Chapter 8 - The Safehouse in the Pines
Adrian reached her, sliding his arms beneath her shivering frame, lifting her fragile body into his chest with an almost desperate, terrified gentleness, as if she were made of spun glass that would shatter under his touch.
"Don't touch me," Isabella whispered weakly, her teeth chattering so hard her jaw ached. She tried to push against his blood-soaked chest, but she had no strength left. "Don't... don't touch me, Adrian. Pay... pay your debt elsewhere."
Those words tore through Adrian’s heart more brutally than any bullet he had taken tonight.
"Forgive me," Adrian wept openly, pulling her head into the crook of his neck, shielding her from the biting wind with his broad body, his warm tears falling onto her frozen cheeks. "Forgive me, Bella. I lied. I lied to her. I lied to the world. I lied to myself. You are not my debt. You have never been my debt. You are my life. You are the only good thing that has ever belonged to my cursed soul."
Luca rushed over, throwing a heavy wool military blanket over Isabella’s shoulders. "Boss, we have to move! Hypothermia is setting in, and you’re bleeding out from your shoulder! The medical transport is prepped at the Gary regional airstrip!"
"Get the helicopter down on the asphalt!" Adrian roared, rising to his feet with Isabella cradled securely in his arms. He didn't care about his bleeding shoulder; he didn't care about the broken ribs beneath his vest. His entire existence was narrowed down to the faint, steady heartbeat he could feel against his chest.
As Adrian carried her toward the landing skid of the helicopter, Isabella looked up through her shivering eyelashes. She saw the blood dripping down his temple, the profound, agonizing terror etched into every line of his handsome face, and the way his hands shook as he held her close, whispering frantic prayers in Italian against her forehead.
*He’s bleeding for me again,* she thought, her mind drifting into the fog of exhaustion. *Always blood. Always death.*
***
Twenty-four hours later.
The blizzard had finally passed, leaving the world blanketed in three feet of pristine, silent white snow.
Isabella woke to the comforting crackle of an open hearth.
The air was warm, smelling of rich cedarwood, pine sap, and lavender. She wasn't in a sterile hospital room, nor was she in the gilded cage of the Moretti mansion in Chicago. She lay in an oversized feather bed beneath thick goose-down duvets, inside a rustic, masterfully built log cabin surrounded by towering, snow-laden pines.
Through the large bay windows, the frozen expanse of Lake Superior stretched toward the horizon under a pale, crisp winter sun.
Her grandfather’s cabin.
Isabella blinked, the fog clearing from her mind. Sitting in a leather wingback chair beside the hearth was Adrian.
He had changed into a dark wool sweater and soft trousers. A white medical bandage peeked out from the collar of his shirt, covering his shoulder wound. His face was pale, his eyes heavily shadowed by exhaustion. He wasn't holding a weapon. He wasn't drinking scotch. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped, staring at her with an intensity that took her breath away.
Beside the bed, resting on a small wooden table, was a glass of fresh orange juice, a bowl of warm broth, and the small, cream-colored ultrasound photograph.
"You brought me here," Isabella said, her voice raspy from disuse.
Adrian flinched slightly at the sound of her voice, as if afraid he was breaking a dream. He stood up slowly, keeping his distance, his hands open at his sides.
"Elena told me about this place while the medics treated her concussion," Adrian said quietly. "She said you wanted to disappear here. I knew... if I brought you back to the mansion, you would feel like a prisoner all over again. So I brought the medical team here. The obstetrician checked you six hours ago, Bella."
Adrian’s breath hitched, his golden eyes filling with unshed tears.
"The baby is safe," he whispered, a trembling smile breaking across his weary face. "Our child is strong. The heartbeat is 130 beats per minute. A fighter. Just like its mother."
Isabella turned her face toward the window, her jaw tightening. "Why are you here, Adrian? You killed Marco Rossi. Celeste is handled. You can go back to your kingdom. You don't have to play the dutiful protector anymore. I left the ring. I released you from the debt."
Adrian stepped forward, falling to his knees beside the edge of the mattress. He reached out to touch her hand, but stopped himself, hovering his fingers an inch above her skin, terrified she would pull away.
"I never wanted to be released," Adrian choked out, his voice thick with raw, unvarnished agony. "Bella, when you took that bullet three years ago... when I saw you lying in that pool of blood on Michigan Avenue, my soul died. I looked at your beautiful, vibrant life, and I realized that my darkness had stolen everything from you. Your concerts, your dancing, your joy."
He buried his face in the edge of the mattress, his broad shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"Every time I looked at your wheelchair, all I saw was my own sin. I thought... I convinced myself that if I touched you, if I loved you, I was forcing you to live with the man who ruined you. I thought the only honorable thing left for a monster like me was to build an empire so vast that no one could ever touch you again, and to suffer in silence while you lived in safety. When I told Celeste I owed you my life, not my love... I said it because I believed I had no right to love you. I thought my love was a poison."
Isabella turned her head back toward him. She had seen Adrian kill without blinking. She had seen him command armies of ruthless killers. But she had never, in all their years together, seen him weep like a broken child.
"You idiot," Isabella whispered, tears finally escaping her eyes, cascading down her cheeks. "You blind, arrogant idiot."
Adrian looked up, his face stained with tears, his expression full of despair. "Bella?"
Isabella took a deep breath. She pushed back the heavy goose-down duvet, exposing her legs clad in soft flannel pajamas.
Adrian’s eyes widened in confusion as Isabella placed her palms flat against the wooden floorboards beside the bed.
"Isabella, what are you doing? Don't strain yourself—"
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"Shut up, Adrian," Isabella commanded, her voice fierce, trembling with sheer determination. "And watch."
***
