Page 33 of Venomous Throne

The simple question broke the laundry list of work that needed to be done.

I looked up into his face, that hard mask that currently hid his thoughts.

Santa Caterina, it was a good thing he was so close today. Odd? Yes. But I was overjoyed to have his intervention, and I was content with the explanation that he was out for a run.

“Isabella?”

“Hi, yes,” I gasped, reining in the fairytale. “I’m famished.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat that was hard to decipher.

We continued to walk, but he took me down a different street toward the commerce section of the neighborhood.

This felt natural. Walking side by side with a man who might not be normal—but who was normal these days? What would it be like to uproot, take off, and resettle? Have a life where my only concern was for myself?

One look around me squashed the daydream. This was where I belonged, and these were my people.

“Not here,” I said as we approached the little shops.

Jaxon looked down at me. “I won’t hurt you.”

I rested my hand on his arm.

He tensed.

“I know, but….” Oh, dio, how to phrase this. “I’m too well-known in the neighborhood. Can we call a cab and go out somewhere else?”

Jaxon nodded.

I whipped out my phone, summoned a rideshare, and continued walking, taking an alley so fewer eyes were on us. At its mouth, the economy car waited. I left the wagon. If someone took it, I would find another.

Watching Jaxon fold himself inside was comical.

“La Nopalera, on 8th Street,” Jaxon instructed the driver.

Crammed next to him in the back seat, I was too aware of his presence. His scent was spicy and masculine, a heady mix of exertion and something uniquely him. My body reacted without permission, warming in places that had no business warming for the forbidden stranger.

The driver nodded, merging into traffic without comment. I stared out the window, grateful for the silence. Grateful that no one recognized me slipping into a car with a man who wasn’t family.

La Nopalera was far enough from our neighborhood that I could breathe easier. No Moretti eyes, no local gossip to report back to Marco or his mother. Just a small Mexican restaurant with colorful papel picado hanging from the ceiling and the comforting smell of corn tortillas and chili.

“You come here often?” I asked as Jaxon guided me to a booth in the back corner, his hand hovering near the small of my back without actually touching me.

“I saw a sign when I drove into town.” His eyes met mine. Those warm places heated more. “Truth is, I don’t eat out. Ever.”

I slid into the booth, feeling the worn vinyl beneath my fingers. A waitress appeared, leaving water and menus before disappearing just as quickly.

“Why are you here, Jaxon? And I don’t mean in this restaurant.” I took a sip of water, steadying myself. “I mean, in our neighborhood. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

He didn’t flinch at my directness. Instead, he leaned forward, his voice dropping low. “I came looking for someone.”

The admission hung between us, heavy with implications.

“Who?” I whispered.

“Does it matter?”

Did it? He had his secrets, I had mine. And as much as I longed for the kind of companionship where I could open up, mine could hurt him.