Chapter 11

ELEVEN

Sabella

Angelo Russo is here, outside, in front of my gate.

I want to believe it, but I'm scared to. If it's a joke, I won't be able to handle the disappointment.

My heart hammers in my chest as I throw back the covers and get out of bed. I open my door and stick my head around the doorframe. The hallway is dark. No light falls from under Mattie's door. At the end of the hallway, my father's snoring is already coming through the door of my parents' bedroom.

Not daring to switch on a light, I walk barefoot through the house. The moonlight that falls through the big windows illuminates my way. I stop in the kitchen to check the screen on the intercom. Angelo Russo stares right into the camera, his face a clear black-and-white picture that steals my breath and makes my palms sweat.

He's here.

A mixture of excitement, surprise, and anxiety slams into me. It takes a moment to find my bearings and to somewhat calm my breathing. I don't even want to think about my dad's reaction if he finds out.

But he's here.

Angelo Russo flew across the whole of Africa because he didn't forget my birthday.

It takes a split-second to make a decision. Quickly crossing the floor, I open the steel door of the control room where our security equipment is located. The room is basked in the blueish light from the monitors on the desk. It's cold inside. I shiver and glance over my shoulder—a nervous, guilty reaction—as I flip the switch to deactivate the cameras.

What I'm doing is wrong. I'm disobeying my father, but my joy at seeing Angelo outweighs my fear of getting caught. No one ever watches the camera recordings anyway. It's a precaution in case of a burglary.

When the screens go dark, I leave and quietly close the door behind me. At the front door, I switch off the alarm in the house as well as the perimeter alarms in the garden. I turn the three locks on the door as noiselessly as I can. With each squeak, I hold my breath.

Finally, the front door is open. A button on the wall unlocks the security gate. Grabbing my key from the bowl on the entrance table, I cut across the lawn to the pedestrian gate.

Angelo is visible through the bars. He stands on the pavement under the yellow light of the streetlamp with a hand shoved in his pocket and his jacket slung over his shoulder. He looks like an apparition in the mist rolling in from the sea. In dark slacks and a fitted white shirt with the top three buttons undone, he's both the same and different, familiar and a stranger.

Exhilarating and frightening.

His demeanor is vigilant and alert. He's observing the surroundings even as his attention is trained on me. Like a seasoned soldier, he seems to be aware of every sight and sound, of every leaf that stirs in the breeze.

For a moment, I can't do anything but look at him. I take in everything, the thicker curls of his hair, the harsher, more angular lines of his face, and the stubble on his jaw. His forearms are exposed where his shirtsleeves are rolled up. The hair dusting his skin is dark. His biceps are bigger, and his chest is broader.

The difference between us hits me all at once. He's a man, even more so now than last year. He's twenty-one, and I'm seventeen. Compared to him, I'm a child. He has experience I'm lacking. Yet he's interested in me. A year didn't wipe out the spark of two fleeting meetings. Time only strengthened our attraction.

The curve of his lips is sensual. His voice is rich and deep, his accent still slight but also deliciously different. "Hello, Sabella."

This isn't a dream.

He's here.

"You're here."

He tilts his head. "You didn't think I'd miss your birthday, did you?" When I don't move, his smile turns amused. "Are you going to let me in, or are we going to do this through the bars of your gate?"

This.

So many possibilities are contained in that one little word, so many meanings and interpretations.

Are we going to do this?

My stomach flutters. Jumping into action, I slip the key in the slot and unlock the gate. He steps into the garden, holding my gaze as he pushes the gate closed. We stand toe to toe, me staring up and him looking down.

I make the first move, taking his hand and closing my fingers around his. The minute we touch, I become aware of my body in a different way, a powerful and scary way. I become aware of him. This isn't me imagining how it feels to hold his hand. This is real.

His skin is warm. The contrast makes me aware of the dewy grass that's cold under my bare feet. I look at our hands that are clasped together. His big palm barely fits in mine. The tone is darker than my tan.

I tear my gaze from our hands to look at his face. My heart is beating so hard it aches. It hurts to breathe. For a beat, I'm scared, but I don't know of what. Of getting caught? No. It's a fear born from self-preservation, a little voice warning me that this man has the power to destroy me. I feel too much. It's the third time I see him, and he's already the center of my life.

He seems to sense my hesitation. "Don't be afraid, Sabella. I'll always take care of you."

Always.

Always means forever.

He's not the kind of person to throw words like that around carelessly. The statement is huge but so is his presence. Everything about him is bigger than life. The world is too small a place for him. I sensed it that first time, but now it's so visceral I can taste it on my tongue.

Then he smiles, and the warmth of it penetrates me, melting all those internal warnings and scary feelings. A sense of safety wraps around me. How can I ever be afraid while I'm holding his hand?

Returning his smile, I pull him to the house. As I lead him through the door and up the stairs, our grasp changes. When we get to my room, I'm no longer guiding him by the hand. He's taken over, his strong fingers wrapped around mine in a firm and secure hold. We stop outside my door, facing each other.

We don't need words to communicate. I get it. I know he's waiting for my permission. He understands me. He knows I want him to do this, whatever that means, not in a grainy night through the bars of the gate, but here in my room where I've touched myself thinking of him.

His smile never wanes. The gesture offers me gentle reassurance as he pushes down the handle and opens the door. He pauses, waiting for me to enter, giving me a choice. Only, with him, there's never been a choice.

When I step into my room, he closes the door. I turn. He looks at me, not vigilant and alert like outside, but cutting a slow path with his gaze over me, taking his fill. He starts at my toes and ends on my face, and then, finally, on my lips.

He takes a step forward. I take one back. I don't want to run. The room just feels too small with him in it. His energy is overwhelming, his masculinity drowning me.

In the light of the moon, something dark flashes in his eyes. He likes this—my flight and his chase. I may not be experienced, but I know it instinctively. Like on that first day, I'm out of my depth.

He advances. I retreat. I'm not sure why. Maybe because he likes the game. Maybe because I like it too. My back hits the wall. He closes in on me, leaning a hand next to my face. Deliberately, he gives me an escape route, slipping his free hand in his pocket and leaving one side of our bodies open.

His eyes are so dark they glow like a demon's in his face. Even more captivating than those gleaming pools is what I see in them. Something deep and darker flows underneath, something simultaneously disturbing and hypnotizing.

"Did you keep it for me?" he asks, fixing his gaze on my mouth.

I'm incapable of speaking. My chest heaves as I stare up at him, painful breaths trapped between my ribs where my heart is pounding.

He pulls his hand from his pocket and brushes a strand of hair from my forehead. The touch is careful, tender. "Did you save your first kiss for me?"

He knows the answer, but he wants me to say it.

"Yes," I whisper.

Instead of softening his features, satisfaction turns them hard. The possession in his expression is so fierce it almost makes him look cruel.

When he lowers his head, I inhale sharply. His smell envelopes me, a combination of citrus, cedar, and a man's clean skin.

We've never been suggestive or physical in our messages. No sex talk or naked pics. He made the rules and set the boundaries. At some stage, I was worried our exchange was too platonic, that he wasn't interested in me like that, but all those doubts fly through the window as he lets me see the intention in his eyes. He keeps them open as he slowly aims for my mouth, searching my gaze and reading my reaction.

My eyes flutter closed. I'm not brave enough to keep mine open. The anticipation drags on, the waiting like torture as his warm breath fans over my mouth with a hint of mint. I want to breathe him in, to taste him.

Seconds pass, the world spinning, and then he does it. He closes the distance. His lips are warm and soft, their pressure gentle on mine. The kiss is dry and pleasant. Too fleeting. I'm not prepared for my body's reaction, for the arousal that tightens my nipples and the heat that gathers between my thighs. I squeeze my legs together. My breath catches as the warmth vanishes from my lips. I lift my chin, chasing after the intoxicating heat, but it's gone.

Confused, I open my eyes.

Angelo stares at me with a shuttered expression. He cups my jaw in his big hand and lifts my face to his. "I can't go further with you, bella. You're only seventeen."

I bite my lip, both disappointed and frustrated.

Brushing our cheeks together, he brings his lips to my ear. "Happy birthday, cara."

My skin tingles where the roughness of his stubble grates over it. My mouth is dry. "Thank you."

"One day, you'll thank me for more than kissing you."

The nuance of his words makes me burn. I recall what he told me, the promise he made on the morning after my party.

All your firsts are mine.

Taking my hand, he pulls me off the wall. "How's Pirate?"

The change of topic gives me time to gather myself. It's a clever and deliberate effort on his part.

"See for yourself," I say, motioning to where Pirate sleeps half-covered under my duvet.

He goes over and strokes Pirate's fur. "He's grown a lot. He looks bigger than in the photos."

Pirate meows, stretches, and curls into a ball again.

"It's been a year," I say. "He's an adult now."

He sits down at the foot of the bed and pats the space next to him. "Come here."

I don't hesitate. Now that the initial sensations and the shock of seeing him are over, I'm more at ease. The moment is stolen. I have to make the most of it.

I flop down next to him. "How long are you staying?"

"I'm flying back tomorrow night."

"Oh," I say, unable to keep the disappointment from my voice. "It's very far to come for just one day."

"No," he muses, studying me. "For you, even a minute is worth coming across half the world."

The compliment warms me inside. "Did you fly to Cape Town again?"

"To George this time."

"Where are you staying?"

"At the golf estate."

I look at him sideways, considering how to phrase this. "I can skip summer school tomorrow."

"No." His voice is harsh. "You will do no such thing."

I wince, feeling embarrassed for suggesting it.

He continues in a softer tone. "I have to see your father about business tomorrow. I won't have much free time."

"He knows you're here?" I exclaim. "In town, I mean?"

"No." He grins. "It's better that I surprise him. I'm not his favorite person."

I frown. "Why is that? I don't understand why he feels so strongly about us not seeing each other if he's working with you."

His face remains serious even as he says in a playful way, "He doesn't want me to take his princess away."

I slap his arm. "He's not like that."

He raises a brow. "Isn't he?"

"No." I laugh, taking care to keep my voice down. "He's strict, especially when it comes to letting me go out, but he's not one of those fathers who keeps a shotgun in case someone shows an interest in his daughter."

In a flash, his eyes darken. "He should."

"He didn't with Mattie when Jared started dating her."

"With you, it's different."

"Different how?"

He lifts his hand to my face but drops it before touching me. "You're mine."

The words are spoken with so much conviction, they leave me speechless. Will I ever get used to his intensity?

Wiggling a gold signet ring from his finger, he says, "Give me your hand."

"What are you doing?"

"Give me your hand, Sabella."

The way in which he says my name prompts me to action. His uncompromising tone demands obedience. A part of me likes it. I like that he's strong, that he's not scared to take control. He grips my right hand and pushes the ring over my thumb. It's too big to fit on any of my other fingers.

"It's yours," he says, rubbing a fingertip over the embossed crest.

"Angelo," I exclaim. "This looks like a family ring."

"It's our emblem." He motions at the intertwined wolves. "Every firstborn son in our family gets one when he turns eighteen."

I gasp. "You can't give this away. It obviously has special meaning."

He wraps his hand around mine, squeezing the ring between us. "It'll keep you safe. Everyone in my country knows what it means."

I'm here, not in his country, and I don't need to be kept safe, but I assume it's some kind of superstitious symbol like a lucky charm that keeps harm away.

The notion is sweet, but it's a family heirloom. "I can't keep it. It's too valuable."

"Keep it for me." Lifting my hand to his lips, he kisses the ring. "Promise me you'll wear it until the day I replace it with another."

My throat goes dry. I must be misinterpreting his words, but he doesn't give me time to ponder their meaning. He takes off his jacket and kicks off his shoes, and then he stretches out on my bed, pulling me down with him. We're pressed together on one side of the queen-sized mattress because Pirate takes up my side.

"Can I stay for a while?" he asks, rubbing a lock of my hair between his fingers.

"Of course." I lay my head on his chest where I can hear his heart beat. "Even if you wanted to, I wouldn't let you go, not if I only get to see you for a few hours."

Wrapping one arm loosely around me, he hugs me closer. "I'll never miss a single one of your birthdays."

I want to ask if that means I'll only see him once a year, but I don't want to spoil the moment. Surely, if he's meeting my father about business, there's a chance he'll travel to George more often.

I don't know for how long we're lying there in an amiable silence in the dark, simply enjoying each other's presence while Angelo runs his fingers over my arm, but at some stage, I must've dozed off, because when I wake up, he's gone.