Page 40 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Isobel

Strong, gentle arms lift me off the floor and cradle me against a warm, broad chest. I don’t think much of it since I’m still half asleep, too wrung out from the day to fully grasp what’s happening.

It’s not until I’m laid onto my bed ever so carefully that I force my lashes to flutter open, coming face to face with Marcello, who is now lying beside me.

Fear should strike me. Horror, even. I mean, this man somehow managed to sneak into my home and thought it was a good idea to tuck me into bed like I’m some kind of porcelain doll. But that’s not what I feel.

The moment I meet his calm, light-blue eyes, any instinct in me that screams out caution just quiets. As if his mere presence is a balm to my aching soul.

“Do you always break into women’s apartments in the middle of the night?” I ask softly, unable to tear myself from his gaze.

“This is the first time,” he whispers back, as if afraid talking any louder might scare me.

“I find that hard to believe. You’re too good at it.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but Marcello doesn’t laugh. In fact, his frown only deepens.

“Why didn’t you come to work today?”

“I wasn’t feeling well,” I answer as truthfully as possible.

“Are you sick?”

Am I sick? I must be. I must be sick if I can’t stop thinking about his mouth on mine.

I must be truly unwell to want nothing more than to feel his tongue tease me in the most glorious of ways, despite knowing whatever alter lives inside him could take over and ruin the moment for us with just a snap of a finger.

“Yes,” I answer him finally.

“You don’t look sick,” he murmurs, studying me, concern pulling his brows together.

“Sickness of the soul and mind hurts just as much as the body’s,” I confess, softly.

Somehow, he seems to understand what I mean by that.

As if what I just said made perfect sense to him.

And why wouldn’t it make sense to him? Marcello’s soul has probably been in agony for longer than anyone deserves.

But though he might be on a first-name basis with such suffering, I doubt he understands what I’m up against.

Marcello has no idea of the internal battle I’ve been fighting.

How could he? How could he possibly know that I spent most of the day trying to understand what is broken inside him, instead of continuing to build a case against him like I should?

That I didn’t leave my computer for more than five minutes, trying to learn what could cause his mood swings.

To see his facial features actually change before my very eyes.

I can still see it as clearly as I’m seeing him now. How his entire being shifted. And how hard he tried to fight against whatever was taking hold of him… and lost.

Marcello is damaged in more ways than one.

And yet something about him clings to me, like a song I can’t forget.

He’s scarred, and something about his scars calls out to mine.

I think they always did. From the moment I saw his picture the first day at the field office with Haynes, there was something in the pain hidden in his eyes that summoned my own.

Nightmares of the things I had done in the name of honor, duty, and country stared back at me, all that crippling misery reflecting in one solemn look.

That pull hasn’t left. It has only intensified.

“Izzie,” he calls out my name, suspending my thoughts. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Who says I’m not?”

“You don’t look it. Not right now, at least.”

“That’s because… you’re you. You’re not…” I stop myself before uttering another word, fearing it might trigger the evil inside him to break through.

“But last night… I did scare you, didn’t I?”

I nod in reply, my fingers aching to reach for him. To touch his cheek, run through his hair. His eyes stare at every inch of my face as if pained by my admission.

“Good,” he breathes, starting to pull away, forcing me to catch his hand so he doesn’t move.

“I’m not scared now. I’m not. And I really should be since you broke into my house and all,” I try to joke to light the tension building in the room.

“That just means you have terrible survival instincts.” He gives a faint smile.

My laugh comes out soft and small, but the way his eyes soften in response makes something inside me collapse. As if the remnants of whatever barrier I tried so hard to keep between us have fully crumbled at our feet.

“I don’t like you, and you don’t like me,” he reminds, as if the words cost him to say. “But what if, just for tonight… we’re not us? What if I’m not me, and you’re not you?”

“Are you asking what I would do if we were different people?” I echo, my gaze flicking to his lips, just as my heart leaps to my throat.

“Yes,” he breathes out, the word landing warmly against my skin.

“What would you want me to do?” I ask breathlessly, tossing the landmine question back to him.

He doesn’t answer. Just brushes his thumb across my bottom lip, and I swear I feel it in every corner of my body.

“Everything,” he rasps out, ensuring all logic or rational thought vanishes into thin air.

I dare to get closer to him, my heart beating a mile a minute.

When Marcello doesn’t so much as move an inch, I lay my hand on his cheek, his eyelids closing just to revel in this one small touch.

I lean in, unwilling to torture myself for another second, close my eyes, and kiss him.

Marcello hisses softly at the contact, his arm sliding around my waist, drawing me in.

The kiss is sweet at first, just two broken souls sharing a tender moment to overshadow a life filled with chaos and brutality.

However, when I trace the seam of Marcello’s lips with my tongue, asking silently for more, he doesn’t put up much of a fight.

His mouth opens for me, his tongue eagerly meeting mine, and suddenly the air between us is charged, dangerous, and alive.

“Marcello,” I whisper against his lips when the kiss becomes overwhelming, my entire body aching for his touch.

He groans, low and raw, lifting himself off the bed to slightly hover over me, so as not to crush me with his weight. I thread my fingers into his hair as he kisses me as if starved for it. For me. I feel him, hard against my stomach, and my toes curl from the heat rising between us.

As I start to lose myself, he pulls back, his face inches from mine, and asks, “What do you want, bella? What do you really want from me?”

My first thought should be that I want to take him down. Get the proof of his wrongdoings and lock him away.

However that thought never comes. Not when he’s looking at me like this—like I’m the only thing anchoring him to the present.

“I want you to finish what you started last night.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple working double time as his penetrating gaze pins me in place. “But I want you,” I add softly. “Only you. I need you here. With me. Can you do that?”

“I can try,” he says, admitting to his struggle.

Try… It’s the only answer he can honestly give.

I cup his cheek and let him feel the steadiness in my touch. “We’re not us. It’s not Marcello Romano or Isobel Graham tonight. It’s just… you and me. No one else.”

It shouldn’t make sense. But somehow, it does. To us, it makes all the sense in the world. Or maybe I’m just telling myself that because I can’t bear another second without his kiss, without feeling his body pressed against mine, and the escape from reality that his touch offers.

But when he still doesn’t move, hesitating on what he should do, I frown slightly and probe, “Marcello?”

“I…” He shakes his head, struggling. “I’ve… never done this before.”

It takes me a minute for the weight of his vulnerable truth to fully sink in.

“Never?” He shakes his head again.

If I had lowered the wall between us earlier to let him in, then this moment of vulnerability just handed Marcello the keys to my heart.

Something inside me breaks. Not for the man the world fears, but for this beautiful, broken man, no one ever cared enough to love. The soul that’s never known softness. Never let anyone close enough for such a thing to even be possible.

That grief… it crushes me.

Instead of pressing him or asking him to trust me, I offer encouragement instead.

“Just kiss me,” I whisper. “We’ll build from there. Just do what feels natural to you. What feels right.”

Marcello nods, as if grateful for me not making his admission harder. Grateful for not having laughed him out of my bedroom for never being with a woman before. As if I could ever.

If he’s never been with a woman, it’s because he was too scared that he might hurt her in some way. But I’m not scared. Marcello won’t hurt me. Last night was proof of that. He’ll leave me before he ever lets his alter get his hands on me.

“Just kiss me, Marcello,” I repeat on bated breath.

His crystal clear eyes soften as he leans in, brushing his lips over mine—tentative, gentle. He lets the kiss guide him, while I melt into it, not rushing the moment, letting myself feel it all.

This is new for me, too. I’ve never taken my time like this. My past hookups were all ten-minute scrambles with strangers I picked up on some dating app who I barely let kiss me on the mouth.

However, with Marcello… kissing him is half the fun. I like how he explores me with his lips. How his tongue moves, slow and searching, as if trying to uncover every secret I have buried. If I weren’t stronger, I’d probably confess every sin I’ve ever committed.

Still, this isn’t about confession. It’s about surrender. Intimacy. Something I’ve never really had a taste of until tonight.

As our kiss deepens, and my breath quickens with need, Marcello picks up on the desperation in every soft pant.

He then raises my knee, his hand gently gliding up my calf, approaching the tender skin of my inner thigh.

As he reaches the heat of me and grazes his knuckles across my center, I nearly combust.

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs, eyes now dark and heavy with want.