Chapter 137: Klara pt 2

Isabella hesitated, not wanting to sound completely boring or helpless. "Occasionally."

"Excellent. This is an occasion," Klara said, pressing the glass neck into Isabella’s palm.

Isabella held it, feeling the condensation wetting her fingers. "Shouldn’t we get glasses?"

"Why?"

"Because we’re not animals," Isabella reasoned dryly.

"Speak for yourself," Klara chuckled.

Isabella stood there for two seconds, feeling the weight of the dark night, the ache in her feet, and the suffocating tension that had been hanging over her all evening. "You know what? Fuck it."

She brought the bottle straight to her lips and took a deep, reckless swallow. The liquid burned hot and sharp down her throat, rich and heavy with dark fruit and alcohol.

Klara let out a delighted laugh, popping open her own bottle and taking a long, heavy gulp that emptied nearly half of it in one go. "Now you’re talking."

They leaned back against the stone balustrade, side by side. The night was quiet up here, save for the hum of the breeze. Klara exhaled a long trail of smoke, her eyes wandering over the view below.

"Matteo’s family has owned property like this for three generations," Klara said idly, her tone turning reflective as she gestured vaguely into the dark. "Mafia money builds very thick walls. They think it keeps the world out. Really, it just keeps them locked inside with their own filth."

Isabella listened, taking another sip of the wine, letting the sharp warmth spread through her chest. "Sounds cozy."

"It’s a prison," Klara replied smoothly. "Marriage in our world is the exact same thing. Love is a gamble. You put a loaded pistol in your mouth and hope the person holding it loves you enough not to pull the trigger."

The words hit Isabella like a sudden splash of ice water.

’Love is a gamble.’

Her hand tightened around the cool glass neck of the bottle. Unbidden, images rushed into her mind, the phantom memory of Kian’s voice, soft and reassuring in the dark.

The way she had trusted him with every piece of herself. The way she had believed his promises, right up until the moment she woke up in that room, her vision still swallowed by darkness. She had handed him the gun, and he hadn’t even hesitated before pulling the trigger.

A sudden, sharp ache bloomed behind her eyes. The memory made her skin feel hot, her throat tight and dry. She needed to smother it. She lifted the bottle again, drinking faster this time, swallowing gulps of the heavy wine to drown out the sudden bitterness in her mouth.

Klara turned her head, watching her. "Slow down," she warned, though her voice carried a touch of amusement.

"I’m fine," Isabella managed, her voice thick as she lowered the bottle.

"You’re drinking like the wine insulted your family," Klara remarked, leaning her side against the railing to get a better look at Isabella’s flushed cheeks.

Isabella didn’t answer. The alcohol was already beginning to swirl in her bloodstream, making her skin feel warm and her thoughts slightly loose around the edges.

Klara studied her for a long, quiet moment. Then, her voice dropped into a playfully wicked register.

"So," Klara asked casually. "What is he like in bed?"

Isabella, who was mid-swallow, instantly choked.

She coughed violently, bringing her free hand to her mouth, her eyes watering as the wine burned in her throat.

Klara burst into a loud, genuine laugh, completely unbothered by Isabella’s distress. "Oh, come on!"

"You... you could have warned me!" Isabella wheezed, trying to catch her breath, her cheeks flaming hot with instant embarrassment.

"Would you have answered if I had?" Klara asked, her eyes sparkling with dark humor.

"No!"

"Then I saved us both time," Klara replied easily. She leaned in slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Is he big down there?"

Isabella let out another breathless, horrified gasp. "Klara!"

"What? I’m asking a practical question," Klara insisted, totally unphased.

"That is not a practical question!"

"It absolutely is," Klara said, taking a casual sip from her own bottle. "I’m married. I have standards."

Isabella pressed her warm palms to her flushed face, trying desperately to calm her racing heart. The alcohol was humming in her ears now, making her mind wander down dangerous paths.

For a fleeting, terrifying second, an image of Aaron, his broad shoulders, his heavy hands, the dark, suffocating intensity he carried whenever he stood too close to her, flashed behind her eyelids, making her skin burn even hotter.

Klara watched the deep crimson stain spreading across Isabella’s cheeks and chest, her laughter slowly fading into genuine surprise.

"Wait," Klara said, her tone shifting. "You haven’t?"

"What?" Isabella squeaked out, her defense mechanisms scrambling.

"You haven’t slept with him?" Klara asked, her voice incredulous. "Not even once?"

"No!" Isabella said, trying to sound firm, though the blush on her neck betrayed her completely.

"You’re telling me Aaron Kazarov has been sleeping in the same vicinity as you and has somehow behaved?" Klara asked, sounding as if someone had just told her the sun rose in the west.

"We are not sleeping together," Isabella insisted, grasping at whatever dignities she had left. "We... we’re waiting."

Klara stared at her, then threw her head back and laughed even harder than before. "Waiting? For what? The apocalypse?"

"For the wedding night!" Isabella blurted out, inventing the excuse on the spot just to make the relentless questioning stop.

Klara wiped a tear of amusement from the corner of her eye, shaking her head in utter disbelief. "The wedding night. Unbelievable. That man has ignored governments, bullets, and international law, but apparently he has discovered self-control for you."

Isabella took a shaky breath, raising her bottle to take another small drink, hoping the subject was finally closed.

Klara took another drag from her cigarette, looking out over the dark water below. She shrugged, her posture relaxing back into that casual, careless indifference.

"Still," Klara added lightly, as if remarking on the weather. "I wouldn’t assume you’re the only woman he’s sleeping with."

Isabella froze.

The bottle stayed balanced against her lower lip, but she couldn’t swallow. The faint noise of the wind seemed to drop out completely, replaced by a sudden, heavy ringing in her ears.

Klara continued, her voice cool and offhand. "Men like Aaron don’t become saints just because they fall in love."

The words didn’t just land; they sank straight into Isabella’s stomach like lead.

Her fingers tightened around the cool glass until her knuckles turned white. The sweet, heavy wine suddenly tasted sour on her tongue. She pulled the bottle away from her mouth slowly, her entire body rigid, her breath hitching in her chest.

"Why would you say that?" Isabella asked. Her voice was too fast, too thin, stripped clean of the tentative confidence she had built up over the last twenty minutes.

Klara turned her head. The sharp, playful amusement in her dark eyes died instantly, replaced by a keen, quiet stillness.

"Oh," Klara murmured softly.

It wasn’t an apology. It was the sound of someone realizing they had just stepped on a hidden landmine.

"You didn’t know?" Klara asked quietly.

"Know what?" Isabella repeated, her breathing growing shallow, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.

Klara studied her face, the pale skin, the flushed cheeks, the wide, blank green eyes that couldn’t see the pity starting to form in her own expression.

"That he might still have arrangements," Klara said gently, the sharp edge in her voice entirely gone.

Isabella stood frozen on the dark balcony, the cold night breeze whipping her hair across her face, feeling the ground beneath her feet sway as if the entire world had just tilted on its axis.