Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Isabella

I stare at the open door.

I stare at his retreating back.

My stomach clenches. The events of the last few days have spiraled out of control. I hardly know what I want anymore.

But I know who I am. He can say what he wants. He can force me to take his name, and he will. But I'm Isabella Morales, and I will always be Isabella Morales.

And I have never, ever, no matter how powerless and beaten down I was, let my circumstances dictate my future. I may have been born into a family that valued me as a second-class citizen, but that doesn't make it so.

Fine. Lev Romanov is going to marry me. I turn over the possibilities in my mind and think it through.

Yes. Yes, I can absolutely use this to my advantage, and I will.

The tension still lingers in the kitchen when my belly aches for an entirely different reason. I'm starving.

Well, then. Make myself at home, he said.

Happily.

Lev maintains his body like a finely tuned sports car. Well, guess what? So do I.

I open the fridge and am not at all surprised to find it well stocked and immaculately clean. Excellent. Someone's watching his macros—we have at least one thing in common. Not that he cooks… It looks like most things in his fridge are prepackaged meals he gets from some kind of delivery service.

I grab a banana and yogurt before I hit the basement workout room.

I'll need my energy for the day ahead.

I look around the kitchen. Will this be my kitchen? Will we live here?

In that case, I could like it. Could use some color, maybe some greenery or plants and definitely more coffee cups, but it's a large, open-concept kitchen with high-end appliances.

I make myself a cup of strong, black coffee and drink it slowly while I consider the possibilities.

I fought him. I'll fight him still. But he isn't wrong. The two of us marrying might be exceptionally advantageous. He says he wants to do it to keep me chained to him or whatever, but it takes two to tango, and I am not going to lie down and give up. Nope.

This could be the perfect way to neutralize my brother. Once I get seated on the throne of the Los Sangre Dorada as the wife of Lev Romanov ? Holy hell will heads roll. He can be king all he fucking wants as long as I reign as queen.

I find a single set of clothes in a guest room that will do for a workout. The tension from earlier still lingers in the air as I make my way to the gym.

I do need to work out. I need to clear my head, and working out has always been my way of finding focus. I need to stay strong, too.

His guards step inside as if they know better than to underestimate me.

The gym is spacious and well equipped, a testament to Lev's dedication to his own training. I get a quick vision of the two of us working out together and quickly squash it.

He isn't my friend.

But he could be. We could rule together.

Every time I entertain the idea, I wonder if I'm crazier than I thought. Still, though…

I take a quick look around and head straight for the punching bag, wrapping my hands with the practiced ease of someone who's spent countless hours in training. Each punch lands with a satisfying thud, the rhythm soothing my restless mind. Fuck, but it feels good to break a sweat.

My knuckles are numb, my hands aching, but I don't care.

"Carlos, for being a male chauvinistic prick and hurting my best friend," I mutter.

BAM.

"My father, for thinking he could teach me to be a mindless robot and for hitting my mother."

BAM.

"Javier, for not having a shred of human decency." I could make a litany of accusations against him, but instead I let my fists do the job.

BAM. BAM. BAM.

I narrow my eyes at the bag. "For Lev, for having the nerve to be so fucking hot and total fucking asshole."

I hit the bag again, and again, losing myself to the repetition until sweat blurs my vision and I'm gasping for breath.

"Wow," a deep, amused voice, says behind me. "I don't know if I should kiss you or take you over my knee."

I swivel around to see Lev standing by the entrance, watching me. His gaze is intense, a mix of curiosity and something else I can't quite decipher. A corner of his lips tips up and his eyes lazily take me in. I'm surprised when he swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, as if I'm affecting him. I'm covered in sweat, the little tee riding up my belly. My hair sticks to my forehead and neck, and these boxing gloves are twice my size. I've had better days.

Well, two can play at this game.

Kiss you or take you over my knee.

I lick my lips. It doesn't help that blood is pulsing through my veins and I already know what he can do with that mouth. I can only imagine what it feels like lying over his lap. I would kick and scream and fight him and he'd overpower me.

And I would fucking love that.

Now that I've decided I'm going to lean into this and make the best of it, I'm giving myself permission to really appreciate the upside here. The guy is hot as hell.

Women always talk about men's arms, or their backs, or how hot they are when they take their tees off. But me? Goddamn, give me a man with shoulders. Shoulders I can anchor myself on when he pounds into me or bite when I wrestle my way on top.

Now it's my turn to swallow and take him in. Jesus, people underestimate the effect of a plain white tee stretched over well-defined shoulders, carved biceps, and a six pack.

Rawr .

Still, I probably shouldn't let him sneak up on me like that.

"Don't you have better things to do than watch me?" I snap, acting mildly annoyed by his intrusion.

He steps closer, his movements calm and deliberate. "I didn't realize you were so skilled."

I roll my eyes, turning back to the punching bag. He calls whacking the shit out of a punching bag skilled? "Yeah, honey, there's a lot you don't know about me."

He doesn't leave, instead moving to a nearby weight bench. Out of the corner of my eye, he pops a few weights on a bar that likely equal my entire body weight. Shocker.

For a moment, we work out in silence, each lost in our thoughts. Despite myself, I can't help but glance at him. His movements are fluid and precise, his form textbook perfect—a testament to his own training and discipline. He's disciplined as fuck, and that's kind of a turn-on to a woman like me.

After a while, I stop, wiping the sweat from my brow. "Why are you here, Lev? Are you trying to keep an eye on me?"

He sets the weights down, wiping his hands with a towel. "It's not all about you, beautiful." He winks at me.

Is he… flirting?

"I'm here for the same reason you are. Or maybe I just needed a distraction."

I narrow my eyes, skeptical. "From what?"

He hesitates, then looks at me, his expression unexpectedly open. He looks away and doesn't answer at first. I wait. Finally, he shrugs a shoulder. "From everything." He lifts the bar again.

I don't know why, but his honesty catches me off guard. For a moment, I see the man behind the ruthless exterior and the weight of his burdens. It's a fleeting glimpse, but it's enough to stir something within me.

"You're not the only one with burdens," I say quietly. "We all have our own battles."

He nods as if acknowledging my words. "I know. And sometimes, it's easier to forget them for a while."

We fall into a comfortable silence. Tension ebbs away like the passing of a rainstorm. I start to understand that beneath our mutual animosity, we have a few things in common—pain, responsibility, and a drive to survive.

Today is core day, but who's keeping track. I'm sore, but that doesn't stop me from hitting planks and sit-ups with gusto. We don't talk.

Finally, I want a shower and a proper breakfast, so I head to the door.

As I go to leave, Lev calls out, "Isabella."

I turn, waiting.

"You're not alone in this," he says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. "Remember that."

I don't respond, but his words linger as I walk away. For the first time, I wonder if there's a way through this mess where we might find a sliver of understanding. A sort of truce.

I mean, we're fucking getting married.

"I need some clothes. And… things," I tell him.

"Make a list," he says, in between bicep curls. I watch the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the carved muscles in his arms. I swallow.

"Then what?"

"I'll take care of it."

I frown. "How long will you treat me like your prisoner? Even if I do marry you?"

He drops the weight to the floor and draws himself to his full height, his hands anchored on his hips. "As long as it fucking takes. Forever if I have to."

I stifle a growl.

He lifts a ridiculous amount of weight and starts bench pressing.

Show-off.

He starts lifting. I need to find something that will distract him.

Oooh. Glutes.

I stand in front of him, feeling the weight of his gazes as I grasp a bar. With deliberate slowness, I position it across my shoulders. I glance in his direction to make sure I have his full attention then focus on the mirror in front of me. I make sure to capture his gaze in the mirror as I descend into a deep squat, my form perfect and my movements controlled. I rise, the muscles in my legs and glutes tightening with the effort, knowing he can't look away.

I repeat the motion, each squat a blend of controlled seduction. His focus shifts entirely from his lifting to watch me, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. I add a little extra sway to my hips as I come up from each squat, my eyes never leaving his. The tension in the room thickens, charged.

His reaction is immediate and intense. He pauses mid-lift, the weights hovering as he struggles to maintain focus.

"I didn't know you were so skilled," I taunt.

His eyes narrow on me, a mix of amusement and admiration flashing in his gaze. He shakes his head from side to side. "You're not making this easy," he mutters, the low growl of his voice carrying in the quiet of the room. I watch him set his weights down with a controlled click, never breaking eye contact.

"What?" I ask with mock innocence. "I'm working out. It's not my fault you can't keep your mind out of the gutter."

He leans back against the bench, crossing his arms over his chest, and openly watches me, his eyes darkening with every squat I do.

Is it hotter in here?

"Impressive form," he finally says, his voice laced with challenge. "But can you keep it up?"

His words feel like a dare. I know as well as he does that he isn't talking about squats.

I can't look away and neither can he.

My lips curve into a playful smile as I do another squat, holding the position a beat longer just to tease him. I rise slowly, my movements fluid and deliberate. When he approaches me, there's a flicker of challenge in his eyes. He steps behind me, grabs a few more weights, and adds them to the bar, his movements deliberate and calculated. I raise an eyebrow at him.

This isn't about the weights, and we both know it.

"Think I can't handle that?" I tease. I chose lighter weights than normal just so I could taunt. I also didn't really want him knowing just how fucking heavy I can lift.

"Let's find out," he says, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms again.

I shake my head and begin another squat. It's heavy. I manage the first few reps easily, but I'm getting tired.

Wordlessly, he grabs two more plates.

"Keep going," he orders, his eyes on me. "Let's see what you've got."

Bastard.

I squat again, straining with the effort. Again, I make it down and with effort push to the top, only to find him waiting for me with two more plates.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"You said you could take it. Show me."

I do another squat, then another. I can't breathe. My legs are shaking.

I will not let him win.

I explode to the top with a shot of adrenaline, fury racing through me. I lift the bar off my shoulders and before I can throw the damn thing his way, he braces it with one hand and lifts it effortlessly. He turns from me and hurls it away where it slams to the ground and rolls away, the plates spiraling away like tightly wound springs unraveling.

Before I can react, he spins back to me, eyes blazing. He moves toward me with predatory grace. I back away, but I waited too long. He's too fast. I struggle, but I'm exhausted from working out and my reaction time is impaired. In seconds, he's got me pinned to the floor.

"You don't fuck around with weights."

"You started it!"

Jesus, what am I, twelve?

"You think you can do whatever you want?" he growls, his voice a low rumble in my ear. "You think you can taunt me, workout half naked, and expect me to keep my hands off of you?"

I open my mouth, unsure of how to respond. Of course I thought I could taunt him. I thought I could workout half naked. Not sure if there was ever an assumption he'd keep his hands off of me…

He flips me over with ease, his hand crashing across my ass. The sting is immediate, and I jolt. Heat sears through me.

"You need to learn some discipline," he murmurs, his tone dark. I'm vividly aware of how turned on he is. How turned on I am. My God, I'm aching. He spanks me again, each strike sharp enough to make my clit throb but just enough that the pain doesn't eclipse the delicious arousal coursing through me. I'm breathless and trembling.

He flips me back over and cups my chin, tiling my face up to meet his gaze. The intensity in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine. I'm on fire. I touch the side of his face, my palm meets stubble, and he leans in, claiming my mouth with a punishing kiss that leaves no room for doubt. Lev Romanov wants me, and I have his fucking number.

Our tongues tangle and our breath mingles. He tastes like mint and vodka. I want more. My hands find my way to his hair, and I pull him closer as he deepens the kiss. My body arches beneath his and one large, warm palm cups the small of my back and holds me to him. The length of his erection presses against me belly.

When he breaks the kiss, his breath is ragged. I stifle a moan. I want him back.

"You drive me crazy," he mutters.

"Good." My own voice shakes. "I like keeping you on edge."

With a growl, he claims my lips again. Our bodies mold together. I'm vaguely aware of him pushing the thin layer of fabric between us aside and reaching for my pussy. I bite his lip as he strokes my clit which earns me a tight pinch.

"Fuck!" my hips jerk.

"Behave yourself," he grates.

"Never."

That earns me a nipple tweak, the asshole. My clit aches. His hands roam my body, his touch possessive and purposeful. I shiver when his fingers trace the counters of my waist and the curve of my hip before slipping under my shirt. I gasp when his palm slides upward. I've never wanted my breasts touched so badly in my life. His thumb skates over my nipple, drawing a moan from me.

"You're mine now," he whispers against my mouth.

"Is that a promise or a threat?" I don't recognize my own voice. "Prove it."

He captures my lips again. His hand leaves my breast and trails down my stomach before hooking into the waistband of my leggings. "Mmm," I moan, eager for more. My God it feels so damn good. I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders as he strokes me with practiced ease. I'm on the edge of madness with every touch.

He moves lower, his mouth leaving a trail of fire in his wake. When he reaches the vee of my pussy, he gives me a wicked grin. And that does it. I can resist many things, but the wicked grin of a sex god ready to eat me out is my kryptonite.

I nod, wordlessly begging.

"Tell me everything," he drawls.

"Mmm." I'm aching with need. There's no need to hold back from him. We're going to fucking crush Javier and take over the cartel. He can have anything he wants from me. Only I'll spoon feed it to him to maintain some semblance of control.

"What do you want to know?" I whisper. He doesn't wait any longer. His mouth descends on me, flicking and circling and driving me wild. I cry out and my hips rise to meet his mouth.

"Javier's next plan."

"I don't know but I can find out. I have sources. People on the inside. I know he's got men in The Cove watching you. They know where your headquarters are."

He rewards me with another delicious swipe of his tongue.

"His number one lieutenant. Who is it?"

"Carlos Cabrera." I frown. "You should know that."

He bites my clit and I scream. "Hey!"

"I do know that. It was a test. Next in command."

I smack at his shoulders, but he only reacts with another lick that makes my toes curl.

"Tell me about Carlos," he orders.

"He's ruthless, loyal to Javier, but has a weakness for money. Bribing him is an option."

Another swirl of his tongue makes me gasp. I tangle my fingers in his hair.

"Javier's hideout?"

"It's a compound in the hills outside of town, but you won't find him there," I manage between breaths. "It's his safehouse and meeting point. Heavily guarded. I can get you the schematics, though."

"Security rotations?"

"Mmm."

He licks me again. Goddamn, Lev has my number. He can intimidate me all he wants but the real key is holding sex above my head.

Whatever.

He hums approvingly, sending a jolt of pleasure riding through me. "Shipments? When and where?"

"Every other Thursday. Midnight. Docks on the south side. New shipment next week – drugs, weapons, you name it."

"Good girl," he drawls. Oh, damn, I like that. When he licks me again, I practically see stars. I'm so on the edge.

"Javier's biggest weakness?"

I bite my lip, trying hard to concentrate through the growing haze. "Paranoia. He hates betrayal. Threatens his men's families. If you can turn someone close to him against him, it'll dismantle everything."

He grins. "I think I already did."

"You can hold onto that belief. I'll give it to you," I say magnanimously. "If you let me come on your mouth now."

His mouth returns to its task.

My body trembles and my hips rise as he licks me to completion. I explode into pleasure. Bliss floods my veins and I scream his name as I tangle my fingers in his hair. I moan, drowning in pleasure that courses through me over and over in waves of perfection until I collapse to the ground beneath him.

"You're incredible," he whispers in my ear. "Together, we'll take him down."

He pushes himself up on his elbow. Gives me a long, lingering look. Bends and brushes a kiss to my cheek before he stands and walks away.

I stare at him.

I'd say he used me, if I didn't know full well I completely let him.

I push open the door to my temporary quarters, a luxurious room that feels more like a gilded cage with each passing hour, the lingering memory of what we did making it hard to walk.

What. Just. Happened?