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My fingers brushed against the cool metal of a filing cabinet drawer. I pulled it open, scanning the neatly labeled tabs until one caught my eye.Dreamswritten in Isabella’s flowing script.
Something about that word made my chest tighten. I withdrew the folder, hesitating before opening it. Inside was not what I expected—no journal entries or sketches, but a glossy landscape magazine. The cover showed rolling hills dotted with wildflowers, the kind that seemed to exist only in paintings and memories.
I flipped through the pages, stopping when I noticed dog-eared corners. Each marked page featured homes with elaborate floral displays around mailboxes—bursts of color against mundane structures. On one page, Isabella had circled a cottage with lavender and daisies spilling around a white picket fence, the wordsomedaywritten in the margin. Confusion lanced my brain. Her home had immaculate landscaping. She could have any flowers here that she wanted.
The puzzle was solved on the next page.
Neighborhood Revitalization
The realization hit me like a blow to the chest. This wasn’t for her. She didn’t need or want anything for herself. Not materially. And if there was something that transcended the physical, I wasn’t the man to give it to her.
But this?
I could give her this.
I slipped the magazine back into the folder, my decision made. Something simple, yet profound. A parting gift that would bloom long after I’d vanished from her life. It made me smile to think ofher walking past my flowers on her daily trips to help her people. In a way, I would linger, watching over her.
The soft pad of bare feet against hardwood halted my thoughts.
I stilled, every muscle locking into place. Isabella was awake. The gentle shuffle of her movement grew closer, accompanied by her voice, soft and uncertain.
“Hello? Jaxon?”
Was she trying to wake her men?
I melted into the corner where shadow met shadow, becoming one with the darkness that had been my companion for so long. My breathing slowed to nothing, a technique perfected through years of remaining undetected. The doorknob to the office turned slowly.
Isabella appeared in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, wrapped in a thin robe that caught the moonlight filtering through the windows. She looked ethereal. Divine.Holy.I was the devil’s right hand, and the sooner I left, the sooner her life would be free from the poison of my presence.
Isabella squinted into the darkness, her silhouette haloed by the hallway light behind her. I held my breath, willing myself to become nothing more than another shadow cast by moonlight.
“I know you’re here,” she whispered, not with fear but with a strange certainty that unnerved me. “I can feel you.”
For a moment, I considered revealing myself, stepping into the light and facing whatever came next. But habits formed over decades didn’t break in a single night of weakness. I remained still as death while she scanned the room.
“I can always feel you,” she admitted. “But if you aren’t ready, I’ll wait.”
Blood thundered in my ears. How sweet that admission! But it wasn’t real. She would never wait for a monster if she knew what I was. Better to let her go before she discovered the truth.
After what felt like eternity, Isabella sighed—a sound so heavy with disappointment it nearly broke my resolve. She turned away. The soft click of the door behind her released me from my self-imposed paralysis.
I exhaled into the emptiness she left behind, my fingertips trembling against the edge of the desk. The space between my ribs felt hollow, carved out by something sharper than any blade I’d ever wielded.
Dammit, how I wished there was another path—one where I could walk in daylight beside her instead of skulking in shadows. In another life, perhaps I could have been the kind of man who built things rather than dismantled them. The kind who planted gardens instead of laying waste to them.
My eyes burned as I imagined a version of myself worthy of her trust, of her touch. A man who could answer when she called his name into the darkness. Someone who could promise tomorrow and mean it.
But that man wasn’t me. Could never be me. The blood that stained my hands wouldn't wash away with good intentions.
Chapter 22 – Isabella
“The Bulgarians are on the warpath,” Joseph muttered dryly.
“Fucking Mladenov.” Donnie spat.
Spat! On my floor. I wasn’t a neat freak, preferring to have the weekly maid do the scrubbing around here, but spitting inside? These soldiers of mine were animals.
At the thought of animals, my mind turned to the dark of midnight. The silver-grey eyes shining down at me as the beast tore me alive in the best way possible.
