The first rays of dawn crept through the heavy velvet curtains, spilling muted gold across the library. Isabella stirred, blinking against the unfamiliar light, and for a fleeting second she forgot where she was.
Then the memories hit her. The firelight. His hands. The whispered promises spoken in the heat of the night.
Her heart lurched violently. She wasn't in her own bed. She was sprawled across the wide leather couch in Adrian Moretti's library, her dress wrinkled and sliding off one shoulder, her body marked by his kisses. Every breath, every ache reminded her of the choice she had made.
A choice that could destroy her.
She sat up quickly, tugging the silk fabric back into place. Her pulse thundered in her ears. What had she done? Her father would kill her if he knew. The Morettis were enemies, rivals, everything she was forbidden to touch.
And yet she had touched Adrian. She had let him inside a part of her no one else had ever reached.
"Leaving without saying goodbye?"
His voice deep, roughened by sleep rolled across the room. Isabella froze. Adrian was propped against the desk, shirt half unbuttoned, hair mussed from her fingers, looking maddeningly unbothered by the chaos of the night before.
Her cheeks flamed. She couldn't even bring herself to meet his eyes. "I shouldn't be here," she whispered.
Adrian rose slowly, each step deliberate, predatory. "You were here. You're mine now, Isabella. That isn't something you can run from."
Her throat tightened. "It was a mistake."
"Don't call it that." His voice sharpened. "You felt it. Just like I did." He reached her, tilting her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Tell me you didn't want me, and I'll let you walk away."
Her lips parted, but the lie wouldn't come. She had wanted him God help her, she still did. The truth burned in her silence.
Adrian's mouth curved into a satisfied, almost dangerous smile. "That's what I thought."
She pulled back, summoning what little strength she had left. "You don't understand. If anyone finds out "
"They won't," he cut in smoothly. "Unless you want them to." His fingers brushed her wrist, lingering with possessive intent. "I don't share what's mine, Isabella. And after last night…" His eyes darkened. "You're mine."
Her heart twisted painfully. He spoke as if it were that simple, as if claiming her could erase the centuries of blood and betrayal between their families.
She shook her head, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "You don't know what you're saying. My father "
"Your father is a coward who hides behind his name," Adrian interrupted, his tone flat. "He'll never protect you the way I can."
The words unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. Because a part of her small, fragile, desperate wanted to believe him.
But belief was dangerous.
She gathered her skirt and stood, trying to steady her trembling legs. "Last night can't happen again."
Adrian's jaw clenched, but he didn't stop her. Instead, his gaze pinned her, sharp as a blade. "You can lie to yourself, Isabella. But your body won't forget me. And when you come back and you will I'll be waiting."
The arrogance in his voice infuriated her. Worse, it thrilled her.
She turned quickly, heading for the door before her resolve cracked completely. Her fingers fumbled with the handle, her chest heaving with emotions she couldn't untangle.
Behind her, Adrian's voice carried through the silence, low and certain:
"You belong to me. Don't waste your time pretending otherwise."
The door clicked shut between them, but his words echoed in her head long after she left.
The carriage ride home was a blur. Isabella pressed herself into the seat, clutching her shawl as if it could hide the truth written across her skin. She could still feel him his touch, his heat, his claim.
Her reflection in the carriage window startled her. She looked different. Softer. Brighter. Ruined.
By the time she reached her family's estate, guilt weighed on her like a stone. She slipped quietly through the halls, praying no one would notice her disheveled state.
But her father noticed everything.
"Isabella." His voice cracked like a whip the moment she entered the drawing room. Don Romano sat in his armchair, eyes sharp as a hawk's. "Where have you been?"
Her heart nearly stopped. She forced her face into calmness, swallowing the rising panic. "At the library," she lied smoothly. "Reading."
His gaze lingered, skeptical, but after a tense silence, he merely nodded. "See that your late-night wanderings don't become a habit. You're not a child anymore."
"Yes, Father." She lowered her head, hiding her trembling hands.
Upstairs in her room, Isabella collapsed onto her bed, burying her face in the pillows. Relief and regret battled inside her. She had escaped for now. But secrets had a way of clawing to the surface.
And she feared this one would destroy her long before she had the courage to face it.