Chapter 18
Blueberries.
She tastes like blueberries.
Of course she does.
When Sofia told her that it was her favorite thing to stir into pancakes, Isabella had laughed and said it was hers too.
And now here she is—tasting like the sweetness of my daughter's mornings, invading every corner of my mind I swore I'd sealed off.
It makes me furious.
Furious that she's under my skin, that she's in my blood, that the first woman who's ever looked at me like I'm still worth saving tastes like something my little girl loves.
The anger twists into something darker, hotter.
My hands find her waist. This isn't a caress; it's a command. My fingers dig in, hard, not bruising, but pressing deep enough to leave an imprint, and I shove her back against the wall without ever breaking the kiss.
She gasps, the slight, surprised sound swallowed by my mouth. Her heartbeat kicks against my chest, a frenzied drumbeat that is somehow steady, defiant.
My left palm leaves her waist, a slow, predatory slide upward. It settles, heavy and possessive, at the base of her throat. I don't check for her pulse; I own it. My thumb presses into the quick, fluttering beat of the carotid artery, a silent, lethal acknowledgment of the power I hold over her.
Every part of me screams to stop.
Every other part wants more.
The air between us thinned with a raw, terrifying question: Did I intend to suffocate her with desire, or simply choke the life out of the risk she presented? I didn't know. The uncertainty was a razor's edge I was forcing her to walk.
My grip on her waist tightens one punishing degree, pulling her hips flush against mine, and with a grunt of pure, choked-off need, I lift her.
She rises easily, her soft, startled moan tearing from her chest and melting instantly into the rough confines of my mouth. Before I can fully process the shift, she responds with an animalistic urgency of her own. Her feet leave the floor, and she jumps, locking her legs around my waist.
The contact is a shockwave. My breath hitches.
Control, which I'd been fighting for, snaps like a frayed wire.
My fingers instinctively abandon the hard line of her waist and dive into the thick silk of her hair, anchoring her skull, wrenching her head back just enough to deepen the kiss into something savage, something that demanded ownership.
She was pure heat, raw appetite, and the scent of blueberries, a maddening contradiction I couldn't resist.
The shift is palpable: she is no longer pinned; she is mounted. We are no longer standing; we are fusing.
The kiss deepens—messy, rough, too much—and for one blinding second I forget who either of us are. Then— A knock. Hard. Sudden.
We break apart like the room exploded.
Our breathing ragged, chests heaving, the air heavy with everything we didn't say.
I rest my forehead against hers, trying to get air back into my lungs, trying to remember how to think.
"What?" I roar toward the door, the word cracking out sharper than I intend.
Because whoever is out there just stole something I didn't even know I was capable of feeling.
Nicole's voice filters through, careful but urgent.
"Sofia's upset, Don. She says she'll only calm down if she talks to Isabella."
Isabella's eyes fly open, meeting mine.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then she whispers, "We'll be right there."
I exhale, forcing my pulse to slow. My hands are still braced on the wall beside her head. Slowly, I ease back, helping her find her footing.
She's trembling—but not with fear.
The sight of it nearly undoes me again.
Her feet hit the floor. She stays close, too close.
Then, before I can step away, she rises on her toes and presses a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth.
"You're a good dad," she says quietly.
The words hit harder than any blow I've taken in my life.
She turns before I can answer, heading for the door. The faint scent of her—sweet and clean and maddening—trails behind her.
I stay where I am, hand still pressed to the wall, trying to remember what breathing feels like.
Because somewhere between fury and forgiveness, between betrayal and desire,
I lost control.
And for the first time in years,
I'm not sure I want it back.
Sofia's door is half open, a sliver of warm light spilling into the dark hall.
The sound of her crying cuts through me sharper than any knife ever could.
I glance at Isabella beside me.
Her expression is already soft, worried. She doesn't wait for me — she slips inside first, quiet and steady, like she's been doing this her whole life.
Sofia sees her and bolts forward.
"Bella!"
She collides with Isabella's legs, throwing her little arms around her waist. Isabella's arms wrap around her shoulders as she hugs my girl.
"Hey," she whispers, voice low and soothing. "It's okay, Principessa. What's wrong?"
Sofia buries her face against Isabella's stomach, her small body trembling as she starts to ramble — words so fast neither of us can make them out.
"Slow down, baby," Isabella says softly, pulling her back just enough to see her face. "What is it?"
Sofia sniffles, eyes darting between us. Then she turns, squaring her little shoulders as she looks at me.
"Papà," she says, voice quivering but firm, "you can't hurt my Bella."
The words hit me like a punch.
Behind her, Isabella freezes.
"She would never hurt our family," Sofia continues, tears still shining in her eyes. "I know she wouldn't. Bella belongs with us."
"Sofia—"
"She's your Queen," she insists, chin lifting. "Even if you can't see it yet."
My throat tightens. For a second, I can't find any words at all.
Then she crosses her arms, defiance flashing in her eyes — my eyes — and the next words come out like she's ready to take on the world.
"If you're mad at someone, you should be mad at me."
"What?" I manage, hoarse.
"I'm the one who gave her the notebook," she blurts out. "I told her she should find the truth, so if anyone has to go to the warehouse with Uncle Alessandro, it should be me."
The air leaves my chest in one long, quiet exhale.
A dozen emotions crash through me all at once — disbelief, anger, pride, heartbreak.
And somewhere beneath all that… amusement.
She's standing there, tiny and fierce, defending the woman who nearly tore our world apart. With the same kind of fire Isabella used against me not ten minutes ago.
I glance up. Isabella's looking down at Sofia with a soft, trembling smile — her hand brushing through my daughter's curls, her eyes full of something that makes my chest ache.
And in that moment, the thought hits me with absolute clarity.
She is my Bella.
The one my daughter sees.
The one I didn't even realize I was waiting for.
I take a slow step closer, crouching so I'm eye level with Sofia.
"Principessa," I say quietly, "Bella isn't in trouble."
Her lip wobbles. "She's not?"
"No," I tell her. "You were right to help her. Finding the truth… it matters in our world too. But you have to be careful who you trust."
She frowns thoughtfully, then brightens. "I know. That's why I trust Beau."
I blink. "Who the hell is Beau?"
She smiles, proud. "My best friend from school. He told me I'm the most beautiful princess he's ever seen and that he loves me."
The words come out of me automatically. "I'm going to kill a kid."
Isabella chokes on a laugh — an honest, bright sound that slices through all the tension in the room.
Sofia looks up at her, confused but hopeful. "Does that mean you're not mad at him anymore?"
Isabella's smile softens as she looks down at her. "No, honey," she says gently. "I'm not mad at your Papà."
She lifts her gaze to mine, and the air between us shifts again — quiet, warm, and dangerous in a different way.
"I'll do everything I can to help him keep you safe," she finishes.
But her eyes never leave mine.
And I know she isn't just making a promise to Sofia.
She's making one to me.