Chapter 15 #4
I pulled the covers tighter around myself and looked around. His room. His space. Not mine.
And then I saw him—Rafael Romanov, already dressed in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, standing near the open balcony doors. The breeze tousled his hair slightly as he stared out, unreadable as always. One hand in his pocket. The other holding a half-empty glass of water.
He didn’t look at me when he spoke. “You’re awake.”
My throat was dry. “Observant.”
Only then did his gaze flick to me over his shoulder, and when it did, I noticed something else—my suitcases, all of them, neatly lined up by the closet.
My spine straightened. “Why the hell is all my stuff here?” I asked, voice still hoarse from sleep, or maybe from everything else.
He turned, slow and calm. “Because we’re leaving soon.” His voice was steady. “And I figured you’d rather not deal with the emotional chaos of running into your two guard dogs first thing in the morning.”
I blinked. “So you just had someone pack my things?”
“I did,” he said simply. “Someone trustworthy. Nothing is missing.”
“You think that’s the point?”
He tilted his head. “No. But I think you’re smart enough to know why I did it anyway.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just stared at him. I didn’t know what was more unsettling—that he was probably right, or that I wasn’t entirely sure I was angry about it.
Maybe it was easier this way.
“Get dressed,” he said, placing his empty glass down on the nearby table. “We’re having breakfast with the others before we leave. I want you to tell them everything you overheard.”
“Is that an order?” I asked, brow lifting.
He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Would it make a difference?”
I narrowed my eyes, then huffed and shoved the blanket off me. “You’re lucky I was planning to tell them anyway.”
“I know.”
Arrogant bastard.
I stood, wrapping the sheet around me as I stepped toward the suitcase that looked recently opened. I rifled through it until I found something dark—black jeans and a sleeveless top—and grabbed it before walking toward the bathroom.
My fingers hovered on the handle for a second, then I glanced back. He was still watching. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.
The hot water hit my skin like it was trying to rinse away what couldn’t be undone. Steam curled up the tiled walls, blurring the mirror and softening the edges of everything, but not enough to blur out the night before.
Not enough to blur out him.
I stood under the stream, hands pressed to the cool tiles in front of me, my head bowed.
Every inch of me remembered—my body humming in the aftermath, bruises blooming like secrets I never meant to keep.
The faint ache between my thighs, the marks on my wrists, the taste of his kiss still lingering.
And the worst part? I didn’t regret it.
That should’ve terrified me. But all I felt was… unsteady. Like I had stepped onto a road with no idea where it ended, and for once, I hadn’t checked for the cliff.
I washed slowly, methodically, as if it would give me time to breathe. To build back the walls he cracked last night. And by the time I stepped out and wrapped myself in the thick towel, I didn’t feel stronger. Just quieter.
When I opened the door and stepped back into the room, he was by the closet, speaking in low tones to a man in resort uniform. The worker was lifting the last of our luggage—his and mine—and quietly rolling them toward the door.
I paused. Rafael stood tall, shirt fitted perfectly across his back, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his voice low and even. The contrast of him in such a simple moment—it shouldn’t have made my stomach flip. But it did.
The worker gave a respectful nod and exited, and only then did Rafael glance toward me.
“You take long showers.”
“You move entire lives without asking.”
He didn’t reply, but that small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth again. The kind that meant he wasn’t sorry. Not even close.
I dried off and dressed quickly—black jeans, a dark green top, simple makeup, hair tied back. No effort to impress. Just enough to look composed. As if last night hadn’t happened.
As if I didn’t still feel it.
He waited by the door, and as I slipped on my shoes and walked toward him, he opened it for me without a word.
The hallway was quiet, golden light pouring in through the long windows. My heels clicked against the floor as we moved side by side down the corridor.
“You didn’t answer me earlier,” I said eventually.
“About?”
“You had my things moved. That wasn’t just about avoiding Kellan and Ash.”
He gave a small shrug. “No. It was about control.”
I shot him a look. He didn’t elaborate. Of course not.
We turned a corner, approaching the wide entrance hall of the resort, sunlight pouring in through the open sides of the building. A soft breeze drifted through, carrying the scent of the sea and something floral.
As we stepped through one of the archways leading outside, I caught sight of a woman crouched beside the stone wall—one of the workers. She was sweeping up broken porcelain.
The vase. The one we’d knocked over last night. Shattered. Scattered.
I stopped walking for a second, my eyes locking onto the glinting pieces. Her hands moved carefully, sweeping them into a small pan.
It felt wrong to look away. But I did.
“Something wrong?” Rafael asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“Nothing,” I murmured, catching up.
We kept walking through the open breezeway, the path shaded by wooden beams overhead— a pergola, that’s what it was called.
The heat pressed lightly against my skin, but the tension winding tighter in my chest had nothing to do with the sun.
And everything to do with the fact that I didn’t know what today would bring.
We turned the final corner, the glass doors to the resort’s restaurant glinting in the morning light. As they swung open, the cool air inside swept over us.
And that’s when I saw them. A long table near the center of the room. Kellan. Ash. Nikolai. And Yuri. All sitting there. Waiting.
And I was walking into a storm that hadn’t even started yet.
The air shifted the second we stepped into the restaurant.
It wasn’t just the chilled breeze from the AC or the clatter of silverware and murmured conversation from the few guests sprinkled across tables.
It was the weight of them —four men seated like kings at a war table.
Only this wasn’t a throne room. It was a battlefield.
Kellan’s eyes were the first to find me. Cold. Sharp. Wounded.
Ash wasn’t far behind, his jaw tight, his gaze cutting Rafael in half before it swept to me, unreadable.
Rafael walked beside me like he didn’t give a damn. Because he didn’t. Not about their glares. Not about the storm in their eyes. Not even about the fact that every single person at that table could probably smell what had happened between us last night.
Yuri, of course, didn’t miss a beat.
As we approached, he leaned back in his chair, arms sprawled, drink in hand—at this hour. His dark hair was pushed back, sunglasses hanging from his collar, and that signature smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking between me and Rafael. “I’d ask how you slept, bella, but judging by the bruises on your wrists… I already know. Walls here aren’t exactly soundproof, you know. Especially when your suite’s next to mine.”
My spine stiffened.
Kellan’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the table.
Rafael didn’t flinch. He just dragged a chair back for me. “The walls were never meant to be silent,” he said casually, eyes on Yuri.
Yuri snorted. “No wonder the poor cleaning lady looked like she’d seen a ghost this morning. Was sweeping up ceramic like it owed her money.”
I sat down without a word, keeping my gaze forward, even as I felt it—Kellan’s stare burning into my skin, Ash’s silence ringing louder than any insult he could’ve thrown. Rafael took the seat beside me, unbothered. Of course.
“So,” Yuri said, drawing out the word. “We gonna talk about what really matters or keep throwing glances like we’re at a high school reunion?”
“Isabella,” Nikolai cut in, his tone even, precise. “You said you overheard something last night. Something about Viktor.”
I nodded once, keeping my posture straight, trying to ignore the way Rafael’s presence beside me burned like fire on my skin.
“There were two men,” I started, keeping my voice calm.
“One of them was clearly nervous, panicking. The other was trying to calm him down. They were behind a row of trees near the beach, thinking no one could hear them.”
Yuri leaned forward, his drink forgotten. Rafael didn’t move. Kellan and Ash didn’t blink.
“They mentioned Damyen,” I said. “And how he was working with Viktor later. That the ambush on the docks was orchestrated by them. The Cartel… wasn’t actually involved. That was just the cover.”
Silence.
“They mentioned the Italian mafia,” I continued. “The real players behind the ambush. Which means whoever’s helping Viktor isn’t just playing with us. They’re trying to drag the Italians into this war.”
Nikolai cursed under his breath, low and sharp in Russian.
Rafael’s voice was quiet when he spoke. “Are you sure?”
I turned to look at him. “I don’t say shit unless I am.”
His eyes locked with mine. Cold. Burning. Calculating. And something else I couldn’t name. “You said they were meeting with Damyen?”
I nodded. “Last night. But I went, as you already know. I picked the lock on the back door. I listened. It was them. They confirmed it.”
Ash finally spoke, voice like a blade. “And what if it was a setup?”
I turned to him. “Then I wouldn’t be here.”
Kellan leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And you think this changes everything? You think bringing us half-conversations and whispered names is enough to trust that you didn’t just land yourself in the middle of something you shouldn’t have touched?”