♣ ♣ ♣
I S L A
LUCA'S WORDS ECHO inside her mind. Reverberate around all corners of her head like a song she dislikes but still manages to replay itself over and over.
It happened over a week ago, and she doesn't comprehend why she lets his words corrupt her soul.
"What the fuck, Isla?" Luca snaps as he drags her out of Romeo's driveway.
She doesn't utter a single word until they step inside his house, standing in the foyer whilst loud music fills the empty space. She does wonder if Romeo has been watching her being pulled away from his place all this time.
"You're scolding me for what, exactly?"
She is tired. She doesn't want to justify herself. Doesn't want to start going into explanations about what he has just seen. Doesn't need to say it was all a misunderstanding.
Luca blinks, a frown etched at his face. He leans back against the door, his jaw tight with anger and his eyes blazing with unyielding deceit. "You're hooking up with Romeo."
It isn't a question. It's a statement, like he is sure of it. Like it's a fact.
For a heartbeat, she is ready to deny it. Is ready to tell him he has walked in to witness a faux scenario, that nothing has happened behind those closed doors. But just because she is tired of being controlled, she decides to rile him up.
Her shoulders are lifted into a half shrug. "What if I am?"
Luca's features harden at the speed of lighting as he blinks again. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," she remarks coldly. "What's it to you who I hook up with? As far as I'm concerned, I don't go snooping around your private life and judge your puck bunnies."
"It's not the same thing—"
"Yes, it is, Luca," she bites out. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why can't you just let me be?"
"Jesus, Isla," he groans frustratingly, his gaze slipping to the ceiling as he lets a small scoff fly past his lips. "I wish you hadn't met Romeo."
She has to blink multiple times to process his words. Has to take a few seconds before lifting her brows, utterly astonished and confused by the confession.
Then, her eyebrows pinch together. "Why?"
She can't muster the fact she is completely shocked by the way he talks. She isn't going to let him talk to her this way.
"Because," he snaps, his angry gaze colliding with hers. "History is going to repeat itself!"
Isla's shoulders drop as a lump forms inside her throat. Her next words come out as a mere whisper, strangled. "You can't be serious, Luca."
"You don't know what it was like," he grits as he pushes himself off the door to stride towards the dazed brunette. "You don't know how it felt to see you heart-fucking-broken because of Tobias—" She winces at the sound of his name. "—I had to pick up all the pieces, had to watch you cry over some guy who had crushed your heart like it was a stupid piece of glass. I had to watch you mourn the loss of your love and I couldn't do anything except be the shoulder you cried on."
"I never asked you to—"
"You're my twin sister, Isla," he cuts in aggressively. His eyes are blazing with such fire—a wildfire she loathes to see. "I don't want to see you heartbroken again. God knows boys like Romeo will make you suffer. That's what they do, the Quinn's, they ruin people."
"You just hate him," she whispers bitterly. "You hate him and that's why you can't stand the idea of him and I."
She doesn't even know why Luca hates Romeo so damn much. Because Romeo is team captain? Stole his spot? Because he's rumoured to be the first overall pick in the NHL draft? Gods, when do boys ever grow up?
Luca shakes his head, his nostrils flaring. He opens his mouth and closes it momentarily. Then, his gaze softens—just enough for her to decipher the sorrow in his green eyes. "This is just me caring for you. I'm just trying to save you."
She flickers her eyes between his and ensures her next words are loud and clear and simple. "I don't want your help. I can take care of myself."
Perhaps it is hurting her to be in a conflict with her brother because of some hockey player who would shatter her heart in a fragment of a second. But then again, Isla can make her own decisions. Can decide who she can and will see.
Luca only wants her best interests at heart, but is this really the way to express it?
♣ ♣ ♣
Air gets knocks out of her lungs when she collides into a toned chest.
Bergamot and black pepper with hints of grapefruit and pink berries envelop her senses. Romeo Quinn smells divine. He looks so pretty, grinning like the devil, his mere purpose to poison her senses until she becomes addicted to him.
"In a rush, angel?"
No matter how many times he has called her 'angel', she'll never fathom the way her body reacts to his deep, hoarse voice—palms dampening, chills cascading down her spine like an excruciating glacial sequence until goosebumps appear on her arms.
"Yes," she snaps, cocking her head to one side. "Trying to get away from you."
Romeo barks out a laugh—mocks her. Head thrown back, a shallow chuckle escapes his mouth, the column of his throat on display and strangely enticing.
When he looks back at her, his eyes gleam with amusement. "Stop it, Presley. I know you're happy to see me. I see that blush on your face." He flicks her cheek with a finger, and the simple touch makes her breath hitch inside her throat.
"What blush?" she scoffs, eyes narrowing into slits. "That's just your imagination playing tricks on you, loverboy."
"Whatever you say," he snickers in amusement.
When he leans against the bathroom's doorframe, she realises he is only wearing grey joggers. His biceps contract with the way he folds his arms across his toned torso, his silver chain glinting beneath the soft light of the corridor.
"Like what you see?" Even when she isn't looking at his face—well, how could she when he's right there, standing and appearing like a Greek God—she hears the smug grin in his voice.
"You wish," she scoffs, her timbre bitter.
"Liar," he drones, his gaze turning dark and lingering on her face. "Filthy little liar."
It takes everything in her willpower to not let surprise draw itself on her face. To not part her lips at the way he sinfully murmured those words. To not let her pupils flare—that would be her body's betrayal, admitting she is indeed attracted to him. But surely, he already knows that.
She takes one step forward and realises not much distance is separating their bodies from colliding. She pins him with a malicious gaze, with an enchanting smile whilst batting her lashes. "You're nothing exceptional, Quinn."
By the way the corner of his lip twists into a knowing smirk, it is evident he doesn't quite believe a word she says.
"I stand by what I just said." His stare drops to her lips, and she wonders what he is thinking in this exact moment. "You're a liar."
"I'm not," she points out. Without disconnecting their gazes, she nudges her chin behind his shoulder. "So, can I go back to Killian's room now?"
He blinks. "Aren't you two done studying?"
"No."
He lifts an eyebrow up. "Really? 'Cause he's eating a whole bag of chips downstairs whilst watching Sam play God of War."
That little shit. The both of them, actually—Romeo and Killian.
After an hour of studying, Killian had decided he wanted to take a break, which Isla couldn't deny. An ever so painful migraine had started to bloom, and she could feel her pulse thrum against her temple. She didn't want to experience a headache today.
And of course she had to bump into Romeo on her way out of the bathroom.
"Fine," she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "We're taking a break."
Delight draws itself onto his face as he pushes himself off the doorframe. Turning on his heels, his intoxicating scent whiffs through her nostrils and she curses him under her breath—he makes it so difficult for Isla to hate him.
It's not fair.
"Come with me," he says.
And once again, she curses under her breath, but this time at her own self. Because she automatically follows him. Because that invisible thread pulling her towards him seems to be unbreakable.
"Oh," she snorts, stopping in her tracks when he enters his bedroom. "And what makes you think I'm just going to enter the lion's den?"
"The—" He turns to face her, an exasperated sigh flying past his lip. Without warning, he catches her wrist and pulls her into the room. "Quit being stubborn."
He closes the door, releasing her wrist, allowing her to step away until she leans against the wall.
She tilts her head to the side, grinning. "You love it."
Romeo's features soften, and she swears she can hear the smallest sigh escape his mouth when he stares down at the minuscule dimple next to her lips.
"You wish," he teases at last.
Isla finally looks away, and astonishment draws itself on her face at the sight of his room. Enormous space, humongous four-poster bed. Shelves upon shelves filled with books and vinyls. Band posters brand a wall, various hockey sticks hanging on another.
"You read?" she asks in a whisper, her bewildered face making him chuckle.
"Yeah, I try," he replies as she walks towards the bookshelf. She caresses the spines of a few books with an idle finger, her eyes roaming over the numerous titles and not knowing where to settle. "My sister reads a lot, too, and I guess I started to pick up reading because of her."
She meets his stare. "Do you read the same genres as her? Aïda, right?"
"Aïda, yes." His eyes sparkle at the mention of his sister and it stirs a warm feeling inside her chest. Then, he shakes his head. "But no, we don't read the same genre. She's more into romance and I'm more into fiction and dystopian and fantasy."
"That's interesting," she murmurs, glancing at the record player laying next to his tv.
"So," he starts, making her look over to where he stands in front of his dresser. "I wanted to ask you something."
Romeo turns around, pulling a drawer open, and Isla stops breathing. A tattoo brands his shoulder blade. Not too big nor too small, its fine lines creating a unique work of art on his silken skin.
She finds herself inching closer, wanting to have a better look at his tattoo.
"Ask away." Her tone is clipped, words barely audible.
Still rummaging through his drawer, he doesn't turn around. "We're throwing a party this weekend, and I was wondering if you wanted to come?"
She watches the way his back muscles flex, his tattoo looking perfect and ethereal and magnificent. "You're not asking me on a date, are you?"
A loud scoff echoes as he turns around. Chocolate eyes meet blue ones, and surprise alights his hues as he realises how close she stands before him. "What kind of dates have you been on before, Isla? I'm not taking you to a frat party for a first date," he states, baffled. "That's shitty."
"How would you know?" She shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest. "You don't do girlfriends."
"True, but that doesn't mean I don't know how to treat my girl right." He winks before pulling his t-shirt over his head. His dark curls are untamed, messy, and she wonders if they'd feel rough or soft around her fingers. "Don't worry, baby, our first date will be memorable."
"Good God," she mumbles, rolling her eyes. "I don't want to go on a date with you, Romeo."
He steps forward, his striking blue eyes holding her gaze as though he never wants to look away. As though he is trying to decipher every hue of hazelnut and golden in her irises. As though he is trying to see past every lie she utters nonchalantly.
"What if I change your mind?" His murmuration caresses the edge of her lips, threatening to turn into a kiss if she accepts to close that distance.
"I'd like to see you try," she purrs. She wonders if he can hear the loud thumping of her heart against her thoracic cage. He probably can.
"Don't challenge me," he bites out, though utter glee shines in his eyes.
"Too late," she snarls back.
And there it is: the look that says challenge accepted.
As she steps away, he catches her elbow, pulling her towards his chest again. "Don't go. I know you don't want to study anymore with Killian."
She shrugs, trying to ignore the way her body is set aflame by his mere touch. Still, her cardigan separates his hand from directly brushing her arm, but she feels how much power he holds over her.
"What do you want to do?"
Some kind of relief washes over him at the sound of her quiet question. He doesn't let go of her arm, but his lips quirk upwards into a gorgeous smile. "We had a deal, didn't we? How about we get out of here and you show me your special place?"
She almost whispers his name. Almost tells him no, to forget it.
But she knows Romeo wants to get to know her. Knows he entered her life for a reason.
He is set on reaching those parts of her soul she swore to never show to anyone ever again. Committed to, perhaps, be different. Better for her. Without her even asking for it.
He'll pick those thorns shielding her heart one by one—barehanded if he must. Will break down her walls fragment by fragment until the ice melts. Even if it means getting hurt in the process. Even if it means that he'll be the one bleeding in the end.
"Right." She nods, almost smiling back. "But I'm driving."
♣ ♣ ♣
"Why are we parking here?"
"Stop asking questions."
"But you're kidnapping me right now, Isla! I have every right to ask ten thousand questions."
"Jesus," she sighs. "Do you ever stop being dramatic? I'm not kidnapping you. You came with me on your free-will."
"I was a theatre kid in high school," Romeo says coyly. "Drama runs through my veins."
Cutting the engine of the Porsche off, Isla leans back in her seat and glances at Romeo. Brows raised, she lets a flash of surprise etch at her face. "Theatre and ice hockey?"
He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, almost sheepishly and grins. "I'm a man full of surprises, angel. You haven't seen the best of me yet."
"Can't wait," she mumbles before opening the door. "Come on, loverboy. Consider yourself lucky—I don't allow anyone, not even Nora to see this place."
She refuses to meet his eyes, knowing all too well he is grinning like a fool. And perhaps she is also a fool for taking him here, but fuck, she doesn't care.
The cool breeze swirls around the contour of her jawline, blowing her dark hair away from her cheeks. Burying her face in her thick scarf, she puts her hands in the pockets of her coat, quickly glancing at the brunet walking by her side.
She shouldn't be so mystified by him. By his chestnut curls blown away from his forehead and the tip of his nose rosy because of the cold air. By the bruise ever so slowly fading away from his strong jaw. By his button nose, its shape so alluring yet masculine and—
"Do you know how rude it is to stare at someone, Presley?"
Huffing, she looks ahead of her, glad for her face to be hidden as her cheeks have become scarlet. "I'm not staring."
He chuckles. "Are too."
"Please," she scoffs, "says the guy who'd stare at me for a whole day."
"Yeah," he says, "I really would."
Once again, she ignores the intensity of his scrutiny, focusing on walking as normally as she can, feeling the way her knees threaten to give up on her.
They walk along the street, Romeo chatting about the time he got hit with a puck in the head, laughing when Isla scrunches her nose. He musters a quiet "adorable" in between two sentences and continues speaking. She listens to him, listens to his voice and the passion lacing his tone.
And when they turn around the corner, finally halting in front of the gates of a big mansion, he ceases to ramble. Isla enters the code to open the gate before pushing it open, indicating for Romeo to follow her with a nudge of her head.
"Wait—Is this your house?"
"My father's," she replies quietly.
He whistles as he struts beside her, hands in the pockets of his jeans whilst looking around the grandeur of the domaine. "You didn't tell me you were filthy rich!"
"My father is rich," she corrects coldly.
"Holy fuck," he mumbles when he spots the Bugatti parked in front of the garage. "Are you introducing me to your parents? Slow down, angel, let me take you out on a date first—"
"You're so annoying," she snaps, swatting his arm, only earning a hoarse chuckle from him. "No one's home right now. So no, you're not meeting my family."
"Yet," he adds slyly.
She pins him with a glare, but doesn't say anything.
Whilst he admires the mansion, she enters the code to the garage door, swiftly pulling him inside and then through another door.
A sound escapes his throat—a mixture of a whine and a gasp—as he stops, her hand wrapped around his forearm. "Oh. My. God. Isla Presley, you are not who you pretend to be."
She frowns, studying the way his pupils are blown with utter admiration. He looks at the four cars parked in the dimly lit garage, mouth parted. She swears she can see drool staining the corner of his lips.
"What does that even mean?"
He gasps, "You didn't tell me about those cars."
She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. "Told you my father was into cars."
He looks back at her, sensing the shift in her attitude. Her voice has turned colder, her grip loosening. "Of course. Sorry. Just—I love cars."
"I know you do," she says promptly before tugging him through the door. "Cars or hockey?"
"You can't ask me that!" He follows her through a dark corridor. "That's like asking someone pizza or pasta."
"Pasta," she instantly replies, opening another door and flickering the lights on.
"What—" He sighs, and she releases his arm. "Okay, fine, hockey. I'll always choose hockey."
When she turns her head to look at Romeo, he doesn't meet her gaze. He roams his stare around, brows pumped in pleasant surprise.
"So this is your happy place, huh?"
The room is quite small but the perfect amount of space she needs to put her creativity into canvas or all sorts of ceramic creations—vases and mugs and plates. Paintings and sketches. Everything is handmade.
She observes Romeo stroll slowly around the room, observing the shelves with her creations. Plants adorn all four corners, some basking in the sun's rays on the windowsill.
"These are amazing, Isla," he murmurs, taking ahold of a heart-shaped mug, grinning at the sight of the pink hearts she painted on its surface.
Sudden timidity washes over her. "Really?"
At the sound of her almost inaudible voice, he sets the cup down and turns to face her. "Yeah." His brows furrow as he observes her features. "Everything is incredible."
She fiddles with the rings on her left hand, ever so slightly flushing under his tender gaze. "Thank you."
"So," he starts, walking around the small table placed against a wall, its surface filled with paint brushes and colourful palets and numerous drawing papers. With an idle finger, he traces the spine of the chair, gaze still locked with hers. "Why do you live on campus when you have this house? It's not even that far away from the uni."
An unwanted lump constricts her throat, preventing her from breathing properly. Preventing her from talking without feeling like crying. But as she stares at Romeo, she understands he won't judge her. Will be a shoulder to cry on if she needs one. Will listen to her.
She thinks it might not be such a bad thing to open up. She has to—she can't keep everything inside, knowing the dam will break soon enough.
Taking her scarf off, she hangs it on the coat rack in the corner of the room. "I don't get on with my father."
"Why not?" he asks softly. "And your mom?"
"She passed away about two years and a half ago," she explains sorrowfully, walking towards the window to look outside. The view on the garden is magnificent—especially in summer time when flowers are fully blossomed and vibrant with different colours. "She was sick."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he whispers, now standing by her side. She can feel his intense stare studying her profile, her gestures. Still wearing her coat, she tucks her trembling hands in the pockets to hide her distress.
"It's okay," she assures. "She was a fighter. My dad wasn't—isn't. He left mum when she started her treatment and came back to live here, which was when I was only sixteen. Luca and Nora followed him as I stayed in London with my mother. My dad met Sloane soon after buying this house. She's just turned thirty—can you imagine she's only nine years older than us? He completely neglected my mum and I, and—"
"Hey, hey," he interrupts. "Breathe."
She hasn't realised how ragged her breathing has become. How distress has started to cloud her mind. How he is now rubbing her upper arms delicately—tenderly, coaxing her through this moment of anguish.
"I'm sorry." She chokes on her own breath, diverting her gaze.
"Look at me, angel," he asks in a murmur. When she meets his blue moons, relief washes over her and she doesn't like the way he manages to soothe her by merely staring into her eyes. "Don't you ever apologise for expressing the way you feel, okay?"
She nods, unable to utter a single word, feared by the way her voice might crack.
She breathes in. Out. Until the tremble in her body falters. He doesn't stop caressing her arms, though, and the way he comforts her feels so unfamiliar yet so needed.
"My mum," she breathes. "She was—" My whole world. "—the one who got me into pottery. When she passed away, I couldn't financially support myself so I had to come here. I refused to live in this house and asked for a dorm on campus, but I still wanted to honour Mum by having this room here."
Romeo smiles, though his eyes glint with unspoken melancholy. Perhaps he likes her vulnerability. Perhaps he doesn't mind seeing this façade she never shows to anyone.
"Thank you for sharing this with me," he whispers softly, and she can't help but tip the corners of her lips into a small yet genuine beam. "I didn't know about your family."
She slightly shakes her head, watching the way a lazy curl falls over a brow of his. "It's okay. Luca doesn't talk about it. It's like, the moment Mum died, he just shut himself off and put the memory of her in the back of his mind. He refuses to talk about it—about her."
He frowns. "And Nora?"
Isla chuckles, bitterly so. "Nora is...Nora. She doesn't care. She takes everything that comes her way with open arms. She accepts it, then moves on."
The crease between his brows doesn't disappear. Taking a strand of her hair between his fingers, he drops his stare to follow his motions. "You're a strong woman, angel."
She swallows the lump stuck in her throat. "I know."
Taking a step back, Romeo takes his jacket off, placing it atop the chair before offering a grin that makes all the turmoil seeping through her veins to fade away in a heartbeat.
"Are you going to teach me how to make a vase or what?"
♣ ♣ ♣
"How are you even doing that? Mine looks like a huge cock."
Isla chuckles, looking away from the bowl she has made to stare at Romeo's creation. She laughs loudly, the giggle rumbling inside her chest.
Her cheeks hurt. She hasn't smiled nor laughed this much in a long time. Hasn't felt so carefree and in her element since she has moved to Boston.
She doesn't know what causes her heart to flutter like this—the fact she is doing pottery again or the fact she's doing it with Romeo Quinn. That he was willing to learn without being asked in the first place. That he doesn't care about staining his jeans or having his hands dirty. So long as he spends time with her, he is happy.
And she realises Romeo is so different with her. For her. And all for the best.
"You're not applying enough pressure," she chuckles, pulling her foot off the pedal to stop the wheel from spinning. "Hang on."
She stands up, grabbing the cloth she set on the table to wipe her hands stained with wet clay.
She has set up another potter's wheel for Romeo to use right across from her so she could keep an eye on his motions. She spent about ten minutes explaining how to use the machine, what amount of water to use and the tools he would need in order to make what he wanted.
And he listened carefully. To every single word she said. Not once did he interrupt her. Not once, during the fifteen minutes of pottery as he struggled to shape his clay into something decent, did he complain or asked to stop.
No, Romeo Quinn doesn't like failure. He doesn't stop. Never gives up. Determinate and ambitious, that's what he is.
She ignores the wild thundering of her heart as she pulls her stool beside him. As she places her hands on his, delicately so, making his breath catch inside his throat. His eyes strain on her face—she senses his perusal. But she looks at their twined hands as she indicates and shows him how to handle the terracotta.
"Romeo," she drones.
"Yes?"
"Focus."
The blush on his cheeks is evident as he looks down. For a few seconds, he focuses on their movements, listening to Isla as she explains how much pressure to apply in order to obtain a certain form.
He wants to make a mug. That's what he told her.
His hands are so large, so imposing underneath hers yet they look so enticing. She wonders if their hands would fit like puzzle pieces when intertwined, and she shakes her head at the intrusive thought.
"Wait," he says, lifting his foot from the pedal, the wheel stopping momentarily. "Come here."
"Where?"
"Here," he replies, spreading his legs apart, jerking his chin towards the space between the small table and his body.
Oh.
She doesn't have the time to react that he pulls her chair towards him, thoroughly ignoring her complaint as he stains the stool. She doesn't protest, though, only shifting in her seat to be comfortably sat.
Romeo's chest presses to her back, his legs on either side of her body. His large frame engulfs her small one—like he's embracing her, like he's protecting her. He certainly can feel how loud and hard her heart hammers, how nervous she is to be in his arms.
"Relax," he murmurs in her ear, his breath tickling the shell of it. "It's just me. I'm not going to hurt you. Ever."
"I know," she says. She is confident about that.
Putting her hands on the strangely-looking stack of clay on the wheel, she allows him to put his hands on hers. But he threads his fingers through her own, his cheek resting against her temple. His musky scent takes over her senses, and she doesn't know how she manages to properly breathe in this very instant.
"You're nervous," he notes quietly, pushing into the pedal. He lets Isla do the work, letting himself be guided despite having his hands on top.
"So are you," she retorts.
As a matter of fact, his own vital organ thumps so furiously that she thinks it is on the verge of exploding. She can feel every beat. Every thud against her back, matching the uneven pace of her heart.
"How could I not?" He breathes, his chest rising, his touch so deliberate and powerful on her trembling hands. It's torture to be in his arms. To be touched by him—but a kind of torment she enjoys. "I get fucking nervous just by looking at you."
Shaking her head, she smiles, glad that he isn't able to notice the heat creeping up her face. "You're such a flirt."
"Always with you."
He stops the turning wheel but doesn't retreat his hands. Doesn't move away.
Isla closes her eyes, breathes, merely tries to stop her body from continuously betraying her. She hates it—the way everything is so out of control around him. The way she should stay away but only feels more drawn towards him with every passing day.
"Isla," he murmurs, her name sounding like a soft tune even if it nearly echoes like a sin.
Her breath hitches inside her throat and she doesn't dare turn around. "What?"
His thumb brushes over her knuckles, the caress calculated and intentional as chills course on every inch of flesh possible. "What happens if you turn your head and our lips accidentally touch?"
"I don't know," she responds in a breath. She surprises the both of them as she utters, "why don't we find out?"
Time seems to slow down as she turns her head, her eyes already fluttering at the feeling of his warm breath fanning atop her cheekbone.
But they don't live in a fairytale—never will they. At this point, Isla wonders if she's fated to be his Juliet. Wonders if they, too, are destined to live a tragedy.
Because the door to the room bursts open, and a startled gasp echoes.
__________
well, this chapter was longer than intended.
but i hope you enjoyed it! so much more is planned for Isla and Romeo, and I can't wait to share their story with y'all.
Isla's story is one of my favourites—she's so resilient and strong, and i hope some of you will be able to see yourselves in her. i know i do.
thank you for reading Romeo! this is only the beginning.
kisses,
kay