Page 39 of Undisputed Chaos
"Nice ink," One commented, noticing it too. "That's new."
Isla's hand immediately went to cover it, but they were faster, grabbing her wrist to inspect it.
"Holy shit. Did you get a tattoo? Without telling us?"
"It's just pen," Isla admitted, pulling her hand back. "I was... practicing."
"Practicing what? Being edgy?” They leaned closer. "That looks like... wait. Isn't that?—"
I held my breath, wondering if they would make the connection.Her friends had been at the club that night and had seen my tattooed self all over Isla, including my mouth.
"It's nothing," Isla cut her off, tugging her sleeve down. "Just something I saw online that I thought was cool."
"Right," Tracy said, her tone skeptical. "Since when do you draw knives, Isla? That's so not your aesthetic."
I chuckled, taking a sip of my coffee—caramel macchiato, of course. Isla was a good girl, keeping our secrets. But there was a subtle tension building at the table, her friends studying her with calculating eyes.
The server approached their table, and I watched Isla order an oat milk latte and avocado toast. So predictable, so fucking cute.
I could already picture her in my kitchen, barefoot and sleep-rumpled, sipping a breakfast boba from my favorite café after thoroughly fucking her into oblivion the night before.
"So boring, Isla,” Bailey muttered under her breath, loud enough for the microphones to pick up. "At least try the açai bowl. It photographs better."
My eyebrow quirked. The fuck kind of friend said that?
While they waited for their food, my phone buzzed with notifications from my other surveillance systems.
The facial recognition software I'd set up had tracked her movements from her apartment to here, recording every place she went.
She’d stopped at a little bakery where she'd bought a tart for later, a corner where she'd paused to take a photo of a flowering tree.
I flipped through the images like a private flipbook of her day, saving the best ones to the folder on my encrypted drive labeled "Angel."
Alongside them were the photos she'd sent me; the paintings, the selfie in the midnight dress, each one a breadcrumb leading her closer to me.
My attention snapped back to the live feed as their food arrived.
Isla's friends were deep in conversation about some influencerdrama, but Isla seemed distracted, her fingers repeatedly brushing over the drawing on her wrist.
"Earth to Isla? Where'd you go just now?"
My angel blinked, that pretty blush crawling up her neck again. "Sorry, just thinking."
"About Mr. Mysterious?" One wiggled her eyebrows, smile thin. "The one who had you climbing him like a tree at my birthday?"
I grinned, remembering how she'd felt pressed against me, how desperately she'd kissed me, how her small hands had clutched at my shoulders.
She'd tasted like champagne and submission, and I was counting the seconds until I could taste her again.
"Maybe," Isla admitted softly, taking a sip of her latte.
“You definitely found him, right?” The other asked. "I still can't believe you made out with him and then just... ran away. Like, what were you thinking?”
If only they knew I'd never been more than a few steps behind her since that night.
"I haven't looked him up," Isla lied, poorly. "It was just a... moment. It's not like someone like him would remember someone like me."
Oh, my pretty angel. I zoomed in on her downcast eyes, the nervous way she toyed with her napkin. I remembered every fucking second.
