The engines roar to life, the yacht lunging forward into the maelstrom. It bucks hard, and Lea winces, gripping the couch as pain flares across her marked skin.
Something knots in my gut at the sight—regret. I crush it, grinding it under my heel. No room for it now. Isabel’s play is a threat that demands the Diplomat, not this fractured man.
“Brace yourself,” I say, voice edged with frost. “This ride’s hell.”
A wave slams us, shuddering the hull. Water pounds the glass, blurring the world.
“You sure about this?” Lea asks, eyes wide but steady.
“No.” I haul her up, careful to avoid her welts, the heat of her skin seeping through the robe despite everything. “But necessity doesn’t ask nicely.”
I strap her into a secured seat, then buckle myself nearby. The yacht heaves through the fury, each crash a jolt that rattles my bones. I embrace it. The raw fight against nature, cleaner than the mess she’s stirred in me. Her gaze burns into me, and I project unyielding command, willing her to forget the man who faltered, who stopped when he should’ve claimed victory.
My mind shifts to tactics: Isabel. What intel does she dangle? This is my arena, where I excel.
The captain’s voice crackles: “Approaching dock. Coast Guard hailing—ordering stand-down.”
“Ignore,” I command. “Dock us.”
“Consequences, sir. Fines, investigations?—”
“Handled.”
We slam into the dock, lines secured amid the gale. “Stay tight,” I tell Lea. “Silent.”
She nods, understanding the stakes.
We dash into the downpour, Blake waiting with the SUV, engine growling.
“Status?” I demand, sliding in.
“Contained in your study,” Blake reports, grim. “Pushed past objections. Her guards are locked down in the east wing, under watch.”
Jaw clenched, I picture it. Isabel Vega is in my chair, rifling through my space. A blatant fuck-you, especially knowing her penchant for power plays.
“Touched anything?”
“Books, desk. Poured your top Macallan.”
The SUV tears up the drive. I eye Lea, and the shivers she tries to hide. “Blake, get her dry clothes. Then bring her to the study.”
“You want me there?” Lea asks, eyes narrowing.
“I want eyes on you.” Cold, calculated. “Isabel’s timing stinks of motive. Until I dissect it, you’re in my sight.” And truthfully, after our last encounter with her, the way her sharp eyes devoured Lea, that subtle brush of fingers lingering too long, I need to see how she plays this round.
No argument. Good.
I storm inside, shedding my drenched jacket to a staffer, as I head to the study. Push the door open—no knock, my turf.
Isabel lounges in my chair, crystal tumbler of my Macallan in hand, long legs crossed. Her black hair gleams in a sleek twist, framing those angular features, her diamond studs catching the light with understated menace. The tailored pantsuit clings just right, accentuating the lethal grace that makes her as deadly as she is alluring.
She doesn’t stand. The insult lands deliberately.
“Isabel,” I drawl, mild as arsenic. “To what do I owe this... intrusion?”
She sips slowly, savoring my whiskey… and my irritation. “Nico. Forgive the drama. Some intel demands face time.” Her smile purrs, not reaching those assessing eyes, sharp as ever.
“And requires commandeering my desk?” I stay standing, hands pocketed, radiating calm dominance despite the drop of rain from my hair.
