Chapter Twenty-Five
Adrian
I lounged across my leather couch, phone in one hand, knife twirling between the fingers of the other as I scrolled through my upcoming fight schedule.
The afternoon light filtered through my windows, casting long shadows across the room.
Isla sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, arranging her newly purchased painting supplies with a methodical precision I found endlessly fascinating.
A week together, and I still couldn't stop watching her. Every movement, every expression. She would absently touch the ribbon at her throat when lost in thought, and it drove me wild.
The sunlight caught in her hair, turning it to light liquid gold against her pale blue sundress. She was entirely mine.
I set my phone down, abandoning any pretense of caring about fight schedules when the most captivating show on earth was happening three feet away from me.
Isla's fingers moved with delicate purpose as she mixed colors on her palette, creating swirls of blue and gold that somehow matched the ocean depths of her eyes.
Those eyes, dark blue and impossibly deep, narrowed slightly as she studied her blank canvas, seeing things there I couldn't yet imagine.
"So," I said casually, still twirling the knife, "I've got a fight this weekend. In Tampa."
Isla looked up, a smudge of dark blue already decorating her hand despite having barely started.
The contrast of that vibrant color against her pale skin made my cock twitch with interest. I wanted to lick it off, to taste the paint and her skin together.
"This weekend? That's soon," she said, her voice soft and musical in the quiet.
Everything about her was soft—her voice, her skin, those curves I wanted covered in my fucking cum.
She was the perfect counterpoint to my hardness, my rough edges, my constant destruction.
I shrugged, the knife continuing its familiar dance between my fingers.
"Last-minute replacement. The scheduled fighter pulled out with an injury." I grinned, the prospect of violence already making my blood sing. "Their loss, my gain. Easy money."
"How long will you be gone?" she asked, and I caught the slight furrow of her brow, the hint of disappointment in her voice that made something warm unfurl in my chest.
She would miss me. The thought was maddening.
" We will be gone for about twelve hours," I corrected, watching her expression shift from confusion to understanding.
"The jet leaves at two, fight's at seven. We’ll be back before midnight. No need to pack."
"We?" she repeated, though the smile tugging at her plush lips told me she already knew the answer .
"You, our family, and I.” I set the knife down and moved to join her on the floor, my much larger frame dwarfing her space.
The scent of her vanilla and paint filled my senses as I settled beside her. "The girls always come to the fights. It's tradition."
"Is it tradition, or is it an order?" she teased, tilting her head back to look at me.
The movement exposed the line of her throat, the ribbon a contrast against her skin. My mark. My claim.
I traced my thumb across her lower lip, watching her eyes flutter at the contact.
"Both," I admitted shamelessly. "But mostly because I want you there. I need you there."
Her expression softened, those ocean eyes warming like sunlight on water. "Then, of course I'll be there."
"Good girl," I praised, leaning down to capture her mouth in a brief kiss that tasted of coffee and possibilities.
I pulled back to watch her work, shifting so I could see over her shoulder.
Her body fit perfectly between my legs, her back occasionally brushing against my leg as she leaned forward to add paint to her canvas.
The first strokes were hesitant, almost unsure, but as she lost herself in the creation, her movements became more confident and fluid.
There was something fucking magical about watching Isla paint.
The transformation was subtle but complete; the soft girl I'd claimed as mine morphed into something wilder.
Her breathing changed, grew deeper, more measured. Her eyes darkened with concentration, that same intensity I'd seen when I'd buried myself inside her, when I'd watched her come apart under my hands.
The brush danced across the canvas, leaving trails of blue and gold in its wake .
Her wrist, so delicate, flicked with precise movements, creating something from nothing.
The power of it, the creativity, made my blood hot in my veins.
"I've been thinking," she said, her fingers never pausing in their work. "After your fight, after you win, I want to post about you. About us."
I stilled, processing her words, my eyes fixed on the curve of her neck where my teeth had left marks just hours ago.
"You want to tell your followers about me?"
She nodded, a hint of uncertainty crossing her features. "Is that okay? I know we haven't discussed how public to be, and some figured it out, but my audience?—“
I cut her off with another kiss, this one deeper and hungrier. My hand slid up to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in the silky strands of her hair.
When I finally let her breathe, she looked dazed, exactly how I liked her.
"Fuck yes, it's okay," I growled, unable to keep the possessive satisfaction from my voice. "I want everyone to know you're mine."
The thought of her claiming me publicly, of her followers seeing her with me, sent a thrill of ownership through my veins. "Noah's going to fucking hate it."
"This isn't about him,” she protested, though the flush on her cheeks told me she'd thought about that too.
The blush spread down her neck, disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress, and I imagined tracing its path with my tongue.
"Of course not," I agreed, not believing it for a second. "It's about staking your claim on the soon-to-be winner.” I winked, enjoying the way she rolled her eyes at my confidence.
"You haven't won yet ," she reminded me, turning back to her painting.
The canvas was coming alive now, swirls of color taking shape. There was violence in those brushstrokes, passion in the way the colors clashed and merged .
I grinned, wild and certain. "It's already decided, angel. Poor bastard just doesn't know it yet."
Rising to my feet, I pulled her up with me, lifting her easily until her face was level with mine.
Her weight was nothing in my arms, her body so perfect compared to mine that it awakened every protective instinct I possessed.
And other, darker instincts too.