Chapter 145: Memory pt 2

That was the dam breaking. Tears sprang to her eyes before she could stop them, hot and fast, spilling over her lower lashes and trailing down her cold cheeks. She wiped at them angrily with the back of her sleeve, but they just kept coming.

"I was so stupid," she whispered, her voice cracking as the words poured out of her. She wasn’t even talking to him anymore; she was just bleeding out loud.

"I was so bloody stupid. I fought with him. I yelled at him because of Kian. I let that snake turn me against the only person who actually cared about me. I can’t even imagine how Dad must have felt... watching his daughter make such a fool of herself, blinded by someone who didn’t give a damn about her."

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with quiet, ugly sobs. "I was so blind. In every way. I ruined everything."

"You are not foolish," Aaron’s voice cut through her quiet spiraling, firm and steady as an anchor.

She sniffled, pulling her hands away from her face, though she didn’t look at him.

"You weren’t stupid for falling in love," Aaron continued, his tone devoid of its usual biting edge. "You were just unlucky with the person you gave it to. Falling in love isn’t a flaw. It’s actually quite rare. I’ve always been somewhat envious of people who can do it."

Isabella blinked through her tears, caught completely off guard. She turned her head toward him, her lips parting slightly. "You? Envious?"

Aaron gave a low, quiet sound that might have been a dry laugh. "Don’t insult me. I appreciate romance."

"So what?" she wiped her cheeks again, a small, genuine spark of surprise cutting through her sadness. "You’ve never been in love with anyone before?"

He turned his head to look directly at her, his voice perfectly blunt. "Yes. You."

The breath caught in her throat. Her heart gave a violent, erratic thud against her ribs. For a second, the whole beach went dead silent. Then, her face flushed red hot, and she reached out, slapping his arm with as much force as she could muster.

"Stop joking around!" she snapped, her voice rising an octave. "You don’t want me because you’re in love with me. There has to be some other sick, twisted reason you’re doing all this."

Aaron didn’t argue. He took another slow drag from his cigar, the tip glowing a dull orange in the dark before fading back to ash.

"I don’t think I am capable of those things," he said softly, staring out at the dark water.

"It’s not how I was built. But I admire it when others do it. It was one of the few reasons I respected your father. He loved you, and he loved your mother. Men in my line of work usually view love as a liability. A weakness to be cut out before it can be used against them. I always thought that was a rather pathetic way to look at the world."

Isabella listened, the tension slowly draining out of her shoulders. Hearing him speak like that without the armor, without the menace, felt strange. It felt soft. A side of Aaron Kazarov that probably very few people in the world had ever been allowed to see.

"Well," she murmured, pulling her knees closer to her chest. "You shouldn’t give up on it. Maybe one day you’ll find someone you actually like. One of your mistresses, maybe."

The moment the word left her mouth, a sharp, bitter tang of jealousy twisted in her stomach. She tried to sound nonchalant, like she was just giving friendly advice, but the edge in her tone was sharp enough to cut glass.

Aaron paused, the cigar halfway to his mouth. He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, letting the sea wind carry it away, before slowly turning his head toward her.

He looked at her small, tense frame—her jaw set tight, her green eyes wide and defensive, looking for all the world like an angry, ruffled little bird trying to look dangerous.

"And where," he asked smoothly, "did you hear that from?"

Isabella’s cheeks flared again. She couldn’t very well admit that she had been eavesdropping on Klara, or that the thought of him with someone else had been eating away at her mind for days.

She raised her chin, turning the question right back on him. "So it’s true, then? If it’s true, why didn’t you mention it to me? Not that it matters, of course. I don’t care what you do with your time or your body. But since we have a contractual agreement, I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to know if there were other—"

"There are no mistresses," Aaron interrupted smoothly. "At least, none since you came to me."

Isabella froze. Her whole body went rigid. "What?"

Aaron didn’t answer right away. He reached down, stubbing the lit end of his cigar out against a flat stone in the sand, tossing the remains aside. Then, he moved.

Before she could pull back, he shifted closer, his hand coming up to cup the back of her neck. He pulled her forward until the space between them vanished, his face so close she could feel the warm, smoky brush of his breath against her skin. Their lips were barely a millimeter apart.

"There are no mistresses," he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, rough murmur. "The moment you walked into my office, I cut them all off."

Isabella’s heart thundered violently against her ribs. The heat radiating off him was overwhelming, filling up all her senses until she couldn’t think straight. ’He cut them off.’

The realization fluttered in her chest, warm and dizzying, making her feel dangerously special. But she shoved the feeling down, desperate to protect herself. He was probably just clearing the decks to avoid complications. That was all.

"You... you didn’t have to do that," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

"You’re right," Aaron murmured, his thumb resting gently against the pulse point on her neck. "I didn’t have to. But unfortunately for them, I never really wanted them in the first place."

Isabella swallowed hard. "Then why were you with them?"

"I don’t know," he said, his breath hitching slightly as his eyes dropped down to her mouth. He couldn’t stop looking at her lips.

Ever since he had tasted them earlier, the memory had been plaguing him, a quiet, persistent itch under his skin that he couldn’t scratch.

He wanted more. He wanted to take another bite, to pull her in until she completely surrendered to him. "Guess I was just trying to fill something missing inside me."

Isabella’s voice was barely a breath. "What’s missing?"

He looked at her. The answer was right there, sitting in front of him with sand on her knees and tear-stained cheeks. ’You.’

To say it out loud felt too real. It felt dangerous, like hand-delivering a loaded gun to the only person who could pull the trigger.

So instead, he let out a dark, wicked little breath and whispered, "A woman with exceptional stamina in bed."

The tender spell shattered instantly.

Isabella’s jaw dropped. "Oh my god. You absolute—get out of my face!"

She slammed her hands against his chest, trying to shove him back, but Aaron was already moving. He caught her wrists in one swift motion, twisting his weight so he brought her down onto the sand beneath him.

Isabella let out a sharp gasp as her back hit the soft ground, her hands pinned beside her head. "What are you doing?! You’re going to get sand in my hair!"

"Don’t worry," he murmured, hovering over her, his body settled firmly between her legs. "I’ll wash it out for you."

"That is not helpful!"

He leaned down further, his chest resting against hers, his mouth brushing against the corner of her lips. The sudden proximity sent a shiver straight down her spine, melting her indignation into a heavy, pooling heat between her thighs.

"Can we breach the contract again?" he asked against her skin, his voice dark and thick with intent.

Isabella hesitated. Her head was telling her to kick him off, to pull her pride back together and tell him to go to hell. But her body was betraying her, soft and warm beneath his weight, humming with a desperate, terrible desire to feel his mouth on hers again.

"I guess..." she started, her voice faint and unsure. "Maybe for... maybe for five minutes—"

Aaron didn’t let her finish.

He brought his mouth down on hers hard, taking the rest of her words straight out of her throat.

Isabella gasped against his lips, and he used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding past her teeth with a slow, possessive rhythm that made her mind go completely blank.

At first, shock kept her still, but within seconds, the heat swept over her, and her hands twisted into the fabric of his coat, pulling him down closer.

He was a terrifyingly good kisser. He consumed her, eating at her lips with a greedy, deliberate focus that made her toes curl in the sand.

Her breath hitched, a low whimper escaping her chest as she melted into him, completely receptive, her hips unconsciously shifting against his.

The dark, dizzying desire pooled deep in her stomach, making her forget where they were, forget the cold air, forget everything except the taste of tobacco and heat on his tongue.

Just as she reached out, clinging to his shoulders, completely lost in the rhythm of it—Aaron stopped.

He pulled his head back abruptly, breaking the seal of their lips with a sharp, harsh gasp.

Isabella lay there on the sand, dazed and flushed, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

Her mind remained a blank, foggy slate for three long seconds, her lips still tingling, her body practically humming for him to come back.

Aaron leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispered, "That was two minutes. You still have three left."

And then he pulled away completely, standing up in one fluid motion.

The cold air hit her like a bucket of ice water.

Isabella’s eyes snapped open. The fog vanished, replaced instantly by a raging, white-hot fire of pure frustration.

Her face burned red as she realized what he had just done, he had left her hanging right at the peak, her own body embarrassingly desperate while he stood there looking completely untroubled.

She scrambled up into a sitting position, her hair a wild, sandy mess. "You didn’t even let me finish what I was saying!" she yelled, her voice trembling with anger at her own weakness.

Aaron didn’t answer. He brushed the sand off the front of his trousers, completely composed.

Then, stepping forward, he caught her under the armpits and effortlessly hauled her up to her feet.

While she continued to fume and hurl insults at him, his large hands gently reached up, brushing the stray grains of sand out of her dark hair with careful, methodical strokes.

"It’s getting dark," he said softly, smoothing down the back of her dress. "We should head back."