Page 5 of Unleashed (Dark Sovereign #11)

EVERLY

“He has Luna?”

Anthony takes a container out of the fridge. “Yeah. There was visual confirmation that he took her with him when he left the island.”

“Thank God.” I almost sag into the counter with relief. I’d much prefer her being here with me, especially now, but at least I know he’ll take care of her.

I glance around the pristine kitchen. Sleek and unapologetically expensive—marble counters gleaming under soft recessed lights, matte black cabinetry standing bold against steel fixtures.

It’s the kind of place that screams power and control, curated with precision, yet somehow… inviting. A lot like Anthony himself.

He moves through it with methodical grace, heating food with a familiarity that tells me this is routine, but not intimate.

“You still can’t cook for shit, can you?” I throw it out there, desperate to cut through the tension.

He snorts, lips twitching. “Never claimed I could. That’s what chefs are for. My talents lie elsewhere.”

“Like buying penthouses with extravagant kitchens you don’t know how to use?”

There’s a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Among other things.”

“But your true genius,” I press further, managing a crooked smirk, “resides in hiring chefs to create culinary experiences only for them to be wasted on takeout and reheating.”

His laughter bounces off the high ceilings, a rich baritone that complements the opulence around us. “For your information, this is not takeout.”

I’m glancing over his shoulder to see what it is, the smell of rosemary and something richer, deeper, flooding the air.

“Braised short ribs,” he says, gesturing like a man presenting a gift. “Chef’s specialty. Even I can’t screw up reheating this.”

It smells like comfort. Like the kind of food meant to anchor you when the rest of the world feels like quicksand.

Our eyes meet, his brows furrowed. “Eat.” One word that carries more weight than any long-winded speech.

“Tell me your chef left some of the red wine for guests and didn't pour it all into the pot," I venture, indicating a crystal decanter positioned strategically on the counter.

"I always save a bottle or two," he assures, moving to retrieve a velvety red from the wine cooler, his limp more noticeable without the use of his cane. Guilt sinks deep, threatening to kill the hunger ignited by the food’s aroma.

He uncorks it with ease, all masterful control and understated elegance, filling two glasses and sliding one toward me.

Again, our gazes lock, and I’m overwhelmed with relief and familiarity.

My best friend. “I can’t put into words how happy I am you’re here, Anthony.

Losing you—or rather, thinking I lost you—it was the worst time in my life. ”

“And yet you moved on real fast by marrying the man who supposedly killed me.”

It guts me. The way he says it, like a fact. No venom, no fire. Just a flat, clinical dissection of what he sees as my betrayal. But sometimes that’s worse. Sometimes it’s the quiet hurt that cuts the deepest.

My fingers curl around the stem of the wine glass, pressing hard, like the fragile crystal can absorb the ache swelling in my chest. Shame burns hot under my skin…because he’s not wrong. Not entirely.

There’s no way for me to explain it, no way for me to make anyone understand.

Fuck. I hardly understand it. It’s like Isaia’s not an option.

He’s not a choice I weighed out, not a decision I made after pros and cons.

He’s a constant. A solid. An immovable fact in my life.

Loving him isn’t something I get to reconsider.

It just is. Like gravity. Like needing air to breathe.

Like my heart beating without permission.

He’s not someone I’m choosing. He’s someone I can’t not choose.

Anthony sighs, loud and deep, like his soul’s tethered to the sound. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did.” My eyes meet his. “And it’s okay.

You have every reason to feel that way. But I can sit here and try to convince you that it wasn’t easy moving on with him, but that wouldn’t be true.

Moving on with Isaia, falling deeper in love with him, marrying him…

right now, it feels like it was the easiest thing in the world to do.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you, that I didn’t grieve you, that I didn’t cry myself to sleep at night missing my best friend while guilt kept on bubbling up, reminding me of the part I played in it. ”

“Shit,” he mutters, pulling a palm through his hair before taking a large gulp of his wine. “Even when I want to be a dick, you make it really fucking hard, you know that?”

I snicker despite the burning tears.

There’s a wave of comfort that settles around me as he takes the seat next to mine. “I need to talk to him, Anthony.” The admission is soft, but it slices deep.

With a sigh, he replies, “I can’t put into words how much I don’t want you to.

” He doesn’t raise his voice, but I can hear it—the resentment and desperation buried beneath layers of forced indifference.

He leans back against the chair, then places a hand over mine.

“I don’t want you near him. I don’t want you to ever see him again.

If I could erase him from your life completely, by God, Everly, I would give up everything I have, everything I am to make that happen. ”

My heart aches. “Anthony—”

“Don’t you get it? You’re not safe with him.

He kept you on an island so I couldn’t get to you.

The extreme measures that man went to in order to hide you.

Everly, he killed dozens of my men. Good men.

Men who were merely following orders, doing what they had to do to find you because I told them to. ”

My chest tightens, an ache blooming sharp and deep, twisting through me like a blade.

Because I know what Isaia’s capable of. I know what he’s done, what he’s willing to do.

I don’t need Anthony to remind me. I’ve seen the darkness in Isaia’s eyes when he touches me, when he claims me, when he whispers how far he’ll go to keep me his.

And God help me… I still love him. With every shattered, bleeding piece of myself, I love the man who painted his devotion in blood.

I love the man who would tear the world apart before letting it take me from him.

How do I live with that? How do I carry the weight of a love so fierce, so dangerous, it burns through every rational bone in my body?

Isaia’s the hunger and the satisfaction, the threat and the sanctuary, and even knowing the lengths he’s gone to — the lives he’s crushed under his need for me — my heart still reaches for him, raw and desperate, like it’s never known anything else.

I breathe through the ache, taking a sip of my wine, letting it slide down my throat, burning a trail of warmth that does nothing to stifle the chill of my thoughts.

“I just…I need to talk to him,” I whisper again, staring deep into the rich liquid in my glass. “I need to know why he kept this secret.” This time, I glance at him, staring into his eyes. “I have to know why he told me you were dead.”

Anthony’s jaw works. “He’ll just lie to you again.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But he is my husband.” Anthony visibly stiffens. “I owe him the chance to explain.”

He takes a large gulp of his wine, lips curled in a half-smile that’s somewhere between bitter and resigned. “I wish you could realize that you, Everly Beaumont—”

“Del Rossa,” I correct him with a gentle tone, and he pinches his eyes closed like it causes him physical pain, and I hate it. I hate that I’m the cause of that.

“You are too fucking good for that man. He doesn’t deserve your love, your affection.”

“He deserves the chance to explain.”

His head snaps up. His eyes are dark, stormy. But beneath the simmering anger, there’s something else. Something protective. “You think I’m going to hand you over to him? After everything?”

“I’m not asking you to hand me over. I’m asking for a phone call.” I take a breath, gripping the edge of the counter. “He’s my husband. I deserve the truth. From him. Not through the lens of your hate.”

His lips curl, bitter. “You think this is about hate?”

“I think you’re scared.”

He flinches. Just a flicker. But I see it.

“Of course I’m scared. I almost lost you, Everly. To him. To this world. I’m still not sure I haven’t.”

The weight of his words presses down, suffocating. But I can’t let it bury what I know in my bones. “Anthony, please.”

His fists curl on the counter, jaw clenched so tight I hear the faint grind of his teeth. His chest rises in a slow, shaky breath, like he’s forcing himself not to explode, like every muscle in his body is coiled tight, ready to snap.

For a long, heavy moment, he just stares at the marble, refusing to look at me, as if keeping his eyes down can let him pretend none of this is happening.

His hand hovers at his pocket, fingers flexing, knuckles white, but he doesn’t move.

I see the fight in him — the desperate, silent plea. Don’t ask me to do this.

Then, finally, with a sharp exhale through his nose, like he’s surrendering to something that guts him, he slips his hand into his pocket.

His movements are stiff, reluctant, every inch of him radiating tension as he pulls out the phone, holding it between his fingers like it burns his skin.

His gaze flicks up, eyes tight and raw. “This is a mistake,” he mutters.

“Maybe. But it’s mine to make.”

With a bitter scoff, he unlocks the screen and swipes, his thumb scrolling through his contacts. I watch the frown deepen between his brows, watch his jaw flex tighter as his finger finally stops.

He turns the screen toward me, jaw ticking, and the contact name flashes up.

Isaia Del Fucking Psycho.

I arch a brow at him, not amused, and he simply shrugs.

My heart stumbles in my chest, an erratic, wild thud that almost chokes me as I reach out and take the phone from his hand. I wrap my hand around the device, feeling the smooth weight of it, the cold edges pressing into my palm, as if the moment itself is alive, trembling between past and future.

Anthony doesn’t move. He just leans back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s physically holding himself together, his jaw clenched so tight I swear I can hear the strain of it.

I pull the phone closer, the screen lighting up in my hand, Isaia’s ridiculous contact name burning into my eyes.

My thumb hovers over the call button, and I suck in a shaky breath, my throat tight, my pulse hammering in my ears. My stomach twists, a knot of longing and dread tangled so tight I can barely swallow past it.

God, Isaia.

I ache for his voice. For his presence, his touch, his heat.

I crave it like oxygen. Like my body remembers the way he feels before my mind can catch up, before the rational part of me can scream that I shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t need him.

But underneath the hunger, the desperate, helpless love, there’s fear.

Just as I’m about to hit call, Anthony grabs my hand. “What if he doesn’t have a good enough reason?” My heart plummets as his gaze focuses on mine. “Are you ready for that?”

“I dunno,” I reply truthfully. “I really don’t know.”

“Then wait.” He squeezes my hand. “Just…wait. A little longer.”

“For the truth?”

“I’m telling you the truth, but you’re too blinded by…your love for him,” he spits out the words like it’s fire in his throat, “and you’re desperate for him to have a reason that justifies everything he’s done.”

“Because my heart won’t survive otherwise.”

“Which is why you have to think with your head, and not your heart.” He presses his lips into a thin line as he searches my face like he’s trying to find remnants of the Everly before Isaia. “Deep down, you know as well as I do that there is no reason he can give you that’ll make it okay.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, and he encloses my hand, still clutching the phone with both of his.

“I’m asking you to wait just a little longer before making that call. You’ve hardly had any time to process all of this.”

He’s right. And it kills me because I want to hear his voice in my ear, telling me everything’s going to be okay.

I want to hear him say my name the way he does when he’s desperate—like it’s a fucking prayer.

I want to ask him why he lied and hear a good, plausible excuse that will make this all okay.

But Anthony’s hands are steady around mine. His warmth bleeds into my skin, rooting me. Grounding me.

“Just breathe,” he whispers. “You’ve been through hell.

He put you through hell. And if you call him now, Everly…

you’ll let him spin it. You’ll let his voice make it sound less cruel, less calculated, and I know you.

You’ll forgive him before you haven’t had a chance to figure out what that forgiveness will cost you. ”

Tears burn the corners of my eyes, my heart splitting open with the force of it. “I just… I need something to hold on to.”

“Then hold on to this.” His fingers close tighter around mine. “I came back for you. I never stopped trying to find you. Even when I thought you’d never forgive me. I never gave up.”

I meet his gaze, and for a second, it’s like we’re kids again. Just him and me. No mafia. No blood. No lies. Just two broken people trying to hold each other together.

“I’m not saying never,” he says quietly. “But not tonight. Not like this.”

I nod, slowly. Barely. And he gently pulls the phone away and slips it back into his pocket, letting go of my hand like he’s releasing something fragile. I don’t stop him.

I can’t.

Because he’s right.

Calling Isaia right now… I don’t trust myself not to fall apart the second I hear his voice. I’m not ready to decide if that kind of love is salvation… or self-destruction.

So, I sit back. Silent. Wrung out and aching.

And I don’t make the call.