Chapter Twenty-Three - Isabella
The next morning, I wake to bruises pressed into my thighs, the red ache of last night blooming under my skin.
I feel it everywhere; between my legs, along my throat, in the small of my back where he pinned me to the wall and made me shatter in his arms. My body remembers everything, every rough touch, every desperate whisper in the dark.
I hate him for it, but I hate myself even more for the way I wanted it, for the way some part of me aches to feel it again.
I wash until my skin burns, scrubbing away the scent of him, the fingerprints he left behind. I can’t erase the memory: his hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that could break him.
I’m disgusted with myself for enjoying any of it, for the low, secret thrill I can’t quite choke out.
I wrap myself in a robe and sit at my vanity, staring at my own face.
My eyes are rimmed red, mouth bruised, a stranger’s reflection.
I wish I could undo it all, turn the clock back to some softer, safer version of myself.
I keep to my rooms for most of the day, avoiding the halls, refusing breakfast, refusing lunch.
Every time I hear his footsteps, I freeze.
I don’t want him to see me like this—shattered, confused, raw from the war inside me.
I drift through the rooms like a ghost, hugging the shadows, trying to outrun the memories of his hands and the taste of his name on my lips.
By afternoon, I can’t hide any longer. The house is too small, the air thick with unsaid things. I pass him on the stairs, our eyes meeting for the briefest instant. I flinch, my heart thudding. He opens his mouth, maybe to apologize, maybe to taunt, but I walk faster, refusing to let him in.
Later, I find him waiting for me in the library, his posture tense, gaze fixed on the floor.
“Isabella,” he says, voice low, trying to sound calm, but there’s a ragged edge beneath. “We need to talk.”
I shake my head, backing away. “No. We don’t.”
He moves closer, hands loose at his sides, trying not to look threatening. “Last night—”
“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t talk about last night. Don’t act like any of this is normal.”
His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. “You’re not a prisoner, Isabella. Not anymore.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “Aren’t I? I can’t leave, Emil. I can’t breathe in this house without you or your guards watching me. You touch me when you want, you use me when you want, and I let you…” My voice cracks, shame curdling in my chest. “I let you.”
He takes another step, eyes searching my face for something I can’t give. “You want to hate me. I get it. Except you don’t. Not really.”
My throat closes up. I want to scream at him, to claw at his face until I draw blood. “Don’t you dare tell me how I feel.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, watching me struggle to hold myself together. When he finally speaks, his voice is almost gentle. “I never meant for it to be like this.”
Tears sting my eyes, hot and helpless. “You killed my brother and ruined my life,” I choke out, the words slicing the air between us. “You took everything from me. I can’t pretend anymore. I don’t want any of this. Not your house, not your name, not your hands on me. I just want you to let me go.”
He stands there, stone-still, his expression unreadable. I see the flicker of pain, the shadow of guilt, but I don’t care. I want to hurt him. I want him to feel even a fraction of what he’s done to me.
He swallows hard, his voice rough. “Your brother’s death—Enzo’s death—it wasn’t without reason.”
The words hit me like a slap. I shake my head, refusing to hear more. “No. Don’t explain. Don’t justify it. I don’t care why. He’s dead. You’re the reason. That’s all that matters.”
He tries again, softer. “Isabella—”
I’m already backing away, shaking, tears streaking my cheeks. “You don’t matter, Emil. Not anymore. Nothing you say can change what you’ve done.”
I storm out, slamming the door behind me, my heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.
I don’t look back, don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
I run down the hall, up the stairs, to the only place in this house that still feels like mine—the window seat where I used to watch the city and dream of escape.
I press my forehead to the cold glass, sobbing, my whole body shaking with grief and rage and relief.
For the first time since all this began, I don’t want to survive for him, or for revenge, or even for my brother. I want to survive for me. For the girl I was before the blood and the lies, for the woman I still hope I can be.
In the silence that follows, I make myself a promise: I will never let him see me crumble.
I will never let him be the reason I give up.
No matter how much I want him, no matter how deep he gets under my skin, I am still my own.
I will find a way to be free again, even if it means burning down everything he’s built around me.
Downstairs, I know he’s still standing in that library, jaw clenched, eyes cold and empty. Maybe he’s thinking of Enzo. Maybe he’s thinking of me. I don’t care. For now, I am alone with my pain, my anger, my hope.
***
That night, I can’t sleep. The mansion is quiet. There are no footsteps in the halls, no laughter, no music. Even the guards seem to move more softly, as if my outburst earlier cast a hush over the entire house.
I close my eyes and will myself to rest, but my body betrays me: every muscle is tense, every breath too shallow, every nerve singing with the memory of him.
The sheets are smooth beneath my skin, cool at first, but they grow warm with my restlessness. I turn, once, twice, then bury my face in the pillow and groan in frustration.
It’s no use. I can’t shake the feeling of his hands on me—rough, certain, possessive—the way his mouth claimed me against the wall, the heat of his body pinning me so tightly I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began.
Even now, my skin tingles at the memory, my thighs press together, my breath catches in my throat.
I hate him. I do. I hate him for everything, for what he did to Enzo, for tearing me from my family, for making me want him when I know I shouldn’t.
I hate the hunger he leaves in me, the ache that won’t go away no matter how hard I fight it.
I want to scrub myself clean, to wash him out of my thoughts, to forget how it felt to come apart in his arms.
My body has learned a new language, one written in bruises and stolen gasps, in the secret heat that coils through me whenever I remember the way he says my name.
I pull the covers up, curling around myself, trying to be small, to disappear.
I can’t escape him. The air in the room is thick, heavy with the scent of him that lingers on my skin and in the pillowcase.
My mind drifts back to the way he looked at me, after—eyes dark, mouth set in a line I’d never seen before, as if he were the one who’d been conquered, not me.
I remember the press of his lips against my jaw, the soft, dangerous promise in his voice.
A tear slips down my cheek, hot and shameful. I hate that I’m crying for him, for myself, for everything I’ve lost and everything I’m afraid to want. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to chase his memory away.
He returns, again and again—ghost hands tracing the lines of my hips, phantom kisses down my throat, the low growl of his voice at my ear.
I whisper into the darkness, furious and pleading, “I’ll never be yours.” The words sound empty in the quiet room.
Still, my body won’t listen. I can feel myself grow warm, the ache at the center of me sharpening, breath coming faster with every memory I try to smother.
It’s humiliating how easily I can be undone by the thought of him.
I press my palms to my eyes, fighting the tears, the longing, the pulse of need that’s become my secret curse.
A knock at the door startles me. I stiffen, heart pounding. It’s late, so late that only a fool or a madman would seek me out now.
For a moment, I imagine it’s him, come to claim me again, to tear down the walls I’ve rebuilt in the last few hours. I want to scream, to tell him to go away, to beg him to come in.
The knock doesn’t return. Whoever it was, they’re gone now, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I kick the covers off, padding barefoot to the window. The city is awash in moonlight, glittering and distant. I press my forehead to the glass and let myself shiver, hating how much I want to feel his arms around me, just for a moment. I imagine what I would say to him if he were here.
“Why can’t I forget you?” I whisper to the empty night. “Why can’t I hate you the way I’m supposed to?”
If he answered, I know what he’d say. He’d tell me I’m his, that this fire between us is inevitable, that fighting it only makes it burn hotter. I shake my head, but his voice lingers, wrapping around me like a chain.
When I finally crawl back into bed, I can’t stop my hand from drifting lower, tracing the places he touched, the marks he left.
I hate myself for it—hate the soft whimper that escapes my lips, the heat that blooms between my thighs, the way my hips arch into my own touch.
I imagine his mouth, his hands, his body pressing mine into the mattress until I break for him all over again.
Even as I reach for release, it’s his name that comes unbidden to my lips in a prayer, a curse, a confession.
When it’s over, I curl in on myself, empty and raw. Shame and longing twine together, too tangled to ever pull apart. I stare at the ceiling, heart pounding, breath slowing, and realize I’m crying again. It’s not fair, the way he haunts me, the way I crave him and fear him in equal measure.
Tomorrow, I’ll be colder. I’ll avoid his gaze, flinch from his touch, fight him with everything I have left. But tonight, alone in the dark, I can’t escape the truth: I want him, and I hate myself for it. The pull between us has become a curse—one I can’t break, no matter how hard I try.
I wipe my tears away, whispering his name into the empty room, loathing every syllable. I wonder if he’s awake, if he’s thinking of me, if he feels even a fraction of this torment. I hope he does. I hope he suffers for it.