Chapter 9
ISABELLA
I stare at the open door.
I stare at his retreating back.
My stomach clenches. The events of the last few days have spiraled out of control. I hardly know what I want anymore.
But I know who I am. He can say what he wants. He can force me to take his name, and he will. But I’m Isabella Morales, and I will always be Isabella Morales.
And I have never, ever, no matter how powerless and beaten down I was, let my circumstances dictate my future. I may have been born into a family that valued me as a second-class citizen, but that doesn’t make it so.
Fine. Lev Romanov is going to marry me. I turn over the possibilities in my mind and think it through.
Yes. Yes, I can absolutely use this to my advantage, and I will.
The tension still lingers in the kitchen when my belly aches for an entirely different reason. I’m starving.
Well, then. Make myself at home, he said.
Happily.
Lev maintains his body like a finely tuned sports car. Well, guess what? So do I.
I open the fridge and am not at all surprised to find it well stocked and immaculately clean. Excellent. Someone’s watching his macros—we have at least one thing in common. Not that he cooks… It looks like most things in his fridge are prepackaged meals he gets from some kind of delivery service.
I grab a banana and yogurt before I hit the basement workout room.
I’ll need my energy for the day ahead.
I look around the kitchen. Will this be my kitchen? Will we live here?
In that case, I could like it. Could use some color, maybe some greenery or plants and definitely more coffee cups, but it’s a large, open-concept kitchen with high-end appliances.
I make myself a cup of strong, black coffee and drink it slowly while I consider the possibilities.
I fought him. I’ll fight him still. But he isn’t wrong. The two of us marrying might be exceptionally advantageous. He says he wants to do it to keep me chained to him or whatever, but it takes two to tango, and I am not going to lie down and give up. Nope.
This could be the perfect way to neutralize my brother. Once I get seated on the throne of the Los Sangre Dorada as the wife of Lev Romanov? Holy hell will heads roll. He can be king all he fucking wants as long as I reign as queen.
I find a single set of clothes in a guest room that will do for a workout. The tension from earlier still lingers in the air as I make my way to the gym.
I do need to work out. I need to clear my head, and working out has always been my way of finding focus. I need to stay strong, too.
His guards step inside as if they know better than to underestimate me.
The gym is spacious and well equipped, a testament to Lev's dedication to his own training. I get a quick vision of the two of us working out together and quickly squash it.
He isn’t my friend.
But he could be. We could rule together.
Every time I entertain the idea, I wonder if I’m crazier than I thought. Still, though…
I take a quick look around and head straight for the punching bag, wrapping my hands with the practiced ease of someone who's spent countless hours in training. Each punch lands with a satisfying thud, the rhythm soothing my restless mind. Fuck, but it feels good to break a sweat.
My knuckles are numb, my hands aching, but I don’t care.
“Carlos, for being a male chauvinistic prick and hurting my best friend,” I mutter.
BAM.
“My father, for thinking he could teach me to be a mindless robot and for hitting my mother.”
BAM.
“Javier, for not having a shred of human decency.” I could make a litany of accusations against him, but instead I let my fists do the job.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
I narrow my eyes at the bag. “For Lev, for having the nerve to be so fucking hot and total fucking asshole.”
I hit the bag again, and again, losing myself to the repetition until sweat blurs my vision and I’m gasping for breath.
“Wow,” a deep, amused voice, says behind me. “I don’t know if I should kiss you or take you over my knee.”
I swivel around to see Lev standing by the entrance, watching me.
His gaze is intense, a mix of curiosity and something else I can't quite decipher. A corner of his lips tips up and his eyes lazily take me in. I’m surprised when he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, as if I’m affecting him.
I’m covered in sweat, the little tee riding up my belly.
My hair sticks to my forehead and neck, and these boxing gloves are twice my size. I’ve had better days.
Well, two can play at this game.
Kiss you or take you over my knee.
I lick my lips. It doesn’t help that blood is pulsing through my veins and I already know what he can do with that mouth. I can only imagine what it feels like lying over his lap. I would kick and scream and fight him and he’d overpower me.
And I would fucking love that.
Now that I’ve decided I’m going to lean into this and make the best of it, I’m giving myself permission to really appreciate the upside here. The guy is hot as hell.
Women always talk about men’s arms, or their backs, or how hot they are when they take their tees off. But me? Goddamn, give me a man with shoulders. Shoulders I can anchor myself on when he pounds into me or bite when I wrestle my way on top.
Now it’s my turn to swallow and take him in. Jesus, people underestimate the effect of a plain white tee stretched over well-defined shoulders, carved biceps, and a six pack.
Rawr.
Still, I probably shouldn’t let him sneak up on me like that.
"Don't you have better things to do than watch me?" I snap, acting mildly annoyed by his intrusion.
He steps closer, his movements calm and deliberate. "I didn't realize you were so skilled."
I roll my eyes, turning back to the punching bag. He calls whacking the shit out of a punching bag skilled? “Yeah, honey, there's a lot you don't know about me."
He doesn't leave, instead moving to a nearby weight bench. Out of the corner of my eye, he pops a few weights on a bar that likely equal my entire body weight. Shocker.
For a moment, we work out in silence, each lost in our thoughts. Despite myself, I can't help but glance at him. His movements are fluid and precise, his form textbook perfect—a testament to his own training and discipline. He’s disciplined as fuck, and that’s kind of a turn-on to a woman like me.
After a while, I stop, wiping the sweat from my brow. "Why are you here, Lev? Are you trying to keep an eye on me?"
He sets the weights down, wiping his hands with a towel. “It’s not all about you, beautiful.” He winks at me.
Is he… flirting?
“I’m here for the same reason you are. Or maybe I just needed a distraction."
I narrow my eyes, skeptical. "From what?"
He hesitates, then looks at me, his expression unexpectedly open. He looks away and doesn’t answer at first. I wait. Finally, he shrugs a shoulder. "From everything.” He lifts the bar again.
I don't know why, but his honesty catches me off guard. For a moment, I see the man behind the ruthless exterior and the weight of his burdens. It's a fleeting glimpse, but it's enough to stir something within me.
"You're not the only one with burdens," I say quietly. "We all have our own battles."
He nods as if acknowledging my words. "I know. And sometimes, it's easier to forget them for a while."
We fall into a comfortable silence. Tension ebbs away like the passing of a rainstorm. I start to understand that beneath our mutual animosity, we have a few things in common—pain, responsibility, and a drive to survive.
Today is core day, but who’s keeping track. I’m sore, but that doesn’t stop me from hitting planks and sit-ups with gusto. We don’t talk.
Finally, I want a shower and a proper breakfast, so I head to the door.
As I go to leave, Lev calls out, “Isabella.”
I turn, waiting.
“You're not alone in this,” he says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. “Remember that.”
I don't respond, but his words linger as I walk away. For the first time, I wonder if there's a way through this mess where we might find a sliver of understanding. A sort of truce.
I mean, we’re fucking getting married.
“I need some clothes. And… things,” I tell him.
“Make a list,” he says, in between bicep curls. I watch the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the carved muscles in his arms. I swallow.
“Then what?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
I frown. “How long will you treat me like your prisoner? Even if I do marry you?”
He drops the weight to the floor and draws himself to his full height, his hands anchored on his hips. “As long as it fucking takes. Forever if I have to.”
I stifle a growl.
He lifts a ridiculous amount of weight and starts bench pressing.
Show-off.
He starts lifting. I need to find something that will distract him.
Oooh. Glutes.
I stand in front of him, feeling the weight of his gazes as I grasp a bar.
With deliberate slowness, I position it across my shoulders.
I glance in his direction to make sure I have his full attention then focus on the mirror in front of me.
I make sure to capture his gaze in the mirror as I descend into a deep squat, my form perfect and my movements controlled.
I rise, the muscles in my legs and glutes tightening with the effort, knowing he can’t look away.
I repeat the motion, each squat a blend of controlled seduction.
His focus shifts entirely from his lifting to watch me, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
I add a little extra sway to my hips as I come up from each squat, my eyes never leaving his.
The tension in the room thickens, charged.
His reaction is immediate and intense. He pauses mid-lift, the weights hovering as he struggles to maintain focus.
“I didn’t know you were so skilled,” I taunt.
His eyes narrow on me, a mix of amusement and admiration flashing in his gaze.
He shakes his head from side to side. “You’re not making this easy,” he mutters, the low growl of his voice carrying in the quiet of the room.
I watch him set his weights down with a controlled click, never breaking eye contact.