Chapter 43
Barefoot, shirt still hanging open at the front, Graham stalked down the stairs like a man trying to outrun his own demons. His body was still thrumming—wired—every nerve ending buzzing with frustration and need.
He dragged a rough hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as he dug into his pocket for his keys. He needed to get out. Now. A long drive, some cold night air—anything to put distance between him and the woman upstairs who had nearly made him lose every shred of self-control.
But his fingers closed around nothing.
Shit.
His wallet—along with his keys—was still inside the bedroom. On the floor. Right where he’d thrown it in his reckless haste to find a condom. The memory sent another wave of frustration crashing through him, tightening his muscles, making his skin feel too hot, too tight.
Every instinct screamed at him to just take one of the guest bedrooms and wait it out. Sleep off the tension, let the night pass, pretend none of this had happened. But he knew himself better than that.
If he stayed, he would think of her.
Of the way she had trembled beneath his touch. The way her skin had flushed, her breath had hitched, her lips had parted on those soft, helpless sounds.
If he stayed, he would imagine what could have happened—what almost did.
His jaw ticked.
No. He needed out.
The plan formed quickly in his mind—in and out. He’d slip back into the room, grab his wallet from the floor, and leave before she even noticed he was there. She would probably already be curled up beneath the sheets, hiding from the wreckage of what they had nearly done.
Graham exhaled slowly, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
It was the best option. The only option.
And yet, as he turned back toward the stairs, the thought of stepping into that room again, of seeing her lying there, still warm, still untouched—still his for the taking— sent a vicious hunger tearing through his veins.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
This was going to be hell.
Graham pushed open the door, moving with the quiet precision of a man who knew he shouldn’t be there. The dim glow from the bedside lamp cast a soft, golden hue over the room, stretching shadows along the walls. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, scanning for his wallet, telling himself he would not look at her.
In and out. Get the wallet. Get the hell out.
But then he heard it.
A small, broken sound—a muffled sob.
His head snapped up before he could stop himself.
There, curled up in the middle of his bed, Isla lay on her side, clutching his pillow to her chest as though it were a person. Her fingers gripped the fabric so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. Her delicate shoulders shook with silent cries, her face buried against the pillow, trying—failing—to smother the evidence of her heartbreak.
Graham froze, every muscle in his body locking into place.
Fuck.
She wasn’t supposed to be crying.
She wasn’t supposed to look so small. So fragile. So completely wrecked.
A deep ache twisted in his gut, sharper than any arousal he had felt for her, cutting straight through the frustration and lust. This was his doing. His words, his cruelty, his rejection—he had reduced her to this.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He had to leave. Right now. If he stayed, he would—
Another soft, hiccuping sob escaped her lips. His chest tightened painfully.
She was holding his pillow like it was him. Like she wanted him to be there.
Christ.
For a long, agonizing moment, Graham just stood there, watching her shake, listening to her shattered breathing, feeling something in his own chest splinter apart. He didn’t want her like this. Sad. Defeated. Hurt.
He wanted her laughing, light and carefree, the way she used to be when she was younger—when she would chase butterflies in the gardens of Thornfield Manor, spinning in circles with the sun in her hair, her laughter ringing through the air like wind chimes.
That memory—**that girl—**was etched into his soul. A core memory so vivid, so painfully clear, that it almost knocked the breath from his lungs.
And now? Now, he had turned her into this.
This trembling, heartbroken girl curled up in his bed, clutching his pillow like it was the last thing keeping her from shattering completely. And it was his fault.
And then, despite every ounce of logic screaming at him to walk away, his feet moved forward.
Slowly. Helplessly.
Because no matter how hard he had tried to push her away—no matter how much he had convinced himself that this was over—he couldn’t stand to see her cry.
For the first time in his life, Graham realized—he had been wrong. So, so wrong.
Wrong about his decisions. Wrong about his life. And most of all, wrong about Isla.
God only knew what else he might have misjudged.
Standing in the doorway of his bedroom, watching her curled up in his bed, her small frame trembling from the weight of tears, he felt something crack open inside him. It wasn’t just guilt—it was something deeper, something raw.
It was a need.
A need to protect her, to make her smile, to erase the sadness he had caused. To touch her—not just with passion, but with tenderness.
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, then made his decision.
With deliberate intent, he pushed the door shut behind him. The sound made her flinch, and she turned, her eyes wide and damp, her lips slightly parted.
His body responded instantly, but this time, he didn’t fight it. He let himself feel everything—the way her gaze swept over his chest, the way his pulse roared at the sight of her mussed-up hair, the way the warmth of her skin had lingered on his sheets.
For too long, he had held back. Now, he was done pretending.
He strode toward the bed, each step slow, deliberate. Isla sat up, blinking in confusion, her hands clutching the sheets as if to shield herself from whatever storm was brewing in his eyes.
"Graham…" she whispered, uncertainty lacing her tone.
A single tear clung to the edge of her lashes, trembling before it could fall. Graham bent down without thinking, brushing his lips over the droplet, tasting the salt of her sorrow. Isla gasped softly at the unexpected tenderness, her wide, teary eyes locking onto his with a kind of stunned disbelief. He let himself grin, just a little, savoring the way she looked at him—half-shocked, half-vulnerable, and completely unaware of how deeply she affected him.
Without a word, he gathered her into his arms, pulling her against his chest before falling back onto the bed, taking her with him. A startled sound left her lips, but he held her firm, his strong arms locking her in place as he spooned her from behind, their bodies molding together effortlessly.
“Wha-what are you doing?” Her voice trembled, still laced with uncertainty and the remnants of her tears.
“Shhh…” He hushed her softly, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Go to sleep, little dove.” His voice was a low murmur against her hair as he tightened his hold around her, pressing her closer, letting her feel his warmth, his steady heartbeat.
She wriggled slightly, uneasy at first, but he felt the exact moment her body surrendered to his—when she exhaled that last shaky breath, when her fingers hesitantly clutched at the fabric of his shirt, when her tense muscles slowly relaxed against him. It was the smallest shift, but it meant everything.
He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the soft, sweet scent of her. He felt her breathing slow, her lashes flutter against his arm as sleep finally started to claim her. And for the first time in months, Graham didn’t feel restless. He didn’t feel lost.
He went to sleep with Isla spooned against his body with the thought that tomorrow, his life was going to change forever.