Chapter 144: Memory

She had actually done it. She had touched herself in the dark, drunk out of her mind, calling for Aaron Kazarov and he had stood right there in the doorway, watching every single second of her humiliation.

Isabella stood frozen on the dark beach, staring blindly into the void, her mind entirely consumed by pure, unadulterated horror.

"You also made quite a mess."

Isabella’s face went nuclear. The sudden heat surged right up her neck, burning through her cheeks until her ears throbbed with it. "Aaron."

"I had to change the sheets," he said, his tone entirely too casual, as if he were discussing the afternoon weather.

"Aaron."

"And your clothes."

"Stop."

"You were barely conscious by then, so—"

"STOP."

She reached for him blindly. Her right hand slapped empty air, fanning the cold seaside wind. She swung again, her fingers brushing the stiff fabric of his coat before he shifted out of reach.

She heard the faint, gravelly rumble in his chest, he was actually suppressing a laugh. That was the last straw.

Isabella lunged forward, her hands flying out until her palms finally slammed flat against his face, planting themselves squarely over his mouth.

"Shut up," she snapped, her fingers pressing tightly against his lips and cheekbones.

He spoke, but the words came out muffled and warm against her skin. ’"Mmmph-fff-rrm."’

"I don’t care what you’re saying," she said, her voice dropping into a fierce, embarrassed hiss. "Shut. Up."

Another muffled response hummed against her hands.

"No." She pressed harder, leaning her body weight into her arms just to keep him quiet. "I am begging you. Stop talking."

She wasn’t trying to be clever, and she certainly wasn’t trying to flirt. She was genuinely dying of humiliation.

Her brain felt like a overheated engine, stuttering and glitching over the mental image of what must have happened.

She was stuck in a dress that wasn’t hers, on a bed that had to be remade, standing in front of a man who had seen every single second of her absolute undoing.

And the worst part, the absolute worst part was that he was enjoying every single second of her misery.

Slowly, when she felt his lips stop moving, she slid her hands back, letting them drop to her sides. She took a deep, shaky breath, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Okay," she swallowed hard, trying to assemble whatever scattered pieces of her dignity remained. "Fine."

Aaron raised an eyebrow, his voice smooth and entirely unbothered. "Fine?"

"We forget it."

"No."

"We forget everything that happened tonight."

"No."

"The kiss too."

"Absolutely not."

Isabella’s brow furrowed, her hands curling into tight fists at her sides. "Why?"

"Because I want compensation."

She stared toward the sound of his voice, her green eyes wide and incredulous. "Compensation?"

"For what I went through."

"’You’ went through something?"

Aaron’s voice remained perfectly serious, without a single trace of hesitation. "I had to clean you up."

Her face immediately heated up all over again, the flush spreading down her throat. "I said stop!"

"And change your clothes."

"Aaron."

"And the sheets."

"I get it!" Isabella almost stamped her foot on the deck. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to drown out the image. "Fine. What do you want?"

"I haven’t decided."

"You haven’t decided?"

"I’ll tell you when I do."

Isabella narrowed her eyes, tilting her chin up toward him. "That’s ridiculous."

"Perhaps."

"What does that even mean?"

He let out a short, faint breath that sounded suspiciously like a smile. "It’s a secret."

She let out an irritated noise, turning her face away from him. A secret. Of course it was. Everything with him was a bloody secret, wrapped up in quiet glances and infuriating half-answers that left her spinning in circles.

"Everything is a secret with you," she muttered under her breath.

Aaron didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out, his large, calloused hand wrapping gently around her wrist. He didn’t pull hard, just enough to guide her steps as he turned them away from the house and down toward the slope of the beach.

The air grew cooler as they walked, heavy with the salty tang of the sea and the damp smell of wet sand.

The sharp edge of her embarrassment began to dull, replaced by the rhythm of the waves crashing against the shore in steady, heavy thuds.

The tide was coming in, sending thin sheets of foam over the toes of her shoes, but she didn’t care.

She let go of his hand after a few minutes and dropped to her knees right where the water met the dry sand.

The cool wetness soaked through the fabric over her knees, but it felt grounding. She dug her fingers into the grit, letting the tiny pebbles brush past her skin.

Her fingers bumped into something hard and curved. She picked it up, rolling the smooth edge between her thumb and forefinger.

"This one’s pretty," she said softly, holding it out toward the sound of his footsteps.

"Yes," Aaron said from somewhere above her.

"What does it look like?"

"White."

Isabella rolled her eyes. "That’s not very descriptive."

"It has a spiral."

"Better."

"There are faint pink lines around the edge," he added, his voice low and quiet against the rushing wind.

A faint smile touched the corners of her mouth. She ran her thumb along the faint ridge he described, mapping it out in her head. "I like it."

He didn’t answer, but she felt him move closer, stepping beside her to keep watch while she dug around in the dark sand.

Every now and then, her hand would close over a jagged piece of driftwood or a rough pebble, and before she could even ask, Aaron would give a small, dry comment, telling her exactly what she was holding so she wouldn’t scrape her skin on broken glass or sharp shell edges.

It was strangely peaceful. He became her eyes without making her feel helpless, holding back just enough to let her explore on her own.

Eventually, the chill in the air grew too sharp to ignore. The sky had turned dark, the light fading into a deep, endless navy blue.

They sat down together on a dry stretch of sand near the grass line. Aaron pulled a cigar from his pocket, the faint click of his lighter cutting through the sound of the wind.

A moment later, the rich, bitter scent of tobacco smoke drifted over her shoulder, carrying away with the sea breeze.

Isabella sat with her legs drawn up, holding the spiral shell tight in her palm.

"Better?" Aaron asked quietly.

She didn’t need to ask what he meant. He wasn’t talking about her humiliation from earlier, or the cold air, or the long walk down the shore.

He was talking about the surgery. He was talking about the heavy, suffocating knot of fear that had been sitting in the middle of her chest all day, making it hard to breathe every time she thought about tomorrow.

She stiffened slightly, defensive out of habit. "I’m fine."

Silence settled between them. He didn’t push, but the quiet was heavy enough to prove he didn’t believe a single word. He always did this.

He noticed every small shift in her voice, every time her breath hitched, every time her hands started to shake. She hated how easily he saw right through her.

She let out a long sigh, her shoulders dropping. "I’m just nervous."

"I know," he said simply.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, shifting her gaze out toward the dark horizon she couldn’t see. "How did you know I liked beaches?"

This time, Aaron didn’t tease her. The mock arrogance vanished from his voice, leaving only a flat, quiet honesty.

"Your father told me."

The words hit her like a physical weight. Her chest tightened, a sudden ache swelling behind her eyes. Her father.

She remembered the way Lance’s voice used to soften whenever he talked about the ocean. Back home, when she was just a little girl, he would take her to the coast every summer.

He used to sit on the porch with a glass of tea and tell her stories about her mother, how she used to walk along the water for hours, picking up every strange stone she could find.

"Your mother loved the sea," her father’s voice echoed in her memory, warm and full of old laughter. "In fact, the very first time I ever kissed her was on a beach just like this one. Silly woman almost lost her shoe in the tide right after. And look where that little kiss got me—stuck with a noisy daughter."

’"Ew,"’ a younger Isabella had giggled, covering her ears. ’"Spare me the details, Dad!"

A soft, sad warmth bloomed in her chest, followed immediately by a sharp pang of grief. Her first kiss with Aaron had been on a beach, too.

The thought made her cheeks warm, and she quickly pressed her lips together, forcing the absurd blush down before it could take over her face.

"He really talked to you a lot, didn’t he?" she asked softly, her finger tracing the curve of the shell in her lap.

"Yes," Aaron said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the night air. "He loved talking about you every chance he got. He was very proud of you, Isabella."