Isla's hands trembled at her sides.
Memories pressed at the edge of her mind. She could still remember the feel of Mikael's rough hands. The smell of sweat and power and rage. The shame. The blood.
Her chest tightened.
The stranger saw the quiet torture on her face, so he cupped her face. "If you don't want this," he said. "tell me to stop."
Her throat bobbed.
She hesitated. Then she stepped closer just enough for his scent to wrap around her.
She wasn't sure if it was bravery or madness, but her fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt. They fumbled, uncertain, but determined.
He stood still, letting her explore him like a mystery she was afraid to solve. Her knuckles brushed the heat of his skin as each button gave way. Her breath caught when the shirt slipped from his shoulders, revealing carved muscle, tattoos and faint scars.
He was beautiful. And dangerous.
And hers.
Why does it feel so good just to touch him? Why does my heart race like he's been mine forever?
She didn't say it aloud. She didn't dare.
Instead, he reached for her zipper. "May I?"
She nodded. Her back straightened instinctively as the fabric slid down, baring her spine, her curves, her most vulnerable self. Then she stepped out of the dress, trembling.
She should've felt exposed.
Instead, his gaze was reverent. Not like she was a prize, or a possession. But something he wanted to worship.
His hands didn't grope. They explored.
When he touched her, it wasn't rough or demanding.
And she answered in moans, in gasps, in the way she leaned into him like he was the only solid thing in her crumbling world.
Still, when he laid her back against the mattress, the ghost returned.
The ceiling blurred into another room, another body that had hurt oppressed her
Her hands pushed at the man's chest, not to stop him, but to catch her breath. Her eyes were wide, startled.
He froze instantly, bracing himself above her.
Then she cupped the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss him slowly.
Her thighs parted beneath him of their own accord, her breath stuttering when his fingers found her core.
She whimpered, her head falling back against the pillows. "That feels..."
"Good?" he murmured, his lips brushing her jaw.
Too good. Too right. Like every cell in her body recognized him.
Is it because he's my mate? She wondered.
The thought scared her, but not enough to stop. She arched under his touch, chasing the pleasure like a starving thing. When his mouth trailed down her body and tasted her, she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.
His mouth was sin, his tongue a stroke of heaven. Her thighs trembled around his head, her hands fisting the sheets as wave after wave crashed through her.
When he finally moved over her, his length settling between her legs, she blinked up at him with glassy eyes and a wild flush across her cheeks.
Then he entered her, she gasped. Not from pain, but from the shock of how perfect it felt.
She clung to him, her nails digging into his shoulders, every inch of her wrapped around him. And they moved together, the sound of their moans filling the air.
When her release came, a quiet sob broke from her lips, but she didn't stop. She kissed him like her life depended on it, riding out the storm with him buried deep inside her.
He followed seconds later, groaning against her throat, his body trembling as he gave himself to her.
And for one breathless, broken moment... Isla didn't feel like a girl haunted by pain.
She felt free.
---
Isla stirred, sometime around midnight her limbs heavy with pleasure and exhaustion.
She blinked blearily into the darkness, caught in that strange, half-drunken haze between sleep and waking.
He was still there.
Lying on his side, his broad back turned toward her, the blanket tangled low around his hips. The muscles of his shoulders moved subtly with every breath, slow and even.
Isla propped herself up on one elbow.
That was when she saw it.
A delicate tattoo ran the length of his spine. It was fine, black ink, no bigger than the width of her pinky. At first, it looked like symbols, maybe runes. But the longer she stared, the more unsettled she felt. The lines shimmered faintly in the moonlight, not like ink, but like something supernatural etched beneath his skin.
Her brows furrowed. She had seen many tattoos. This wasn't one of them.
It pulsed faintly in the dark.
She reached out, her fingers hovering over the ink. Her body trembled whether from the chill or something deeper, she didn't know. She stopped just short of touching it, afraid to disturb it, afraid it might awaken.
Instead, she inched forward and pressed her bare chest to his back, her arm curling around his waist. Her body melted into his instinctively. She breathed in his scent, relaxed.
"Hey," she whispered. "What's your name?"
He didn't move at first. Then she felt his body tense beneath her touch, just slightly.
"I'm not really into names. Or pillow talk."
Her chest squeezed.
"What?" she asked in a fragile voice.
"I mean," he said, his tone casual but distant, "I'm not interested in getting close to a one-night stand."
The words sank into her like teeth.
One night stand.
Her arm slipped from his waist slowly. The chill of the room crept back in, swallowing the heat he'd left behind.
"I see," she said softly, even though her throat burned.
He didn't turn to face her.
She watched the back of his head, his messy dark hair and the tattoo.
He didn't know, she realized.
He doesn't feel it? This... pull? This fire in my chest that feels like I've known him forever?
Her thoughts spiraled, frantic and raw. Am I imagining it? Am I broken? Or... is he?
Isla's voice barely carried across the bed. "Do you have a girlfriend? Or a wife...?"
"Something like that."
Her heart felt like it had dropped into a pit of ice. Still, she forced out a soft sigh and laid her head back down.
Her fingers curled into the sheet.
She didn't cry. She was too numb for that.
Instead, she closed her eyes, swallowed the ache, and let the sleep pull her back down.
...
Isla stared up at the glass building looming over her, a lump forming in her throat.
She clutched the business card tightly in her hand, the only trace left behind by the man who had touched her in ways no one ever had.
It should have made her feel cheap.
It should have made her walk away.
But instead, here she was driven by desperation.
Maybe it was madness or something deeper.
She hadn't dared go to his home. So, she'd chosen the professional route, his office.
"You can do this, Isla," she whispered, lifting her chin and adjusting the sunglasses perched on her nose. She was barely twenty-two, with no power and no real plan, just trembling hands, and the sinking knowledge that her time was running out.
She stepped into the lobby, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble floor. The receptionist, a tall blonde with a practiced smile, glanced up from behind the gleaming desk.
"Good morning. How can I help you?"
Isla tried to sound confident. "I'm here to see Mr. Dominic Argento."
The woman's smile widened. "Do you have an appointment with the CEO?"
Before Isla could even respond, a voice sliced through the air behind her.
"She's with me."
Her breath caught.
That voice.
Slowly, she turned, and there he was.
Dominic Argento,
He was dressed in a tailored black suit that hugged his tall frame and his dark hair was brushed back from his forehead.
But it was his eyes that hit her the hardest. They were colder now.
His gaze swept over her slowly, and she felt as though he was peeling back every layer of armor she wore. Her fingers twitched at her sides.
"I didn't think you'd really show up," he said.
She swallowed the lump rising in her throat and forced a polite, tight smile. "Can we talk? Somewhere private?"
His brow lifted.
"I have nothing to say to you."
That stung.
Her lips parted, the words fumbling out before she could contain them. "You left me your card. You wanted me to find you, right?"
"I have a meeting in five minutes," he said coldly.
"Marry me," Isla blurted.
For a second, the entire lobby fell silent. His right eye twitched ever so slightly.
Dominic exhaled slowly, as if she were just another problem on his calendar.
"I'm not in the mood for games, Miss..."
"Isla. Isla Cruz," she whispered.
He stiffened and an unreadable emotion flashed in his eyes.
"Well, Isla," he replied flatly, "you're asking the wrong person. Have a good day. I hope we don't cross paths again."
Then he turned, his tall frame striding past her like she was invisible.
Desperation slammed through her chest. She had no backup plan. No one else to ask. No one else who could stand between her and Mikael.
"You are my mate!" she called out, her voice cracking.