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I should feel justified, but there's a hollow ring to it all. It's the cost of maintaining order, of ensuring that the gears of our operation turn without resistance. My thoughts are like the dark waters of a deep lake. Still on the surface but with undercurrents running wild below. I'm aware, bitterly so, that respect within our ranks is often measured in bruises and broken bones.
A soft gasp snaps me out of my thoughts, sharper than the snap of a bone. I turn, slow and deliberate, to find Isabella standing at the entrance of the living room. Her eyes are wide, reflecting the gruesome scene before her.
"Damien," Isabella says. "Are you alright?"
Silence hangs heavy in the air for a heartbeat or two as my gaze locks with hers. Lost, that's what I am, caught in the moment, admiring the vision standing before me. She's in silk pajama pants paired with a spaghetti strap top that clings to her form, failing to obscure the fullness of her breasts. My eyes are drawn to her, compelled by the vibrant green that seems to spark a wild forest within them, and I can't help but notice how her hair, a tumultuous cascade of curls, sits atop her head like a wild, untamed crown.
Desire, unwanted yet undeniable, flows through me, a current driven by the sheer force of her presence. It’s an ache, a longing to reach out, to forget the blood and violence, if just for a second. Her clearing of the throat is the anchor that pulls me back, the simple sound somehow slicing through the thick tension.
"Yes, I'm fine," I manage to reply, my voice coming out steadier than I feel inside.
"Okay, good," she murmurs, her gaze avoiding the crumpled form on the couch as she starts to turn away.
"You're not going to ask about Jackson?" I find myself calling out, my voice oddly gruff, stopping her in her tracks. My tone has a cutting edge to it, revealing more of my own turbulent emotions than I intend.
"I wasn't," she says. "Clearly, he'd gotten himself into trouble, and you were there to save him. He's home, and that's what matters.”
"You're right. He did get himself into trouble," I admit, my voice low and unwavering. "But I didn't save him. I'm the one who beat the shit out of him." My confession hangs heavy between us, and the tension in the air grows thicker.
Stepping closer to Isabella, I can feel the electric charge of our proximity. It's like standing too close to a sparking wire, the danger clear yet impossible to resist. The undeniable pull between us seems to vibrate through the cramped space, a silent dance of desire that neither of us had planned for, yet both are acutely aware of.
Isabella's breath hitches as she processes my words, her gaze never leaving mine. In that prolonged look, in the shallow rise and fall of her chest, I feel the wild beat of my heart mesh with hers. Despite the violence and the bloodshed, there's an undercurrent of want, an unspoken acknowledgment of tension that neither of us can deny.
"What kind of man does that to his brother?" Isabella questions in disgust and her words snap me out of the lustful daze.
Rage bursts inside me like a lit fuse. "The kind of man you don't fuck with," I respond angrily as I step away from the intensity of the moment. "It doesn't matter that he's my brother. He overstepped, and he had to be taught a lesson. You'd do well to remember that, Isabella. Women like you never learn their lesson."
Isabella steps back, her expression turning to a frown, her pride clearly wounded. "Women like me?" she echoes, disbelief edging her tone.
"Money-hungry, status-driven whores," I spit out. "You move on from one man to the next, taking all you can."
Her face contorts as if I've struck her, and she rears back. "You don't know me, asshole. You can take your insults and shove them up your ass," she snaps with a venom that matches my own.
She turns on her heel and stomps away, her every step radiating indignation and scorn. I watch her retreat, the tension not dissipating but morphing into something harsh and jagged.
"It's not an insult if it's true," I mutter under my breath, voicing a bitter truth only to her retreating back.
Mrs. Collins shuffles back into the room, her hands unsteady as she tries to rouse Jackson just enough to swallow the painkiller. She maneuvers with a persistent, matronly efficiency that surprises me, given the state of things. Despite the protest in his groans, Jackson's better off now, taking what's meant to dull the worst of it. I don't linger.
I pivot around, already forgetting the scene behind me. I can feel the press of other matters, the weight of the world that doesn't pause, not even for blood spilled or pride shattered. I step out of the house with my mind already flipping through a catalog of troubles that waits.
The door of my car slams with finality. The engine purrs to life like an eager beast that's all torque and raw power. As I'm about to pull away, something catches my eye. Isabella's figure is stamped against the window. Her silhouette is defiant, and right then, her arm lifts. Slowly but surely, her middle finger rises like a flag of her own fierce battle standard. It's bold, it's brash, and I can't help but let out a rumbling laugh. She's fire, and under different stars, I might have admired that spark in her even more.
Peeling off down the driveway, I shake my head, reveling in the dark humor of it all. Jackson, the fool, might have hurt himself in all manner of ways, but he managed to marry a woman with the kind of fire and attitude that could have set the world on fire. Too bad she'll burn for the wrong sinner.
4
CHAPTER 4
Isabella
Today is a day I can relax and be myself. I can let my guard down and enjoy my time away from Jackson’s mansion. Taking a deep breath, I relish the freedom that accompanies stepping outside the mansion's suffocating confines. It's always a relief to spend time with Seraphina. She’s the one person who doesn't judge me or question my motives.
Of course, Jackson couldn't care less where I go or who I see. It's not like he's concerned about me. However, he always makes sure I'm watched everywhere I go and ensures I have a driver. He doesn't trust me, believing I might seize the opportunity to escape his clutches. He’s not wrong.
His treatment confuses me. On one hand, he seems indifferent; on the other, he exerts control as if fearful of losing his grip on me. He came home last week, beat to hell, but I couldn’t care less. Whoever he pissed off, he obviously deserved it. I was surprised to learn it was Damien who hurt him, though Damien seems like the kind of man you don’t want to piss off.
"God, Isabella. This would look amazing on you," Seraphina says, holding up a flowing, off-the-shoulder number that's far more daring than anything I'd usually wear.
