Chapter 7 The storm before the flame

It rained that night.

Not soft, romantic rain-but a hard, furious downpour that pounded the windows like the sky was trying to shatter the silence between them.

Julian stood barefoot on the balcony, shirt soaked, hair plastered to his forehead. His jaw was tight, fists clenched, as thunder growled above Manhattan.

Isla watched him from inside the penthouse, heart tight. He hadn't said much since the leak. He hadn't touched her again either-not since that soft, soul-searing kiss in the kitchen.

She wrapped herself in a robe and stepped into the rain.

"Are you punishing yourself?" she asked.

He didn't turn around. "You should be inside."

"I'm where I want to be."

Finally, he looked at her. Water ran down his cheek like tears he refused to shed. His voice was low.

"You don't understand what's coming, Isla. The press. The scrutiny. The vultures. They're going to dig through your past like it's a buffet. They're going to twist this into something it's not."

"I'm not afraid," she said, stepping closer.

"You should be."

"I'm not," she said again. "But you are."

His eyes flared.

"You're afraid of feeling, Julian. Of needing someone. Of wanting something you can't control. But newsflash-you don't get to run anymore. Not from me."

Lightning lit the sky in a flash of white.

Julian's mouth dropped open slightly, as if she'd slapped him with the truth.

Then, softly: "You terrify me."

"Good," she said. "Because I'm not leaving."

Something cracked in him. Something dark and deep and long buried.

He surged forward and kissed her.

Hard.

Desperate.

Uncontrolled.

The kind of kiss that left no space for air or doubt or fear.

Her robe slipped off her shoulder, and his mouth followed-down her neck, to the delicate curve of her collarbone. He pressed her against the balcony wall, soaking wet and trembling, but not from the cold.

Isla gasped as his hands slid under the silk, over her bare waist.

"Tell me to stop," he said, voice raw.

"No," she whispered. "Don't you dare stop."

His lips were everywhere-hungry, reverent, claiming her in the rain.

And when he lifted her into his arms, bridal style, carrying her inside without breaking the kiss, she realized something:

Julian Cross wasn't a man learning how to touch.

He was a man learning how to burn.

He set her down gently in the bedroom, eyes searching hers. His fingers trembled at her waistline, like a man standing on the edge of something sacred.

"You still sure?" he asked.

She reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head.

Then kissed the scar near his ribs-the one from the transplant.

"I want you," she said. "Not the myth. Not the billionaire. Just you."

His voice broke. "Then take me."

And this time-when she touched him-he didn't pull away.

He let her see every inch.

And he gave her everything.