Chapter Thirty-Six #4
No emergency chased her. Corwin had not summoned her, Taddeo had not asked for her, and there was no Bellandi vehicle behind her making the road compulsory.
Her phone remained quiet on the passenger seat while Crownport thinned around her and the Atlantic began appearing intermittently between darkening trees.
By the time the walls of Northglass emerged through the coastal woods, Isolde’s hands had tightened around the steering wheel.
The gate remained closed.
For several seconds, she stared at it.
Then she started laughing.
Of course it was closed.
A guard stepped out of the gatehouse, recognized her through the windshield, and looked almost as surprised as Isolde felt. “Ms. Dacre.” He came toward the driver’s side while she lowered the window and waited.
“Hello.” Isolde glanced toward the iron gates and then back at him. “I suppose I should have called.”
“I don’t have standing authorization to admit your vehicle.” The guard looked apologetic, as though expecting the statement to offend her.
Isolde smiled.
“I know.”
The words felt better than almost anything she had said in twelve days.
The guard touched his radio. “I’ll call the house.”
“Please do.”
Two minutes later, headlights appeared far up the Northglass drive.
A dark SUV approached considerably faster than estate speed limits probably recommended, then stopped on the opposite side of the gate. Taddeo got out before the driver could open a door for him.
He was alone.
His injuries had healed enough that most people would not have noticed the stiffness remaining when he straightened, but Isolde knew his movements too well.
The bruising along his face had faded to faint yellow near one cheek, and instead of a suit he wore dark trousers and a charcoal sweater, as though someone had called him out of his own house before he had time to become the Bellandi underboss.
Taddeo stopped on the other side of the iron bars.
For once, he had no expression prepared.
“Isolde.”
She lowered the window completely.
He came closer but stayed on his side of the gate. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
His brow tightened. “Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“Corwin?”
“Still exiled, still irritating, and still alive as far as I know.”
Taddeo’s attention swept automatically over the car, searching for damage, another passenger, or any visible explanation for why she was here. “Then why—”
“Open the gate.”
He stopped.
Isolde watched understanding arrive slowly enough that it became almost painful.
Taddeo looked toward the gatehouse. “Open it.”
Even now, the quiet command carried enough authority to remind Isolde exactly who he remained.
The iron barriers began separating.
Taddeo stepped aside.
He did not wave her forward, choose a parking place, or tell her what happened once she crossed the line. He simply stood beside the opening while Isolde drove onto Northglass property because she had asked to enter.
She parked near the front steps.
Taddeo followed in the SUV and emerged several seconds later, stopping a few feet from her as she closed her car door. His hands remained at his sides, and the amount of tension across his shoulders would have been almost amusing if Isolde had not felt equally terrified.
“You came back.” His voice had gone quieter.
“I did.”
“Why?”
Isolde looked at him. “You really need me to say it?”
“Yes.” There was no pride in the answer, only a vulnerability he made no effort to hide.
Her chest tightened.
“I love my apartment. I love the museum, and I love driving myself to work.” She stepped closer while Taddeo remained still. “I love going to the grocery store without anyone knowing whether I bought cereal, wine, or enough chocolate to create a medical concern.”
“I never monitored your groceries.”
“You would eventually have developed a system.”
“Unlikely.”
“You have a system for everything.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
Isolde took another step. “I like being free.”
The trace of amusement disappeared, and the guardedness in his face returned.
“And I still love you.”
Taddeo went completely still.
“I spent twelve days waiting to find out whether those things were incompatible.” Isolde stopped close enough that the front of her coat nearly touched his sweater. “They’re not.”
“You’re sure.” It was not quite a question, perhaps because he no longer trusted himself to ask for certainty she had not volunteered.
“Yes.” Isolde held his gaze. “I am.”
His eyes closed briefly.
When they opened, more emotion showed in his face than Taddeo usually permitted anyone to see.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
His mouth tightened faintly. “You should probably say something less irritating after driving all this way.”
Isolde smiled. “I love you too.”
A breath of laughter left him.
She put one hand lightly against his chest but did not let affection rush them past everything that still needed saying. “I have conditions.”
“Of course you do.” Taddeo looked almost relieved to hear them, which was either evidence of growth or a serious deterioration in judgment.
“My career stays mine.”
“Yes.”
“My money stays mine, and my financial accounts never become part of Bellandi management because somebody thinks sharing a household makes that efficient.”
“Yes.”
“My phone is not monitored unless I explicitly agree to something temporary because there is a specific threat.”
“Yes.”
“If security affects where I can go, you show me the threat and discuss the options with me. You do not announce my new rules after deciding fear makes your judgment superior.”
His jaw shifted. “Yes.”
“And you do not make decisions for me because you’re frightened.”
“That one needs clarification.” Taddeo raised a hand before her expression could harden. “I can promise I will not treat fear as authority over your choices. I cannot promise being afraid will never affect what I think you should do, and I cannot promise I won’t argue.”
Isolde considered the distinction.
“That is fair.”
“I will probably argue aggressively.”
“You are a mafia underboss. If you become completely emotionally adjusted, I will assume someone has replaced you.”
His mouth curved.
Isolde’s expression sobered. “If I say no about something important, it has to mean as much as yes.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t get to decide no stops counting because the consequences frighten you.”
“Yes.” Taddeo’s answer came without qualification this time.
She studied him for another moment. “I don’t forgive everything.”
“I know.”
“I may never look back at how this started and think anything except that it was wrong.”
“I don’t need you to.”
“I am not staying because you kidnapped me, Taddeo.”
“I know.”
“I am staying despite it.”
His gaze held hers. “I know.”
Isolde released a slow breath.
“Then I think I’m staying.”
Something in Taddeo changed.
Not dramatically. Taddeo Malfatti did very little dramatically unless firearms were involved, but the tension that had held his body rigid since he appeared at the gate finally eased. One hand rose toward her waist and stopped before touching.
He waited.
Isolde smiled.
“You can touch me.”
His hand closed around her waist.
The possession in the gesture was immediate and familiar.
The meaning was entirely different.
Taddeo drew her against him carefully because his side still objected to sudden movement, then kissed her with twelve days of restraint beneath it.
Isolde caught his sweater in both hands and kissed him back hard enough that the house, the cold, and the guard at the gatehouse making a heroic effort not to look toward them became irrelevant.
When they separated, Taddeo rested his forehead against hers.
“Are you staying tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
His hand tightened faintly at her waist.
Isolde smiled against his mouth. “Ask me again next week if your control issues require continuing evidence.”
“They do.”
“I assumed.”
They went inside.
Elettra crossed the entrance hall carrying a vase, saw Isolde, and stopped so abruptly that the flowers shifted against the rim. She recovered quickly enough to pretend she had not, but her gaze moved from Isolde to Taddeo and back before she gave the vase to a passing member of staff.
“I should have made dinner for another person.” Elettra reached toward Isolde’s coat as though ordinary hospitality were the only notable thing happening.
“You are disappointingly emotional about my return.”
“I am assessing whether twelve days away caused you to lose weight.”
“There it is.”
Elettra’s expression softened despite the dry exchange. “Your boxes are still upstairs.”
“Good.”
Taddeo looked toward Isolde. “Where do you want them?”
The question carried considerably more meaning than anyone passing through the entrance hall would have understood.
“My room for now.”
Taddeo gave away almost nothing. “All right.”
Elettra, unfortunately, looked pleased.
“Do not interpret that as a relationship referendum.” Isolde pointed toward her before the older woman could speak.
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
Elettra walked away with the expression of a woman who intended to interpret whatever she pleased privately.
Taddeo waited until they were alone. “Your room.”
“Yes.”
“You intend to sleep there?”
“Eventually.”
That finally caught him.
Isolde turned toward the stairs.
He followed.
By the time they reached the upper hallway, twelve days of freedom had clarified something that no amount of thinking inside Northglass could have proved.
Isolde had slept alone because she could.
She had lived in her apartment, worked at her museum, made hundreds of ordinary decisions, and existed for nearly two weeks without Taddeo occupying her physical world unless she deliberately thought about him.
She still wanted him.
Not because he was near.
Not because danger made everything feel sharper.
Not because leaving had been impossible.
Isolde stopped outside his bedroom.
Taddeo stopped several feet behind her.
“You said your room,” he reminded her, and Isolde glanced over her shoulder with a smile.
“I said my boxes go to my room.”
“That was intentionally misleading.”
“Yes.”