Page 31 of Unleashed (Dark Sovereign #11)

EVERLY

The second I step into the living room, I freeze.

Anthony’s standing by the door, cane braced against the floor, shoulders taut like he’s fighting to keep his balance.

Isaia’s on the far wall, arms crossed, jaw locked, glaring like he’s one breath away from lunging. The distance between them feels deliberate, as though the only thing keeping Isaia from burying Anthony six feet under is the width of the room.

My stomach twists. “What’s going on?”

Anthony’s gaze flicks to me, and I have to catch my breath.

He looks…wrecked. Tired. And his voice, when it comes, is low, rough, stripped down.

“I’ve made mistakes. Too many to count. And yesterday I realized that if the choice is between having you as a friend or not at all, I’d rather take the scraps than lose you forever. ”

My chest tightens. The sincerity cuts, but the pain in his eyes slices deeper.

“I know you love him.” His chin tips toward Isaia, as if it costs him blood to admit it. “I hate it. I’ll always hate it. But I can’t change it. So I’m bowing out. Accepting the loss. You love him. And no matter how much I wish otherwise, I can’t fight that anymore.”

Behind him, Isaia scoffs under his breath, the sound dark, violent. “You think saying that makes you noble?”

“You can hate me all you want, Del Rossa. But don’t act like you’re the only man in this room who will bleed for her.”

“I’ll act like the only man she belongs to, then. How’s that?”

“Would you two stop and tell me what the hell is happening?”

Anthony exhales, like he’s forcing steel into his voice. “What’s happening is that Isaia and I—” they glare at each other “—we’ve agreed that the only thing that matters to either of us is keeping you safe. You and your baby.”

The way his words crack on that last part hits me square in the chest.

“Anthony…” My voice trembles. I don’t even know what I’m about to say, whether it’s gratitude or fury or something else altogether.

“So, if that means laying down our swords—even just temporarily—that’s what we’ll do.”

My mouth opens…then closes. Then opens again, and the confusion just etches in deeper. “I have no idea what’s going on right now. Is the world glitching?”

“Funny,” Isaia quips, crossing his arms. “Mr. Perfect here agreed to accept his defeat and crown me king.”

“The only thing I’m crowning is my cane up your ass.”

Isaia shoots him that signature cocky grin, the one that drives women mad and men to madness. “That's the Anthony we all love and hate. Finally back in form.”

“Okay, stop.” My gaze sweeps between them. “Are you going to continue acting like children, or are you going to tell me what’s going on, because I’m pregnant, hungry, tired, with zero patience for whatever ego-fueled monologues you two have planned.”

Both men fall silent, looking at me, then at each other. It’s almost comic, this silent communication they have. Not something I thought I’d ever see.

Anthony shifts his weight, as if ready to tell me more. But Isaia pushes off the wall, voice cutting like a blade. “Okay, Romeo. I got this.”

Anthony’s jaw ticks, but he keeps his mouth shut.

Isaia crosses the room, every step radiating possession and authority. His hand brushes over my back when he reaches me, anchoring me to him, like he needs me to know where I belong. His eyes are black fire that hold mine. “We’re leaving. You and me. Tonight.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out of the States.”

“Out of the States?” I gape.

“I would take you to the fucking moon if I could, just to get you as far away from this mess as possible.”

Anthony steps closer, cane clicking against the hardwood. “I’m handling the logistics, so nothing traces back to the Del Rossas. If whoever’s behind these murders is watching, they won’t notice the two of you disappearing. Not when it’s my plane and my team handling it.”

The words hit like a thunderclap. My pulse spikes, uneven, my throat dry as I meet Isaia’s eyes. “I haven’t seen you in months. Don’t hear a single fucking word from you, then you appear in my bedroom in the middle of the night out of nowhere, touch me, kiss me, fu—”

Anthony clears his throat to cut me off.

Shit. “What I mean to say is, you disappeared, and the moment you step back into my life, you’re asking me to leave everything behind and flee with you off the continent?”

Isaia’s hand slides to the back of my neck, firm, grounding. “I’m asking you to trust me, one last time. Let me protect you the only way I know how.”

“We,” Anthony coughs, and Isaia obliterates him with a glare.

“I mean, he could’ve just kidnapped and dragged you onto a plane.” Anthony lifts a brow. “Again.”

“Right after I plant another bullet in your spine, fucking up the other leg.”

“Jesus, take the wheel,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “Okay, so let’s say we do leave. We’ll come back after you’ve caught whoever’s killing these women?”

The way they look at each other, like there’s a secret conversation going on only they can hear, has alarm bells going off everywhere.

“What?” I glance at both of them.

“Baby girl, we’re not coming back.”

I narrow my eyes at Isaia. “What are you saying?”

He takes my wrist and pulls me close, and I crane my neck to keep our gazes locked. “You and I, we’re not coming back.”

“That’s part of the agreement,” Anthony says firmly. “I help them, and he takes you away from all this, leaving everything behind.”

“I don't understand.”

Anthony walks up to me, slower than I’ve ever seen him move, and surprisingly, Isaia lets me go, stepping back, giving me space with my best friend.

“For as long as I’ve known you, you wanted nothing more than to escape this life that’s been forced on you since your mom married Michele. As Murphy would have it, you became best friends with someone tied to this life and fell in love with someone from a world you’ve always hated.”

My heart twists at the sincerity in his words, like he knows the price I’ve paid over and over again.

His hand lifts, hesitates midair like he has to fight through miles of memory just to reach me. When his palm finally cups my cheek, it’s warm, steady, but trembling at the edges, his thumb brushing beneath my eye, soft, affectionate, like he’s memorizing the shape of me in case it’s the last time.

“You need this, Everly. We both know it. You will never be happy, never find peace if you don’t escape it all. And if I can help make that happen, by God, I’ll do it. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do for you.”

The raw ache in his voice slices me open. “Anthony—”

“You deserve to be free of all this, Everly. You deserve to be happy…you and your baby.”

This time, Isaia’s the one clearing his throat, a warning, and Anthony removes his hand, stepping back.

The man I see now, and the man who kissed me in the hospital, are two vastly different people.

There’s a surrender I haven’t seen before, a resigned acceptance of something he can’t change.

Yet, beneath the weariness, there’s still that familiar ache, the trace of longing he can’t quite bury.

Anthony looks at Isaia, then back at me.

“I finally understand that what I want doesn’t matter.

What matters is what you want. What makes you happy and keeps you safe.

” His throat works, jaw locking as if he has to choke the words out.

“Even if that means I have to stand next to him instead of between you.”

“I…” My voice falters. There's a lump forming in my throat, a mixture of relief, sadness, and fear.

I swallow, my gaze shifting between the two men—my best friend and the love of my life. Mortal enemies standing on the same side of a line…for me.

Isaia watches me closely, his gaze dark and intense.

“You’re leaving your family behind,” I say to him, knowing how close they all are. “Your brothers. Leandra.”

“No.” He shakes his head then places a palm on my belly. “You are my family now. You are all that matters to me.”

The words detonate inside me, so raw and absolute that my knees nearly buckle.

Heat floods my chest, my throat tightening until I can barely breathe.

For Isaia—whose entire existence has revolved around blood ties, loyalty, the Del Rossa name—to say this, to cut himself off from everything he’s ever known…

for me. For us. It’s something I can’t put into words.

A thousand emotions crash through me. A love so sharp it hurts, fear of the risk he’s taking, disbelief that I’m worth it, and the unbearable weight of hope.

Isaia leans down, forehead brushing mine. “I’ll burn every bridge. Cut every tie. As long as I have you, Everly, I’ll never need anything else.”

There’s nothing I can say to that, nothing but, “Okay. I’ll go with you.”

Isaia’s eyes flicker with something. Relief, possibly, but it’s fiercer than that. Like a man starved, finally sinking his teeth into what he’s craved. His mouth crashes to mine before I can take another breath.

The kiss is brutal, desperate—his lips devouring mine like he’s trying to fuse us together, like he’ll never let me go again.

His hand fists in my hair, the other still braced against my belly, anchoring me, owning me, kissing me until my lungs burn, until my knees threaten to give out, until all I can taste is him.

I clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer, trying to match his hunger but losing myself instead. Losing all sense of where I end and he begins.

“I’m right here,” Anthony comments behind us.

Isaia breaks the kiss, his hand retaining its grip on my hair, his eyes still wearing that same fierce hunger that threatens to undo me.

Slowly, he twists to face Anthony, his gaze frosty. “How about that other leg, Paladino?”

“How about you kiss my ass?”

“Okay—” I slap my hands together, “when do we leave?”

Isaia doesn’t hesitate. “Now.”

“Wait. What? Now? I need to pack.”

“Not necessary. We’ve already got everything we need.”

Anthony glances at his wristwatch. “Plane’s set to leave in two hours.”

“No. Wait.” I palm my cheeks. “Shit. Two hours? I need to wake Molly.”

“Everly…”

“Isaia, I’m not leaving without saying goodbye to her.”

His jaw flexes, but he nods.

“Luna’s leash is in the bottom drawer in the kitchen. You get her, and I’ll go wake Molly.”

I head down the hall to her room, pushing the door open slowly, quietly. “Molly?”

There’s only silence.

I turn on the light, surprised to find her bed empty, the sheets untouched. Instantly, dread settles like concrete in my gut. It’s four a.m., and Molly’s never not slept at home. When she’s hooking up with a guy, she brings him here—says other people’s beds give her the ick.

“Molly?” I call her name again, louder this time. There's a hollow echo to it that tumbles around the room and stirs up unease. I check her bathroom, but there’s no sign of her. So, I rush out to the living room. “Molly’s not here.”

Anthony shrugs, too casual. “Maybe she’s at a friend’s house.”

“No.” My chest squeezes tight, panic scraping the inside of my ribs. “Molly always comes home.”

Isaia steps out of my bedroom, Luna’s leash in his hand. His gaze flicks from me to Anthony, then sharpens. “What’s going on?”

“Molly,” I breathe, barely keeping my voice steady. “She’s not here.”

“Fuck.” The word rips out of him, guttural, immediate.

“Wait.” Anthony holds up a hand. “Why are you panicking?”

Isaia’s already moving, long strides cutting through the hallway toward Molly’s room. “Because Molly never sleeps out.”

“How the fuck would you know that?”

I turn my head, eyes narrowing on him. “How would you know that?”

Isaia doesn’t answer—doesn’t need to. He gives me that look, sharp and unflinching. The one that says you already know.

“Right. The father of my child is a control-freak-slash-stalker.”

He storms into Molly’s room without responding, his presence filling the space like a storm breaking. His gaze sweeps across every corner, every detail, assessing, searching, calculating. Then it stops and fixes on something that makes his whole body tense.

A Bible. Sitting neatly on the pillow.

“That’s odd,” I whisper, moving to his side. “I didn’t even know she owned a Bible.”

Isaia’s arm shoots out across me, pushing me gently but firmly back.

His eyes never leave the object. He approaches it slowly, deliberately, like it could explode if handled wrong.

His fingers close around the leather binding, and he opens it.

A single page marked. The paper glows with yellow highlighter.

He reads aloud, voice low, almost reverent—almost afraid. “O Lord, God of vengeance, O God of vengeance, shine forth! Rise up, O judge of the earth; repay to the proud what they deserve.” His jaw tightens. “Psalm ninety-four.”

The verse hangs in the air like smoke, choking, suffocating. My skin prickles, every hair on my body standing on end.

“Isaia, what’s going on?” My throat burns with terror, but he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even blink. Slowly, carefully, he peels back the pillow.

And I see it. “Oh my God.”

A cross. Small, wooden. Soaked in thick, smeared red.

Anthony edges closer, his cane thudding against the floor. His voice drops into something that sounds foreign, tight, strained. “Is that a cross?”

Isaia doesn’t touch it with bare skin. He rips the sheet from the bed, wraps it around the wood, and lifts it. The fabric darkens immediately where it soaks through.

My stomach lurches, bile burning my throat. “Is that…blood?”

Isaia swears, low and guttural, like the sound of something breaking inside him. His eyes scan the jagged strokes carved across the wood. “Punishment owed to…” He stops short. His silence is worse than the words.

“Isaia.” My voice cracks. “What is it? What does it say?”

He looks at me then, just for a heartbeat, and the fear in his face is something I’ve never seen before. It guts me. It tells me more than any explanation could. Then his gaze shifts past me, locking on Anthony, dark and hollow.

“I was right,” he mutters, voice barely audible, a death sentence whispered into the room. “It’s a sentence.”

Anthony’s knuckles whiten on his cane. “What’s the fucking sentence?”

He tilts the cross forward, and the words come into view, slashed across the wood in thick red paint that drips like it might still be wet are the words ‘the Troublemaker.’

Isaia exhales slowly, grim. “Punishment owed to…the Troublemaker.”

My blood freezes in my veins. The room tilts, sound rushing out until all I hear is my own pulse crashing in my ears. My lips move, my voice breaking on a single word that tastes like death. “Molly.”