Julian #2
The villa looks even more isolated in the darkness, the olive trees casting long shadows across the courtyard. I unlock the door and step inside, flipping on the lights. Isabelle follows slowly, her eyes scanning the sparse interior. "This is where you're staying?"
"Yes."
She sets her suitcase down by the door and wraps her arms around herself, suddenly looking very young and very vulnerable. "I don't understand what's happening."
"I know."
"Then explain it to me." Her voice rises, anger bleeding through the fear. "Tell me what the fuck is going on. Tell me why you almost killed that man. Tell me why I'm in danger."
I close the door and lock it, then turn to face her. "There's a contract out on your life."
She staggers back a step, her face going even paler. "What?"
"Someone wants you dead. They've hired people to make it happen."
"That's—that's insane." She shakes her head, her hands trembling. "Why would anyone want to kill me? I'm nobody. I'm just—"
"You're Isabelle Montague," I interrupt. "Daughter of Jacques Montague. Heiress to a fortune with connections to some very dangerous people."
She stares at me, her green eyes wide with shock and disbelief. "My father's business is legitimate. He's not—"
"Your father's business has ties to organized crime. Whether he's directly involved or just turns a blind eye, I don't know. But someone in that world wants you dead."
"No." She's shaking her head again, backing away from me. "No, that's not—my father wouldn't—"
"I'm not saying your father ordered the hit." I take a step toward her, keeping my voice calm and steady. "But someone did. And they're not going to stop until you're dead."
"How do you know this?" Her voice cracks. "How do you know any of this?"
This is the moment. The moment when I have to lie to her face, knowing that if she ever finds out the truth, she'll hate me for it. But I don't have a choice. I can't tell her the truth. If I do, she'll never trust me again. She'll run, and I won't be able to protect her.
She'll die, and I'll die too for nothing.
"I have connections," I say carefully. "In that world. I hear things."
"Connections." She repeats the word like it's foreign. "What kind of connections?"
"The kind that keep me informed about threats."
"Are you—" She stops, her eyes searching my face. "Are you a criminal?"
"I'm a businessman."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give you right now."
She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her mind working, trying to piece together the puzzle with the limited information I've given her. She licks her lips nervously. "A businessman. Like my father?"
I nod tightly. "Something like that."
Her mouth thins. "So you've been following me."
"Protecting you."
"That's the same thing!"
"No." I take another step closer, and she doesn't back away this time. "Following you would be watching from a distance and doing nothing. Protecting you means putting myself between you and anyone who wants to hurt you."
"Why?" The question comes out as barely more than a whisper. "Why would you do that? You don't even know me. Just because we…"
This is the other moment. The one where I have to decide how much truth to give her.
I could lie. I could tell her it's because I'm a good person, because I couldn't stand by and watch an innocent woman die, because it's the right thing to do.
But I think she'd see through it. She knows, I think, after what we did together, that I'm no fucking angel, no matter what lie I've given her about what I do for work.
So I give her a piece of the truth. Just enough to be believable.
"Because I couldn't let you die."
"That's not an answer either."
My jaw tightens, frustration starting to bleed through everything else. "It's the only one I have for you."
She's so close to me. I can smell her perfume, the heat wafting off of her skin. It reminds me of the hotel room in Ibiza, of her skin against mine, of the way she gasped my name when she came. The memory hits me like a punch to the gut.
I remember the feel of her body beneath mine, the way she moved, the sounds she made. The way she looked at me afterward, her eyes soft and satisfied, her body limp with pleasure.
I remember my hands around her throat and the way we came together while I held her an inch from death. I couldn't kill her then.
And I can't let anyone else kill her now.
"I couldn't let you die," I repeat, my voice rougher now, "because when I'm with you, I feel something I haven't felt in a very long time."
Her eyes widen. "What?" she whispers.
"Alive."
The word hangs between us, heavy with meaning. She stares at me, her eyes searching mine, and I let her look. Let her see whatever she needs to see to believe me.
"You're asking me to trust you," she says finally. "To believe that you're protecting me from some threat I can't see, can't verify, can't understand. You're asking me to stay here with you, alone, when you've already proven you're capable of hurting someone with your bare hands."
"Yes."
"That's insane."
I let out a sharp breath. "I know."
"I should run. Get as far away from you as possible."
"You could try." I hold her gaze. "But whoever wants you dead will find you eventually. And when they do, I won't be there to stop them."
She's quiet for a long moment, her arms still wrapped around herself, her body trembling slightly.
She studies my face, and I can see the war playing out behind her eyes.
Fear versus desperation, distrust versus the need to believe someone can keep her safe.
"If I stay," she says slowly, "I need proof.
I need something concrete that proves what you're saying is true. "
"I can't give you that. Not without putting you in more danger."
"Then how am I supposed to believe you?"
"You're not." I take a step back, giving her space. "You're supposed to make a choice. Trust me and let me protect you, or walk out that door and take your chances alone."
"That's not a choice. That's an ultimatum."
"It's the only option I can give you."
She's quiet again, her eyes never leaving mine.
I can see her weighing the options, trying to decide if I'm telling the truth or if I'm the real threat she should be running from.
She has no experience with this, nothing but her gut to go off of.
And I realize with a sinking feeling that I can't blame her for doubting me.
I've given her every reason to be terrified, and almost no reason to trust me.
But I need her to trust me. I need her to stay here where I can keep her safe. If she leaves, she's dead. And I can't let that happen.
"Please," I say, and the word feels foreign on my tongue. I don't beg. I don't plead. But for her, I'll do both. "Please, Isabelle. Trust me. Just for tonight. And if you still want to leave in the morning, I won't stop you." I can hear the rawness in my voice, and I think she hears it, too.
She stares at me for what feels like an eternity. Then, slowly, she nods. "Okay," she whispers. "I'll stay. For tonight."
The relief that floods through me is almost painful in its intensity. "Thank you."
She doesn't respond. She just picks up her suitcase and looks around the small villa. "Where do I sleep?"
"The bedroom. I'll take the couch."
She nods again, then walks toward the bedroom door. She pauses in the doorway, her hand on the frame, and looks back at me. "Julian?"
I fight not to follow her into the bedroom. That part of our relationship—such as it ever was—is over now. I'll never touch her again. The thought is painful, but not as painful as the idea of her dying. "Yeah?"
"If you're lying to me—if this is some kind of trap—I'll find a way to make you regret it."
The threat should be laughable coming from someone so much smaller, so much more vulnerable than me. But the look in her eyes tells me she means it.
"I'm not lying," I say quietly. That, in and of itself, is a lie. I'm lying to her about so many things. But I'm not trying to trap her. That much is true.
She holds my gaze for another moment, then disappears into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. I stand in the middle of the living area, listening to the sound of her moving around and getting ready for bed.
I have days to figure out how to keep Isabelle alive without getting us both killed.
I stand there, aching to follow her into the room and bury myself inside of her, and I realize I'm fucking hard.
My cock throbs, and I clench my hands into fists, gritting my teeth as I sink down onto the couch and lie back, ignoring my aching dick.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
But I already know the answer. I've gotten myself into something I can't walk away from. Something that's going to end in blood and violence and probably my own death.
And I don't care. Because she's worth it.
The thought springs into my head, and even though it makes no fucking sense, it feels true.
Isabelle Montague—spoiled heiress, beautiful stranger, the woman I was supposed to kill—is worth dying for.
Not because I can have her, because I can't, but because it feels right.
It feels like… balance, somehow. Like I'm supposed to save this woman.
I open my eyes and stare at the closed bedroom door, listening to the sound of her breathing on the other side, and I make a silent vow.
I will keep her alive. No matter what it takes. No matter who I have to kill or what lines I have to cross. She will survive this.
Even if I don't.