Chapter 11
VALENTINA
The next couple of days, I am kept hidden. Isaiah says I can’t move around without him because everyone is biting at the bit to get at me. His words should sound protective, but really, they make me feel like some prize animal stashed in a cage. His cage.
By the second day, I’m pacing his room until the floorboards creak beneath my bare feet.
The walls feel closer every time I look at them, painted in his chaos—tattoo sketches pinned up with bent nails, his guitar leaning crooked in the corner, the faint smell of ink and smoke woven into every blanket.
At first, I thought the room felt like him, wild and untamed, but now it feels like it’s swallowing me whole.
Isaiah never stays gone for long, but even when he’s here, I keep a wall between us.
I don’t know if it’s instinct or survival, but I can’t stop myself from pushing him back.
Because the way he looks at me—like I’m divine, untouchable—terrifies me more than Xavier’s threats ever could.
He treats me like I’m salvation in the flesh.
Run out for McDonald’s at three in the morning?
Done. Fetch me water, a blanket, a book?
He doesn’t hesitate. He bends to every whim like it’s a privilege just to serve me.
He even let me call Lexi and Johnny—thank God—because they were two days away from sounding the alarm and dragging Cast into this mess.
I had to spin them a story so ridiculous it barely passed my own lips: that I was on a bender with some insanely hot guy, road-tripping our way to the Grand Canyon like a pair of wild romantics.
Do they believe that’s me? Absolutely not.
Did they hear Isaiah’s voice in the background and immediately demand to know who the hell was with me? Of course.
Did I scramble, laugh it off, and make them think I’ve just lost my mind a little? Yes.
And somehow, despite my phone being confiscated and every word I say sounding like a half-truth, they agreed to cover for me with my brother Cast—as long as I call one of them once a week, and make it back by the first week of August for Lexi’s sendoff to FIT.
I swore I would, and Zay, with that reckless grin of his, promised he’d sneak me out if it came down to it.
God. He’s so stupidly perfect sometimes. Perfect in the way that makes my chest ache, right up until the moment he reminds me exactly why I can’t trust him to be perfect at all.
The one time I begged him for something that mattered—when I pleaded for him to let me walk away, to leave me at the bus stop and vanish into the night—he broke.
His whole body went rigid, then crumbled, like I’d gutted him with a single word.
His voice cracked, raw and trembling, when he said: “Don’t leave me, Angel. I’ve been in hell too long.”
I swear, I felt it in my bones. That broken plea, those shattered eyes—it melted through every shard of ice I’ve built around my heart.
And I hated him for it. Hated that he could make me weak.
So I whispered okay. Not a vow. Not forever.
Just… okay. Because I couldn’t stomach the way his soul seemed to collapse when he thought I’d walk away.
But the truth is, even if I wanted to run, I couldn’t.
In two days, Xavier is making it official—announcing me as his old lady in front of the Raiders.
That title is a chain disguised as power.
To leave without his blessing isn’t freedom; it’s suicide.
And the way Xavier watches me every time I pass in the hall, hazel eyes hard with possession, makes it clear: he will never let me go.
So here I am, trapped between two kinds of cages—Isaiah’s desperate devotion, and Xavier’s ruthless control. One worships me like a goddess, the other owns me like a prize. And I don’t know which one is going to destroy me first.
And even with all this confusion, and my itching, I need to hide, or run.
I find myself looking for the cool grey eyes of Asher.
I look forward to his silence. His sly comments.
The way he doesn’t look away, or even blink when I catch him staring at me.
It feels like I am being frozen in place, until Isaiah pulls me away, and even then I melt slowly.
I breath deeply, and wish for his eyes to be on me again.
I dig through his shelf until I find a copy of Twilight.
It makes me laugh—of all the things Isaiah would own.
I start reading it again, half out of boredom, half out of spite.
The words are familiar, the drama predictable, but it still pulls me in.
Only, the second time around, I know every beat by heart.
Every sparkling vampire entrance, every angsty line.
The surprise is gone, replaced by a strange comfort…
and irritation. Like rewatching a movie you’ve memorized down to the background music.
I toss the book aside and flop back on his bed, staring at the ceiling like maybe it will offer more than Edward and Bella ever could. My skin feels too tight, my thoughts too loud. I’m a storm locked in a teapot, waiting for the lid to blow.
Isaiah finally pushes the door open in the early afternoon, I’m half sprawled across his pillow, hair a mess, book on the floor. His moss-green hair is damp from a shower, tattoos slick with water. He smirks when he sees me sulking like a child.
“Angel, you look freshly fucked,” he teases, water still dripping down his chest as he stalks closer, moving across the room with a predator’s ease.
“You wish,” I scoff, rolling onto my stomach to avoid his smug face, turning my back to him.
I’m swallowed up in one of Zay’s white T-shirts and a pair of his boxers, both so oversized they hang off me like a second skin.
They’re ridiculously comfortable, but it’s the scent that undoes me—the smoky, woodsy trace of him clinging to the fabric.
It seeps into me with every breath, curling my toes before I can stop it.
The mattress shifts under his weight, and then he’s crawling up the length of me, slow as sin.
His damp hair drips against my thighs, cool beads of water chasing the heat of his mouth as his lips press just under the swell of my ass.
My body jerks, betraying me, a soft gasp slipping free before I can smother it in the pillow.
“Zay…” I whisper.
Isaiah chuckles low, the sound vibrating against my skin. Ever since that night in the hallway, he hasn’t been able to keep his hands off of me, and I haven’t been able to keep my hands off of him.
His mouth trails upward in lingering kisses—over the curve of my hip, the small of my back, the ridges of my spine. Each one leaves a brand, a promise, a threat. My pulse thrums harder with every inch he claims, the oversized shirt riding higher, exposing more of me to him.
By the time he reaches my shoulder, I’m trembling. His chest is pressed against my back now, damp skin and tattooed heat sinking into me. He lingers there, his lips hovering against the sensitive place where my neck meets my shoulder, his breath hot, teasing.
When he finally speaks, his voice is a rasp, dark and certain, each word grazing my ear like a vow: “You know it’s been too long since I have worshiped you, Angel. I think the heavens are crying.”
The sound of it shreds my defenses. My thighs clench, nails biting into the sheets as his mouth grazes the shell of my ear, sending shivers spiraling down my body. He smells like soap, smoke, and rain—clean and filthy at the same time—and it makes my head spin.
“You are ridiculous,” I chuckle, leaning into his embrace.
“No,” he growls into the crook of my jaw, voice rough and vibrating against my skin, “I am a starving man.”
A laugh bubbles out of me—sharp, breathless, half a giggle, half disbelief—as his hands press into my waist and suddenly I’m being pushed over, my back against the mattress, looking up at him. His weight follows, not crushing but anchoring, caging me in all over again.
Isaiah hovers above me, dripping hair falling into his dark eyes, chest heaving as if he’s been running for miles. The fire that had been burning so wildly a moment ago shifts, slows, condenses into something heavier.
His mouth finds mine again, but this time it isn’t desperate. It’s slow. Lingering. His lips move against mine with a deliberate care that makes my chest ache worse than the frenzy ever could. He kisses me like he’s memorizing, like he’s starving but savoring every bite.
The growl in his throat softens to a hum as his tongue grazes mine, coaxing, patient, relentless in a way that makes my toes curl. His hand slides up to cradle my face, thumb brushing my cheek, holding me steady as though I might shatter if he lets go.
I melt beneath him, my laughter fading into a broken sigh, my arms circling his shoulders to pull him closer.
I speak against his lips. “Well who am I not to feed the masses?”
Isaiah’s eyes flash, dark and wicked, the corners crinkling as if he can’t decide whether to laugh or devour me whole.
His fingertips Toy with the waistband of his boxers I’ve stolen, slow, sinful little tugs that make my breath hitch.
It’s maddening, the way he drags it out—teasing me with the promise of more, sexy and devastatingly slow.
And then—
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sound ricochets through the room like a gunshot. Isaiah freezes, his forehead dropping against mine, a growl tearing from his chest so guttural it vibrates through me.
“Motherfucker,” he snarls under his breath, biting back the urge to throw whoever it is through the wall. His hands tighten on me possessively, like he might just ignore the door and keep going, let them hear, let the whole house know.
My chest heaves, torn between laughter and frustration, my pulse skittering wildly from the shift. I bite my lip, eyes wide, whispering, “You should get that.”
His gaze flicks to me, burning, dangerous. “Not a chance.”
Another knock—louder this time.