78. A New Foundation

CHAPTER 78

A New Foundation

WREN

The simple word carries a weight that settles deep in my chest. It’s trust, raw and unfiltered, the kind that comes with no safety net. She’s giving me everything, and I have no intention of letting her regret it.

I twist, lowering her onto her back, the soft give of the mattress cradling her as I hover above her. My hand trails down her side, over the curve of her hip, until my fingers find the wetness between her thighs. Her legs part, her body responding to mine without hesitation.

“Stay just like this.” I reach for the camera.

Her eyes follow me, curious and unguarded, as I angle the lens to capture her. The click of the shutter echoes in the quiet room, each frame freezing her in this moment—open, vulnerable, so fucking beautiful.

“Touch yourself for me again.”

Her hand moves, her fingers finding her clit. Her breath catches as she starts to stroke, her body trembling beneath her own touch. I let the camera capture every detail. The flush in her cheeks, the way her body arches, the subtle tremor in her thighs as she chases her release.

“Keep going.” My free hand strokes over her knee, sliding up the inside of her thigh. “I want to see everything.”

Her movements grow bolder, her lips parting with a soft moan as her eyes flutter shut. Her body writhes, her breathing ragged, and I frame her in the lens one last time, capturing the exact moment her pleasure overtakes her. The shutter clicks as her back bows, her cries breaking the quiet as she falls apart.

“Wren …” Her voice breaks on my name, and I set the camera aside, unable to wait any longer .

Moving over her, my hands frame her face as I press my forehead to hers.

“You’re beautiful like this,” I whisper. “Completely undone for me.”

Her arms wrap around my shoulders, her fingers thread through my hair, as I take her again, slow and gentle this time. Her body molds to mine, every movement a dance, every breath shared. Her nails bite into my skin, her moans building with each thrust, and I can see the tension rising in her again, drawing her closer to the edge.

“Don’t hold back.” I wrap one arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “I want all of it.”

Her body bows beneath me, her cries muffled against my shoulder when she falls apart again. The feel of her, the sound of her surrender, pulls me under with her, and I bury myself inside her one last time, my body locking as I let go.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing. I trail kisses along her throat, over her shoulder, down to her breast where I suck a nipple into my mouth. Circling it lazily with my tongue, I give a gentle nip, and then roll off her and collapse beside her.

“Open your legs for me,” I whisper.

Her eyes flutter open, head turning to seek me out. I sit up, and her legs fall open. My breath catches at the sight of her, at the way my cum mixes with hers, dripping between her thighs.

It’s raw. Visceral. Perfect.

Click . I take a photograph of the unmistakable evidence of what we’ve done.

“Wren?” Her voice is soft, hesitant.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t regret this,” she says, her words quiet but firm. “Any of it.”

I lift my eyes to meet hers, and she smiles at me. Leaning over her, I capture her mouth again in one last kiss, then pull away to roll onto my back. She follows me, pressing kisses to my shoulder, my chest, and then she sits up.

“I need to clean up.”

My hand gropes for the camera when she stands.

Click . She glances back at me, a shy smile playing on her lips, her hips swaying as she walks toward the bathroom.

Click . She crawls back onto the bed a few minutes later.

Click . Her lips press against my skin, trailing from my hip to my chest, her tongue flicking over my nipple.

Click . She rests her head against my chest and closes her eyes.

Click. Her breathing slows, her eyes fluttering shut and sleep claims her.

I roll onto my side, my fingers trailing over the bruises and bites scattered across her skin.

My marks. My claim.

That’s the last thought in my head when sleep pulls me under.

The sound of my cell phone shatters the quiet, startling me out of sleep. I grope around, peer at the caller display then connect the call.

The timing is twelve hours exactly. My father.

“It’s handled,” he says the moment I answer, his tone cool, efficient. “All agents have been reassigned.”

I let my fingers drift down Ileana’s spine, her body shifting closer beneath my touch. “Just like that?”

"Operation Rossi Crown had some interesting loose ends. Loose ends that certain people would rather remain buried. Agent Miller, for instance, had a vested interest in keeping the official narrative intact."

"They weren't protecting her. They were protecting themselves."

"Precisely. Careers were built on that operation. Reputations that can't withstand scrutiny. The task force that took down Victor Rossi wasn't as clean as the reports suggested. Money disappeared— millions . Evidence vanished. And certain agents made deals that were never meant to see the light of day. "

A muscle ticks in my jaw. "With who?"

"Let's just say Victor Rossi had powerful friends in places that would make headlines if exposed. Friends who are still very much alive and in positions of influence. Ileana was young enough that she probably didn't understand what she was seeing back then, but they couldn't take that chance."

"So they buried her in witness protection instead of actually investigating."

"Miller and his team doctored evidence. They crafted a narrative that made them look like heroes while pocketing deals on the side. Keeping Ileana isolated wasn't just convenient, it was necessary. If she ever started asking the right questions, started remembering details that didn't match the official story ..."

"They'd lose everything."

"Their careers, their pensions, their freedom. Some of them would face federal charges. And the politicians and business figures who were quietly involved would face exposure. They couldn't risk her memories clearing up as she got older."

"And now?"

"They've been convinced that pursuing this further would be ... unwise." He pauses, his voice deliberate. "But there's another matter to address, one that's equally important."

“What?” I wait to hear what he wants me to do to pay for the favor.

“She can’t live her life entirely in the dark, Wren.” His pragmatism cuts through my irritation. “She needs a foundation. Identification. A bank account. A birth certificate. She needs to exist in the system, legitimately . Without those, she won’t be able to function. You might be able to protect her from federal agents, but you can’t shield her from the reality of living without these things.”

“In her birth name?” I’m already trying to figure out the risk assessment in my mind.

“If it’s safe,” he says. “The name Isabella Rossi carries weight, and there’s always the possibility it could draw the wrong attention. But it’s the simplest starting point. If it becomes a liability, I can arrange a legal alias—fully traceable and functional. Either way, this isn’t optional. If she’s to step into a legitimate life, she needs more than just your protection.”

My jaw tightens. “You already have a plan, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he replies, and for a moment, I hear myself in his voice. “I’ll handle it. Social security, identification, accounts. All of it. It will take time to finalize everything, but it will be seamless.”

“And what’s the cost?” I bite out. Nothing comes free with him.

There’s a brief pause, weighted. “Consider it a small payment for what I owe you,” he says finally, his voice carefully measured. “For family.”

The word lands heavily, the unspoken expectations behind it palpable.

“The house is clear.” His tone shifts back to businesslike efficiency. “The agents are gone. You can bring her home whenever you’re ready.”

Home . The word feels foreign now, different.

“You’ve never asked for anything before,” he says, his voice softer, almost curious. “Why her? Why now?”

I glance at Ileana, her face peaceful in sleep. “Because she sees me. Not as an heir or a pawn. Just … me.”

There’s a short silence on the other end, as though he’s weighing the significance of my words.

“Your mother wants to meet her,” he says finally.

“No.” The word is biting. “Not yet. She needs time. She needs to feel safe, to understand her choices.”

“You sound … different.”

“I am.” My thumb brushes over the bruise on Ileana’s throat. “ She makes me different.”

“Then we’ll wait.” He clears his throat, his voice taking on a more subdued tone. “The east wing is more private. I’ll have it prepared for you. You can move in there whenever you wish.”

The offer catches me off guard.

“The east wing?” That part of the house has been closed off for years … since my grandmother died.

“You chose her. She would want you to have that space.” Simple words, but they mean everything. “That makes her family. And we protect our family.”

The call ends abruptly, an olive branch extended, then quickly withdrawn before emotions could take root. Typical Charles Carlisle. But the gesture speaks volumes. The east wing, with its privacy, security … and memories … says everything he won’t.

I stare at the phone for a long moment before setting it aside.

Ileana’s body curls against mine when I lay back down, her breathing soft and steady. She stirs slightly, her eyes fluttering open as she blinks up at me.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything’s perfect.” I claim her lips, my hand curling around the back of her neck. “We can go back to Silverlake Rapids.”

She stiffens slightly, her body tensing against mine. “The agents …”

“Gone. My father can be persuasive.”

Her brow furrows. “Why would he do that?”

“Because of you. You made me reach out. Made me want more than empty rooms and meaningless power plays.”

Her lips part, but no words come.

“Wren …” Her voice is soft, hesitant, but I cut her off with another kiss, harder this time, pouring everything I feel into the movement of my lips against hers.

“No more running,” I whisper against her mouth, my fingers curling possessively around her throat. “No more hiding. You’re mine, and I always protect what’s mine.”

Her arms wind around my neck, holding me tightly. “Then take me home.”

I tighten my grip on her, letting the words settle between us. For a moment, neither of us moves. Leaving means stepping into something new, something real. It means trusting that the agents are truly gone, that my father’s influence was enough.

Her fingers curl at the back of my neck, anchoring me, her warmth sinking into my chest. “Wren?”

“Now?”

She nods, and I help her to her feet, steadying her when her legs falter.

I gather our things while she watches me, quiet but intent. Her trust in me feels absolute, and it’s as humbling as it is exhilarating. I take her hand, threading my fingers through hers, and lead her toward the door.

The drive back is different. No evasions. No shadows. Just us, the road stretching ahead like a promise.

When we pull up to the house, it looks the same as always, but everything has changed.

Because of her. Because of us.

All because a girl once threw juice at me and refused to disappear.