Isabelle #2
There's something intoxicating about being on the run with this dangerous, mysterious man. Something that makes me feel more alive than I ever did at charity galas or shopping on Fifth Avenue.
And then, just outside of a small town on our way through Italy, I get my first real taste of what it means to be hunted—and not just the abstract knowledge that Julian is watching every shadow we pass.
We're leaving a train station when I suddenly feel Julian's hand shove me back, behind him, his entire body going stiff. "Don't come out from behind me," he hisses. "Stay right where you fucking are."
His voice is so harsh, so rough, that it sounds nothing like either of the men I've known him to be so far—the unhinged, passionate lover or the cold, indifferent businessman.
His hand strays to his hip, and he moves us closer to the wall, on the other side of the flow of people coming and going from the station.
"Up there," he murmurs through gritted teeth. "Stay on the side of the wall, Isabelle."
My heart is pounding. I look in the direction he is, but I don't pick out who it is that he's seen. Everyone just looks like tourists and locals, thronged together. Cold sweat prickles on the back of my neck, and I feel suddenly breathless. Is this what having a panic attack is like?
We keep walking, and suddenly, as close as I am to him, I feel the barest movement in Julian, the shift of his body, and when I look, I see his hand twitch outward.
And then we keep walking. His hand slides to the small of my back, sending a charged jolt through my entire body. It already felt as if every hair on me was raised, and his touch only invigorates that feeling, every part of me flooded with adrenaline.
"Where—" I start to say, and he snaps out a sharp shushing sound as we go around a corner. I see his shoulders relax, and I stare up at him. "What—"
"We passed him already," Julian says, very low. "And he's dead now. Or at least, he will be soon. No one will get to him in time."
His voice is so cold, so flat as he says it, that my entire body briefly feels as if I've been encased in ice. I whip my head toward him, and see the smallest flash of a bloodied, incredibly thin knife being slid through a cloth with a fast hand movement, before the knife disappears.
"Come on," Julian says. "We need to get to our hotel before we leave again tomorrow. If there's one, others will be on their way."
I feel like I'm going to faint, but he keeps propelling me forward. Someone was about to kill me. Someone who looked like anyone else on the street, who I never would have seen until it was too late.
I'm in over my head. And I know that even if I hate it, Julian is telling the truth when he says he's the only way I'm going to stay safe.
Except… how safe am I with him, really?
—
We stay in a different hotel every night. Sometimes two hotels in one night if Julian decides we need to move. They're all variations on the same theme—cheap, anonymous places that don't ask questions as long as the cash is there.
I stop complaining after the second night, stop wrinkling my nose at the threadbare towels and the stained carpets…
or at least I try. I'm starting to understand that this is what survival looks like when you're being hunted, as inconceivable as that still feels to me.
And I'm starting to understand just how good Julian is at this.
I watch him handle weapons with casual expertise—a knife that appears from nowhere when we're walking through a dark alley, a gun he checks and loads as if he's done it a thousand times, before we go to sleep each night.
I see the way he assesses every room we enter, every person we pass, calculating threats and exits with the kind of speed that only comes from years of experience.
He said he was a businessman, but I have to wonder what kind of business he's in—arms dealing?
Something worse?—because he behaves like a man who lives in danger constantly.
The thought should terrify me. And it does, in a way. But it also makes heat pool low in my belly every time I look at him, every time I remember the way he touched me back in Ibiza, the way he moved when he grabbed that man in Santorini.
He's a predator. And I'm trapped in close quarters with him, day after day, night after night.
The sexual tension is constant and unbearable.
Every night, in every hotel room, I'm hyperaware of his presence—the way he moves, the sound of his breathing, the heat of his body when he passes too close to me in the cramped spaces we inhabit.
I remember how he felt inside me. How he made me scream.
How his hands felt on my throat, his teeth on my neck, his cock stretching me until I thought I'd break.
I want him again, desperately. Despite everything—despite the danger, despite the fear, despite the fact that I barely know him and he's clearly hiding things from me, I want him so badly it's like a physical ache.
But he keeps his distance from me. He never touches me unless it's necessary—a hand on my elbow to guide me through a crowd, his body pressed against mine when we're hiding in a doorway, and someone walks past. And even then, he pulls away as soon as the moment passes, putting space between us like I'm something dangerous he needs to avoid.
The rejection stings more than it should.
I tell myself it doesn't matter, that I should be focused on staying alive, not on whether the man protecting me wants to fuck me again.
But I can't help it. Every time he looks at me with those dark, unreadable eyes and then looks away, I feel it like a slap.
By the time we reach Croatia, I feel like I might shatter.
I'm wound tight by nerves and the constant anxiety.
We've had one more run-in since the train station, while leaving a hotel—or at least, Julian did, on the way back to the room.
I wasn't there to see that one, and I'm glad. But hearing it isn't so much better.
The safe house in Croatia is better than the hotels we've been staying in, but not by much.
It's a small apartment tucked into a building that looks like it hasn't been updated since the 1970s.
The furniture is old and worn, the kitchen is barely functional, and the single bedroom has a double bed that sags in the middle.
But it has thick walls, a door with multiple locks, and windows that overlook a quiet street where Julian can watch for threats.
"We'll stay here for a few days," he says, setting his bag down and immediately beginning his inspection routine. "I have some contacts in the area I need to reach out to. See if I can get any information about who ordered the hit."
I nod, too tired to do anything else. We've been traveling for nearly eighteen hours straight, and every muscle in my body aches.
I sink down onto the couch and close my eyes, listening to Julian move through the apartment.
When I open them again, he's standing in front of me, holding out a bottle of water.
"Drink," he says. "You can't get dehydrated."
I blink up at him. Everything since we left Greece has felt like a blur, and I've just been following him from place to place, night after night, confused and scared. But this moment seems to bring everything to a halt, as I look at the water he's offering me, and the concerned look on his face.
We're not anything to each other, really. We could have never seen each other again, after Ibiza. He doesn't have to take care of me, go above and beyond to make sure I'm cared for. But he is.
I don't fully understand why, but he's trying to take care of me. I can't remember the last time someone did that.
I take the bottle and drink obediently, the cool water soothing my dry throat. When I'm done, I look up at him, and for a moment, we just stare at each other.
He looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw, tension carved into every line of his face. He's been running just as hard as I have, sleeping just as little, and I realize with a jolt that he's doing all of this for me.
"Why?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "Why are you doing this?"
His jaw tightens. "I told you—"
"No." I set the water bottle down. "You told me you couldn't let me die. That's not an answer. That's not a reason. So I'm asking again: why are you risking your life to protect me?"
He stares at me for a long moment. Whatever he's thinking, whatever he's feeling, he's fighting hard to keep it hidden. "It's complicated," he finally says.
"Then uncomplicate it."
"I can't." He takes a step back, putting distance between us again, and the rejection makes something hot and angry flare in my chest.
"You know what I think?" I stand up and move closer, refusing to let him retreat. "I think you want me. I think you've wanted me since we both left Ibiza, and you're too fucking stubborn or scared or whatever to admit it."
His eyes flash with something dark and dangerous. "Isabelle—"
"You can't even deny it." I'm close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, can smell the faint scent of his soap and sweat. "Go on. Tell me you don't stare at me every night from the other bed in whatever hotel room we're in and wish you were in my bed, in me."
"You don't know what you're talking about." His voice is rough, strained.
"Don't I?" I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze. "Then prove it. Tell me you don't want me. Tell me you don't think about that night in Ibiza, about how I felt wrapped around your cock, about the sounds I made when you fucked me."
For a moment, I think he's going to walk away and shut down this conversation.
My body thrums with need, aching for him to press close to me, to feel how hard I imagine he is right now.
I want his heat, his sweat, his hands, his mouth, his cock.
I want all of him, so I can feel the way I felt in Ibiza again, so I can fucking forget for a little while.