Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Ishouldn't be watching her walk up to the cabin.
Fucking hell, I shouldn’t be in the same space with Isabella for more than five fucking minutes.
To give myself something to do, I start checking the environment, making sure we're secure, running through exit strategies in case someone finds us here. I am not watching the way Isabella's torn dress clings to her legs with every step, or how her hand pushes her hair back from her face.
Definitely not thinking about how she felt pressed against me on that bike, how she held on tighter every time I accelerated, how her body fit against mine like it was made to be there.
Fuck. This is a fucking disaster.
She walks into the cabin and stops just inside the door, looking around slowly and taking it all in—the couch where we used to sit when she was younger, the bookshelf filled with books I've never read, the kitchen where Matteo and I used to drink bourbon and plan operations.
Four years and nothing's changed.
I close the door behind us and lock it, the sound echoing in the silence between us.
Then she clears her throat. "I… I need to change."
I look at her and she's gesturing at the torn emerald silk dress that’s barely holding together with dirt smeared across the bodice and blood on the hem where my rip goes from ankle to mid-thigh.
She’s not supposed to still look as good.
"I have clothes upstairs." I grunt.
"Of course." She doesn't look at me, her voice carrying an edge I recognize—sharp and defensive, the tone she uses when she's trying not to show she's vulnerable. "Since you come here so often."
I don't respond because what am I supposed to say? That I came here two weeks ago to process her upcoming wedding, to figure out how I was going to survive watching fucking fucktard Vittorio De Luca put his hands on her?
So, I just turn like a robot and head for the stairs.
She follows and her bare feet are silent on the wood, but I can hear her breathing softly. controlled and measured in that way she breathes when she's holding something back, when she's trying not to fall apart.
I really am obsessed with this woman.
My room is at the end of the hall and I push the door open to find everything exactly how I left it—bed made with military corners, dresser organized, nothing out of place. I open the top drawer and pull out an old t-shirt, and grey sweatpants that she'll have to tie tightly.
I turn to give them to her and she's standing in the doorway, not coming in, like there's an invisible line she won't cross without permission.
"Here." I walk over to her and hold them up.
She takes them and our fingers don't touch, but I feel the space between them like heat radiating across the gap.
"These are going to be huge on me."
"I figured." I watch her hold up the shirt as it unfolds and hangs long, nearly reaching her knees.
"Well, anything is better than this." She gestures at her destroyed dress with something like disgust.
"Bathroom's through there." I nod to the door on the left. "Lock works if you want it."
"Good to know."
She goes in and closes the door, and I hear the lock click with a finality that feels like a barrier between us—one I should be grateful for but somehow resent.
I storm downstairs before I do something stupid like stand outside that bathroom door and listen to her move around in my space, before I imagine her taking off that dress and stepping into my shower.
The kitchen is dark but I don't turn on lights, just pull out my phone to see three missed calls from Matteo glowing on the screen.
I call him back immediately hoping for good news.
He answers on the first ring. "Status."
"At the cabin. Secure. No tail."
"Good." I can hear background noise on his end—voices talking over each other, the chaos of him still dealing with the aftermath at the Plaza. "You're staying there."
"How long?"
"Few days. Maybe more. Depends on what the O'Rourkes do next."
Well, fuck, I don’t know why I was hoping the answer would be different.
"Can Rafe rotate in? Give me a break so I can help with—"
"No."
"Matteo—"
"When it comes to Isabella, I want you." His voice is firm and final in a way that leaves no room for argument. "You saved her life once, nearly died doing it. I trust you with her more than anyone and I’m sure she trusts you more than anyone. This is my sister we’re talking about, Enzo. It's not up for discussion."
My hand tightens on the phone hard enough that the case creaks under the pressure. "Understood."
"Keep her safe, please. That's all that matters."
"You can trust me."
"Good. I'll check in tomorrow."
He hangs up and I stand there in the dark staring at my screen, processing what he just sentenced me to.
A few days. Maybe more. Alone in this cabin with Isabella Romano.
The universe is testing me, pushing me to see exactly how much self-control I have, and I'm not sure I'm going to pass.
Upstairs, water runs through the pipes, the shower turning on, and I hear the groan of old plumbing before everything goes quiet.
I wait, giving her time and checking the perimeter on my phone. All sensors show green. We're alone out here, miles from anyone.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
No sound from upstairs.
After fifteen minutes I check my watch and at twenty I hear it—a small sound, frustrated and defeated.
What the fuck is going on?
I'm up the stairs before I decide to move, stopping outside my room, the door of which is cracked open and light spills into the hallway.
I knock once. "Isabella."
Silence.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." She snaps.
Meaning she’s not fine at all.
I push the door open.
She's standing in front of the mirror still in that dress with her hair wet and dripping down her back, her arms twisted behind her at an angle that looks painful as she struggles with something I can't see.
"The zipper's stuck." She doesn't look at me, just keeps pulling at the fabric with increasing desperation. "I got it halfway down in the shower and now it won't—" She stops and yanks harder, her shoulder pulling in a way that has to hurt. "It won't move."
"Let me look."
"I don't need—"
"Isabella." I move closer and stop a few feet behind her where I can see her face in the mirror, the frustration and exhaustion and something close to defeat in her eyes. "Let me look at it."
She drops her arms with a heavy exhale and finally meets my eyes in the mirror, hers bright and tired and so frustrated, she looks ready to tear the dress off herself.
"I-It's stuck," she says quietly, her voice losing that sharp edge and going soft. "
"I've got it. Hold still." I close the distance and stop right behind her, close enough to see the problem, the zipper's caught in the fabric, twisted wrong and tangled in the teeth in a way that's going to take patience to fix.
Close enough to smell her too. Soft spices, vanilla and that perfume she always wears, something floral and expensive that's mixed now with my soap from the shower.
My fingers find the zipper and I work it carefully as I try to untangle it without ripping, without pulling.
"You don't have to be so careful." Her voice is steady but quiet. "It's already ruined."
"I'm not trying to save the dress."
"Then what are you doing?"
Making sure I don't touch you. Making sure this doesn't get worse.
"Just hold still." I find myself grumbling.
The fabric finally comes free and the zipper slides down smooth, six inches, eight, ten, revealing her back in increments that I try not to notice.
Pale, creamy skin. The curve of her spine. Water droplets still clinging to her shoulder blades like diamonds catching light. The line of her back disappearing into the fabric, delicate and breakable and beautiful in a way that makes my hands shake.
Fuck. FUCK.
I step back fast, putting three feet between us before my hands move on their own.
"There. You're good." I shove said hands in my pocket.
She catches the dress before it falls and holds it to her chest, her knuckles white where she grips the fabric like it's the only thing keeping her together.
"Thank you."
My clothes are on the bed where she left them and she looks at them, then at me in the mirror.
"I need to—" She stops and takes a breath. "I'm not wearing anything under this. The dress has built-in—" She stops again, color rising in her cheeks. "Can you turn around?"
Every instinct screams at me to leave, to get out, to put walls and doors between us before I do something irreversible.
I turn and face the wall, staring at the paint and the small crack near the ceiling I keep meaning to fix, staring at anything except the knowledge that behind me, Isabella is stepping out of that dress.
I hear fabric rustle—the whisper of silk sliding down skin and hitting the floor with a soft sound that shouldn't affect me as much as it does. Her breathing comes uneven and quick, and I count the seconds.
Footsteps. Soft. Bare feet on hardwood.
She's moving, picking up my shirt, pulling it on.
I count to twenty in my head and force my hands to stay in my pocket, force myself to stare at the wall like my life depends on it because, fucking hell, maybe it does.
"Okay. You can turn around."
I count to three just to make sure I’m still in control of my fucking body.
Then I turn.
And every thought in my head goes silent.
She's drowning in my clothes.
The t-shirt hangs to her thighs and the sleeves go past her elbows, the neckline too wide and slipping off one shoulder to show her collarbone. The sweatpants are rolled at the waist once, twice, three times and still too long, pooling at her ankles in a way that should look ridiculous.
She's swimming in fabric that smells like me, wearing my clothes against her bare skin with her wet hair soaking dark patches into the navy blue.
And she's looking at me, waiting for some reaction with her arms crossed defensively over her chest.
My mouth goes dry.
What the fuck do I do now?