my favorite movie. Her family's shocked faces when I stepped into view, her brother's eyes nearly popping out of his skull when he recognized me.
Pure shock morphed into awe as he'd connected the dots between "Adrian" on the phone and the Adrian standing in front of him. The kid had practically exploded in his chair.
I grinned into Isla's hair, remembering how her father had tried to act unimpressed while sneaking glances at my tattoos.
But the real highlight had been after dinner. My angel spread out beneath the stars, wrists bound by my seatbelt, whimpering as my knife handle slid deep inside her.
I’d never seen anything so perfect, so absolutely made for me. It was better than winning a championship. Better than taking the party bus out. Better than literally everything.
My fingers traced idle patterns on her bare thigh, and I had to adjust myself as heat pooled low in my stomach.
The memory of the jade handle sliding inside her, her whimpers as I fucked her with it, the way she'd clenched around it when she came—it was art.
It was better than any painting hanging in my house, and I was rock fucking solid all over again, even after she’d sucked me so well.
She stirred against me, making a soft sound that went straight to my dick.
I tightened my arm around her waist, my other hand sliding beneath her shirt to cup her soft breast. She arched into my touch unconsciously, and I bit back a groan.
"Greedy even in your sleep," I chided quietly, thumb circling her nipple. "My dirty angel."
My thumb caressed the stiff peak, enjoying the weight of her in my hand. Her tits were perfect—full and warm, just right for my hands.
I bent my head to brush my lips against her throat, inhaling the scent of her skin.
I'd never been obsessed with anyone’s throat before Isla—something about hers drove me fucking wild .
Maybe it was how delicate it looked under my hands. Maybe it was how pretty the ribbon looked wrapped around it. Or maybe I was just a possessive psychopath who got off on marking what was mine.
…Probably the psychopath one.
But then Crew's words from dinner crashed back into my brain like a fucking sledgehammer: "If you ever see Noah around, you should totally punch him."
My grip tightened on Isla's breast, making her murmur in her sleep.
I forced myself to relax before I left bruises. She wasn't responsible for the homicidal rage building in my chest like a goddamn tsunami.
Noah was.
The pathetic ex who'd somehow convinced himself he understood my angel. Who'd shown up at her gallery explaining her paintings to strangers like he was the fucking curator of her soul.
He wasn't trying to control her, which made it worse. He was studying her. Learning her patterns, her favorites, her fears, like she was some fascinating specimen he could decode if he just watched long enough.
Creepy bastard.
The freak had no idea what kind of monster he'd pissed off just by existing in the same universe as my girl.
I'd see my brothers in the morning. Connor would be down for some creative intimidation; he had a gift for making people understand consequences without leaving too many permanent marks.
Jax would probably suggest something more psychological, and knowing him, it would be diabolical as fuck.
But me? I wanted blood. I wanted to carve my initials into Noah's chest so he'd remember exactly whose girl he'd been studying.
Options, options.
My cock hardened at the violent fantasies, pressing against Isla's ass through my boxers.
Even my murder plans turned me on when they involved protecting her. I was so fucking gone for this girl, it wasn't even funny.
Actually, it was hilarious, being brought to my knees by a five-foot painter who collected vintage pillows and probably cried at Disney movies.
She pushed back against me in her sleep, and I nearly lost my mind. "Fuck, angel," I groaned softly. “I’m already dying over here.”
My hand abandoned her breast to trail down her soft stomach, fingers splaying wide across skin so sweet and pale it made me want to write poetry. Or commit more murders. Both seemed equally likely at this point.
Her skin was different from my own—no raised lines from belt buckles, no memories of hands that should have protected but destroyed instead. Just perfect, pale canvas that had never known real violence, and never will.
Unmarked, unscarred, perfect. I traced an invisible 'A' against her skin, right above her hip bone.
Maybe I'd tattoo it there someday. Something small, something only I would see. A permanent reminder that I owned every inch of this curvy body.
Her ribbon had loosened in her sleep, and I carefully retied it, making sure the knot sat exactly where I wanted it.
The silk felt expensive between my fingers, probably because it was.
I had it custom-made after she began playing my game, embroidered with my name in thread that matched her eyes.
Because I was apparently a romantic serial killer now. Who knew?
"I've never had something so beautiful before," I confessed to her sleeping form. "Something so fucking perfect."
The admission made my chest tight. I'd killed the monsters who shared my blood with these hands, ended the nightmare that had shaped me before Wade Easton found me half-dead and feral.
I'd dismantled lives with a few keystrokes, but holding Isla felt more dangerous than any fight I'd ever been in. More terrifying than the first time I'd fought back against fists that came in the dark.
She was the first person I’d let this close who didn't see the damage written in scars and ink. She just saw... me.
Not the kind of normal guy the Eastons had helped me become, not the ghost of the broken kid I'd been, but someone worth loving.
I shifted, pulling her impossibly closer, my entire body curled around hers like I could absorb her into my skin.
Maybe if I held her tight enough, no one else would ever be able to touch her. Maybe if I branded myself into her dreams, she'd never want anyone but me.
"Sleep well, angel," I whispered, closing my eyes and letting her warmth seep into my bones. "When you wake up, I'm going to ruin you all over again."
The smile that spread across my face in the darkness would have terrified most people. But not my Isla. She'd probably find it charming.
I fucking loved that about her.