Page 102 of Destined for the Devil
"I think you may want to take some cooking lessons. I'm not sure I can survive only on toast and peanut butter." Isla wrapped her arms around my neck, leaning in for a kiss. God. This girl had me wrapped around her little pinky.
I’d do anything—anythingshe asked.
Tenderly, slowly, her lips pressed against mine, the feeling never getting old. On the contrary, every kiss ensnared my heart even more, if that was even possible. I breathed her in as I slid my tongue against hers, her little whimper activating that part of my brain that turned me into a savage.
She pulled away to slide further into the windowsill, and right at that moment, I caught a glimpse of a car parked outside. The same car I noticed when we were leaving for our vacation.
The driver’s window was slightly open, cigarette smoke billowing out of the small crack. Isla caught my stare and turned to look too. The window slowly slid closed right at that moment.
This wasn't Kirill's men. This wasn't my men. But it was definitely someone's.
"Have you ever seen this car before?" I asked her while a thousand possibilities swirled in my head but landed on just one: Sergei. But I’d known him long enough to know one thing: he didn’t have the balls to spy on me. And why the fuck would he? He knew exactly where I was.
Isla shook her head to say no, both of us observing the car drive away.
The photos we received in St. Barts were back in their envelopes, in my suitcase. I pored over them for a long time that night. The quality was impeccable, the shots were timed perfectly, and the zoom was significant. Not taken by an amateur. And this professional photographer seemed to have stayed with us the entire time—the photos were taken over all the days we were there.
The writing made no fucking sense, but three phrases caught my attention more than others.
Filthy rich fucktoyreferred to Isla, obviously. Who knew that she was filthy rich? I asked her about it; she was adamant that she told no one about her inheritance…but many people could have guessed.
Her lawyer knew. Her friends would have caught on when her living arrangements changed so abruptly. They wouldn’t have known the extent, but they would have guessed that she inherited a hefty sum.
Fucked full of secretswas another mysterious one. What secrets? What did secrets have to do with her? They could have written anything, but they chose that word specifically.
And the last one really stumped me.Daddy’s girl?No one knew she called me that—she’d only said it in the bedroom. So how did they have this information?
My security detail was tasked with locating any single person who might have witnessed anyone with a camera in the vicinity of where we stayed. Although it was doubtful, considering my own security team noticed nothing the entire time.
The more I thought about it, the more I was sure it wasn’t Sergei. If he had gone down a spiral and decided to target her, why would it be when we were together? She was way more vulnerable when she was alone, even if she was under twenty-four-hour vigilance.
No. This felt…foreign. And I really didn't like that. I would stay with Isla for at least the foreseeable future.
While Isla had the time off for Christmas break, we spent it furnishing her apartment and simply living together. No stress, no breakups, no drama, just pure household bliss. Almost like that time when she first ended up in my house, but now, it was a thousand times better.
Isla did throw a housewarming party right before New Year's and invited her university friends. The night was a blast, and I was attuned to her laughter the entire time.
But once again, the evening highlighted how much older I was than her. Her friends all looked like kids even though some were almost thirty. But it wasn’t so much the age; it was how ourprofessionsand lifestyles clashed.
I was, and would forever be, an outcast. Not mainstream, not accepted, feared, and despised. Especially in America, my background added even more negativity to my whole existence.
The engagement ring was completed, and I only had to pick it up and pop the question…but doubt crept into my mind. Not about Isla, God, never about her, but about dragging her into my dark world. The same thoughts returned—I was not good for her.
But I breathed through it, knowing that it was too fucking late to save her from myself. I’d drag her into hell with me and make the place a heaven fit for my Angel.
I was slightly put at ease when the days rolled on calmly, without any disruptions. My men never reported anything suspicious, and that car never showed up again. Hey, maybe it was Rodriguez playing a cruel joke on me. He wanted those contracts, wanted me to take a step away, and maybe he thought the photos would put me on edge enough to scale back.
The wording on the photos was right up his alley. As the idea sank in, though, I was sure I’d shoot his balls off if it turned out to be him.
New Year’s Eve arrived with a majestic snowstorm, just like back in Russia, and…everything was ready. Isla decided to trudge back home from dinner in the snow, her tipsy laughter and uneven walk a hilarious sight.
But I was shaking with anticipation of asking her,finally. I ushered her up the steps of her building while she complained in the incredibly dimly lit staircase. "Where on earth are you taking me?!" She hiccupped and promptly misstepped, almost faceplanting in front of me. I caughther right in time.
"You’re a very dangerous drunk, Isla. How are you going to drink champagne at our wedding?" I threw out a risky joke, but she responded with more drunk laughter.
"You're going to have to pour me ginger ale or something. Or kerfir. Ker-frir? What’s that gross Russian drink? Kfe-rir?” she mumbled absolute nonsense, and at this point, I picked her up, noticing she was making no progress up the steps on her own.
“Baby…you only had two glasses of wine and a shot of tequila.” I reminded her, my heart hammering in my throat with every step I took closer to the rooftop.
