Chapter 18: Lines That Shouldn't Be Crossed

Isla barely slept that night.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Alessandro's words replaying in her mind.

"Go to bed. Before you do something neither of us can take back."

But what if she wanted to?

No.

She couldn't let this happen.

She had signed up for a contract marriage, not whatever this was becoming.

Not the way Alessandro looked at her.

Not the way he touched her.

Not the way he made her forget—

With a frustrated groan, she shoved the covers aside and climbed out of bed.

The house was silent as she padded barefoot down the grand staircase, her silk robe wrapped tightly around her.

Maybe a drink would help. Something to clear her mind.

But the moment she stepped into the dimly lit kitchen, she froze.

Alessandro was already there.

He stood by the counter, shirtless, his toned, powerful frame illuminated by the soft glow of the lights. He was pouring himself a drink, the sharp scent of whiskey filling the air.

His dark eyes flicked to her as she stepped inside.

"You couldn't sleep either," he murmured.

Isla swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep her gaze steady. "Too many thoughts."

Alessandro smirked, taking a slow sip of his drink. "I wonder what could be keeping you up."

Her fingers curled into the edge of the counter. "Don't flatter yourself."

He let out a quiet chuckle, setting his glass down. "You're avoiding the truth."

She lifted her chin. "And what truth is that?"

Alessandro moved toward her, slow and deliberate.

"That you want me."

Her breath hitched.

She hated how easily he unraveled her. Hated that he was right.

But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

So she scoffed, folding her arms. "I want nothing from you."

Alessandro stopped inches from her, his head tilting slightly, his gaze dropping to her parted lips.

"Liar."

Heat coiled low in her stomach.

She should leave. She should walk away before she did something reckless.

But she didn't.

Because she was reckless.

And she was tired of pretending.

She reached for his glass, lifting it to her lips as she stared him down.

The whiskey burned as it slid down her throat, but the fire in Alessandro's eyes burned hotter.

She set the glass down, stepping closer. "Tell me, Alessandro…" Her voice was soft, teasing. "If I kissed you right now, would you push me away?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

His fingers flexed at his sides, as if he was holding himself back.

But Isla saw the way his gaze darkened. The way his breathing shifted.

She was playing with fire.

And she liked it.

"Go back to bed, Isla," he murmured, though his voice lacked its usual control.

She smirked. "Say please."

Alessandro let out a sharp breath, his restraint visibly unraveling.

Then, before she could react, he backed her up against the counter, his hands gripping the marble surface on either side of her.

"You want to play, cara mia?" His voice was dangerously low, his lips inches from hers. "Let's see how long you last."

Her pulse pounded.

She should be scared. She should be running.

But all she felt was anticipation.

Alessandro's fingers skimmed along her jaw, his touch featherlight.

"Trembling already?" he murmured. "I haven't even touched you yet."

Her breath came out uneven.

She hated how much she wanted him to.

He leaned in, his lips barely brushing hers—just enough to make her ache for more.

Then, just as quickly, he pulled away.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she stared at him, heat simmering between them.

Alessandro smirked.

"Goodnight, wife," he murmured before turning and walking away, leaving her breathless and burning.

Damn him.

Damn herself.

Because this wasn't a game anymore.

And she was already losing.