The encounter at the café should have been nothing. A fleeting moment, an unfortunate coincidence.
But Isabella knew better.
Ethan Lancaster didn't believe in coincidences.
And now, as she stood in front of her apartment door, key poised in the lock, she couldn't shake the lingering sensation of his presence. Like a shadow, always there, just out of reach but impossible to ignore.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. Stop it. He's not here.
With a deep breath, she pushed open the door, stepping into the safety of her home.
Or so she thought.
The moment she flicked on the light, her body froze.
Sitting on her couch, legs crossed, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, was Ethan.
Waiting.
Like he belonged there.
Her breath caught in her throat. "What the hell are you doing here?"
He didn't move, his expression unreadable. "You left in a hurry."
Her fingers tightened around her purse. "So you broke into my apartment?"
His lips curved, but there was no humor in it. "You really think a locked door could keep me out?"
A chill ran down her spine.
She should have screamed. Called the police. Done something.
But she didn't.
Because this was Ethan.
And part of her knew that no matter what she did, he would always find his way back to her.
Always.
She forced herself to stand tall. "Get out."
He finally moved, unfolding his frame as he rose from the couch with a slow, deliberate grace.
But instead of leaving, he took a step toward her.
She instinctively stepped back, her spine hitting the door.
His gaze dropped, tracking the movement, then lifted to meet hers again. "You're running from me, Isabella."
She swallowed hard. "I have every reason to."
He exhaled, tilting his head as if he were studying her. "You know," he murmured, "I've been patient."
She scoffed. "This is patience?"
"More than you realize." His voice was soft, almost gentle, but the weight of it pressed against her like an invisible force.
Then, before she could react, he reached out.
Not to hurt her.
Not to pull her close.
But to touch her neck.
His fingers barely grazed her skin, brushing against the faint, almost invisible bruise near her collarbone. A mark from the night before—one she had forgotten about.
But he hadn't.
His thumb pressed lightly over it, his gaze darkening.
She shuddered. Not from fear.
But from something far more dangerous.
"Who?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.
Her breath hitched. "What?"
His eyes lifted, locking onto hers. "Who touched you?"
The possessiveness in his voice sent a tremor through her.
"No one," she whispered.
He didn't believe her.
His jaw clenched, his fingers tracing over the mark again, as if he could erase it. As if the very thought of another man leaving a trace on her was unacceptable.
His.
The word wasn't spoken, but it echoed between them.
Ethan Lancaster was claiming her in a way that wasn't just physical. It was deeper than that.
Darker.
She placed her hand over his, trying to push him away. "It's nothing."
But he didn't move.
Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "You belong to me, Isabella."
Her body betrayed her, a shiver running down her spine.
She should have pushed him away. Fought harder.
But when he finally stepped back, leaving only the ghost of his touch behind, all she could do was watch as he walked past her, his presence lingering even after he was gone.
And in that moment, she knew—
She was already marked as his.