Isabella
Another month passed. The air had gotten hotter than ever. The kind of heat that clung to your skin, rolled down your back, and made the world feel like it was breathing against your neck. The marble floors in the estate were warm under my feet, and even the walls seemed to sweat.
And then he asked.
Dante.
He invited me to the beach.
I didn't answer at first. Just blinked. Stared at the message on my phone like it wasn't real. But it was. Short and simple:
"Beach. You and me. Today. Dress light. No drama."
I don't know why I said yes.
Maybe it was the heat.
Maybe it was the silence that had grown too loud.
Maybe it was the way he'd left the last time without arguing, demanding, or forcing himself into my space.
I wore a white cotton dress, light and breezy, and underneath it, a black bikini I hadn't touched in months. I braided my hair loosely and grabbed my sunglasses. By the time I stepped outside, he was already waiting, leaning on his car in a white linen shirt that was half unbuttoned. His sleeves were rolled up, and he looked… calm.
Not like Dante.
But not a stranger either.
"Ready?" he asked.
I nodded, and we drove without saying much.
The beach was two hours away—quiet, clean, private. No paparazzi, no socialites, no judgment. Just the endless stretch of water and sunburnt sky.
When we arrived, he laid out a blanket under a palm tree and tossed his shirt off like it weighed too much. His tattoos peeked from under his chest, climbing down his ribs and across his back. I tried not to look. I really tried.
But I looked.
"You're staring," he said, smirking.
"No, I'm not." I threw a towel at his face.
He caught it midair and laughed—like a real laugh. Deep, open, genuine. I hadn't heard that laugh since… well, since before things got ugly.
We spent most of the day pretending we weren't us.
He chased me into the water when I tried to escape a splash. I ended up soaked, hair clinging to my face, my dress transparent and sticking to my thighs. He didn't say anything, but I caught the way his eyes dropped—and the way they darted away just as fast, like he was trying to respect the moment. Respect me.
I hated how much that moved me.
We swam. Floated. Dived under the waves like kids running from grown-up problems. The salt stung our lips and the wind tousled our hair. And for the first time in months, I laughed without faking it.
Around lunch, we shared fruit from a cooler he packed—pineapples, cold strawberries, even a bar of dark chocolate that melted before we could eat it. We didn't mind. We let it smear our fingers. He wiped some off my cheek, and I slapped his hand away, but it was too late.
Something was shifting.
The space between us wasn't filled with hate anymore. Just warmth. And the quiet knowing that we didn't have to be enemies forever.
In the afternoon, we built a terrible sandcastle. I gave up halfway through, but he kept trying to make the turrets stand, tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth like a child focused on a masterpiece. It crumbled the moment we stood back. He cursed in Italian. I laughed so hard I fell backward.
The sun began to drop, slowly bleeding into the ocean.
We sat side by side on the towel, wrapped in silence as the sky caught fire. Pinks, oranges, purples—all of it melting above us. My knees touched his. He didn't move.
I didn't either.
"Thanks for coming," he said quietly.
"Thanks for asking."
He picked up a shell from the sand and rolled it between his fingers.
"I know I messed up a lot of things," he said. "And I'm not asking you to forget any of it. But I hope one day you can forgive me. Even just a little."
I looked at him. His profile was sharp against the sunset, eyes low, mouth unreadable.
"You're not who I thought you were," I whispered.
He turned to me slowly. "That good or bad?"
I shrugged. "Both."
He smiled faintly. "I'll take that."
A breeze moved past us, lifting the ends of my dress and brushing hair across my face. He reached out and tucked it behind my ear.
"I missed this," he said.
"What?"
"You. Smiling without knives in your eyes."
My breath caught.
I could've ruined the moment by saying something snarky. Something bitter. But I didn't want to. Not tonight. Not here.
Instead, I let my head fall gently onto his shoulder.
He tensed for a second, like he wasn't sure if he deserved the closeness. But then he relaxed. Slowly, carefully, like someone who'd just been handed something fragile.
And then, he leaned toward me.
Not fast. Not with intention to startle. Just… slowly. Like the tide coming in, claiming sand that never belonged to it in the first place.
"You don't have to sit here," I said, though my voice came out too soft. Too fragile to hold the weight of my own defenses.
"I know," he replied.
And he stayed.
The silence between us thickened—like a fog too stubborn to lift. I looked away, trying to focus on anything else: the waves folding into each other, the horizon where sea met sky, the way the sun dipped behind clouds as if hiding from us. From this.
But he didn't hide. He didn't move. His presence was a storm crouched low in the air, waiting.
When I turned my head, our eyes locked—and my breath caught.
He was watching me already.
His gaze was unreadable but heavy, sharp as it was intimate. That kind of stare that steals your balance, your breath, and everything you swore you wouldn't feel again. His eyes weren't just looking at me—they were peeling me open.
My skin prickled.
"I don't trust you," I whispered. I didn't even know why I said it. The words felt like a confession. A crack.
He leaned in slightly, just enough for the space between us to shrink. Enough for my pulse to stumble.
"You trust me enough to let me sit this close," he said.
And I hated that he was right.
His hand came up slowly—deliberate, careful—and brushed a strand of hair away from my cheek. He didn't rush. He didn't flinch. And neither did I. Maybe I should have. But I didn't. Because part of me wanted to be touched. To be chosen. To be seen by someone who knew I was dangerous, and broken, and kissed me anyway.
His knuckles grazed my jaw, trailing heat in their wake. A tremor ran through me.
"I didn't come here to kiss you," he said. His voice was low. Careful. Almost reverent. But beneath it was something darker—something honest enough to be cruel. "But I will… if you don't stop me."
He always gave me a way out.
And yet somehow, it never felt like one.
My heart was pounding. The silence screamed. And still… I didn't move.
So he did.
His hand slid behind my neck, warm fingers brushing the sensitive place where my spine met my skull. His grip wasn't forceful—it was grounding. And then, his mouth found mine.
The kiss started slow. Gentle. Maddening. Like he was tasting me for the first time and wanted to remember every inch of it. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just deep. As if the kiss itself was a question, and he was begging my soul to answer.
I kissed him back—soft at first. Unsure. Then with hunger I didn't remember allowing.
My hands found the edge of his shirt and slipped underneath, fingertips grazing warm skin stretched tight over firm muscle. He groaned—low and ragged—into my mouth, and the sound made my whole body ache.
He leaned back just enough to pull me closer, my knees slipping over his thighs, one hand curling around my waist while the other anchored behind him in the sand. The world blurred. Time slowed. The only thing that felt real was us.
"Tell me to stop," he breathed against my jaw. His lips began to drift lower, tracing fire across the hollow of my throat, the shell of my ear.
"I don't want to," I whispered. My voice shook, but not from fear. From want.
His hand slid down my back, spreading heat in his wake. There was nothing frantic in his touch. It was calculated. Like he knew every inch of my body already. Like he wanted to memorize the way I melted.
The hem of my dress had risen, the breeze teasing the bare skin above my thighs. Then his thumb grazed just above my knee and—
I gasped.
His touch didn't burn. It branded. My skin knew him now. Every nerve screamed his name.
He paused, lifting his head. His eyes—dark, intense, and utterly unforgiving—locked onto mine.
"You're shaking."
"I'm not cold," I breathed.
"I know."
And then he kissed me again.
Harder this time. Deeper.
There was no gentleness now. No caution. Just heat. Just possession. I sank into him, into the kiss, into everything he was and everything I shouldn't want.
His teeth caught my bottom lip and dragged it slowly before releasing it. I whimpered into his mouth, and he growled low in response, the sound vibrating through me.
My hands traveled lower, tracing the ridges of his abs, the curve of his waist, the cut of his hips. I could feel how hard he was through his clothes, pressing into my thigh, and it only made me kiss him harder. Hungrier.
But still—he didn't push further. Not yet.
Instead, he pulled back an inch, resting his forehead against mine.
His chest was heaving. Mine too.
We were breathing the same air. Sharing the same fire.
"I hate you," I said quietly. Desperately.
"I know," he whispered.
And his mouth crushed mine again.