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The Note
The first note wasn’t a big deal.
At least, that’s what Isabelle told herself when she found the crisp ivory envelope nestled beneath her tea cup at the front desk of the vet's office. It was early—Deaton wasn’t in yet, and neither was anyone else. The blinds were still partially closed against the morning sun, the clinic quiet and dust-speckled in golden light. She had just unlocked the front door and turned on the lights.
And there it was. Unmarked envelope. Her name handwritten in neat, slanted script.
She glanced around, the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickling, then opened it.
You shine even brighter than the morning sun.
I hope today brings you the joy you bring others just by being you.
No name. No signature. No trace of who had slipped it there.
Isabelle’s first instinct was to scan for camera tricks or some teenage prank—Beacon Hills was still Beacon Hills, after all. But there were no whoopee cushions or glitter bombs. Just… genuine sentiment.
She slipped the note into her pocket, not ready to toss it. Not yet.
By the end of the day, she had convinced herself it was probably someone from the pack playing a weird joke. Lydia, maybe, trying to tease her. But when she mentioned it to Peter that evening, sitting curled on the Hale house porch in one of the Adirondack chairs, sipping chamomile tea, she kept her voice casual.
“I got a note today. Sweet one. No name on it.”
Peter’s eyes flicked to her, then returned to the view of the woods. “Note?”
“Yeah. Said something about me shining brighter than the sun. It was kind of poetic, actually.” She laughed, but it was light—noncommittal. “Probably a wrong delivery or a bored romantic in town.”
Peter didn’t smile.
“You’re not worried, are you?” she asked.
“Should I be?”
Isabelle leaned against the arm of her chair, watching him. “It wasn’t creepy. Just… kind.”
Peter turned toward her fully now, his expression unreadable. “Kindness without a face often hides a motive.”
She rolled her eyes, even as a flutter of warmth bloomed in her chest. “You sound like a noir villain.”
“I’m just saying, little beta, you belong to me.” He leaned in, brushing her collarbone with his knuckle. “Anyone else trying to lay claim is wasting their time.”
Her smile faltered only slightly. Because something about the note had stayed with her.
And she liked it. Just a little.
Flowers and Friction
The flowers arrived three days later.
Isabelle was shelving books at the store downtown when a delivery guy entered, holding a small but elegant arrangement of pale pink peonies and lavender, tied with black ribbon. It was chic and understated—nothing like the loud roses usually sent.
“For Isabelle Stilinski,” the man said, glancing at the tag.
She blinked. “Are you sure?”
He pointed to the handwritten card tied to the ribbon. “Says right there. No sender. Just... this.”
Every wildflower grows where it dares, and you—
You thrive. Even through ash and storm.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she read it again. A pulse beat behind her eyes.
Whoever it was, they knew her. That line—it wasn’t just poetic. It was personal. And it made her skin tingle in a way she didn’t know how to explain.
Later, when she got home, the bouquet in hand, Peter stood in the kitchen, slicing an apple with exact precision.
“You got flowers,” he said.
She froze.
He didn’t look up.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “They were at the shop.”
“Same person as the note?”
“I guess. I don’t know.”
Peter finally looked up, eyes glinting cold and sharp. “You kept the note.”
She felt her cheeks heat. “It’s not—Peter, it’s not like that. I told you about it, didn’t I? And I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“But you like it.” His voice was cool. Measured.
She hesitated. “I like that someone sees me.”
Wrong words. She saw it immediately in the tick of his jaw.
“I see you.”
“I know.” She stepped forward. “Peter, it’s not replacing anything. I love you. You know that.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
So she leaned in, slipped her arms around his waist, pressed her cheek to his chest. “I thought it was maybe Lydia, pulling some weird flirt-hack thing to get me to journal more. Or maybe Melissa. Trying to be sweet. But this? The flowers? It’s… it’s someone who’s paying attention.”
“To my wife,” Peter said, finally wrapping an arm around her. Possessive. Tight. “They’re either brave or stupid.”
“I’m not flattered by the person. I’m flattered by the gesture,” she whispered. Then, teasing, “You could stand to woo me a little more sometimes.”
Peter pulled back enough to smirk. “You want wooing?”
She wiggled her brows. “You used to be charming.”
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “I don’t need charm. I have you.”
The Puzzle Deepens
By the time the third note arrived—a pressed piece of white heather folded in with it—Isabelle had stopped pretending to be annoyed.
She still told Peter. But she didn’t hide the way her fingers caressed the note’s edges, or the way her lips tilted into a smile when she read it aloud.
Some fires don’t burn—they illuminate.
Your scars only make you more radiant.
She’d laughed nervously. “This guy’s poetic.”
Peter had not laughed. “This guy’s suicidal.”
Isabelle shot him a look. “Don’t kill anyone.”
He only kissed her temple. “Not unless they try to touch what’s mine.”
The thing was—she didn’t want anyone else.
Peter was her gravity. Her moon and her storm. But the attention from someone unknown, someone who saw her and carved beauty into paper just for her? It stirred something soft inside her. Something she hadn’t known she’d missed.
She wasn’t going to cheat. She wasn’t even tempted.
But she had started wearing lipstick again. Just a soft red stain, like a secret smile.
And Peter had noticed.
The Voice of a Storm
The next gift came in a sleek, dark box tied with a crimson ribbon.
It was waiting for her on the front porch.
Peter had already gone out for the day, a morning meeting with Chris Argent that involved something vaguely described as “pack security infrastructure.”
But when Isabelle stepped out to get the mail and saw the box, she froze.
There was a white envelope again—no return address, no name. Just her name written in that same careful, slanted script.
She knelt, lifting it into her hands like it might vanish.
Inside the box was a bottle of perfume. Heavy glass. Elegant. Expensive. The note tucked inside was shorter this time, but it struck a chord so deep she sat down right there on the step.
For the way the air changes when you enter a room.
For the way you carry the thunder in your voice and the quiet of the storm in your heart.
She blinked fast.
Peter was intense. Brutal with his affection. Dominant in ways that overwhelmed sometimes—but she loved him for it. Still, he wasn’t exactly the type to whisper poetry into her hair or send gifts “just because.” His love was felt through control. Possession. Fierce protection. The idea of someone seeing her like this—ethereal, complex, like a storm made flesh—it did things to her chest she didn’t have words for.
She didn’t even open the perfume.
She just set it aside and sat there, letting the breeze roll through her hair as she stared out over the lawn. She felt... seen. And guilty for liking it.
When Peter returned that afternoon, his face was sharp with something she couldn’t place. It wasn’t anger—not quite. But it was edged. Alert.
“You okay?” he asked, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door.
Isabelle hesitated. Then nodded. “Another one.”
Peter’s eyes darkened. “Where?”
“Front porch. While you were gone.”
He was silent.
She crossed her arms. “Do you think it’s someone watching us? Like, actually watching us? Because this isn’t just about flattery anymore. Someone’s getting close.”
“Maybe,” Peter said, voice cool. “Or maybe they’re already close.”
Isabelle blinked. “What does that mean?”
But Peter didn’t answer right away. He just stalked over to the box, picked up the perfume, examined it like he expected it to be laced with wolfsbane. Then he uncapped it and sniffed.
His jaw ticked.
“What?”
“It’s a specific blend,” he muttered. “Custom. Not something you pick up at Target. This is perfumer-grade. Whoever it is either knows your scent profile—or paid someone to study it.”
She paled.
Peter met her eyes. “You still think this is innocent?”
“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t.”
Suspicions and Subtext
“You’re acting weird,” Lydia said bluntly as she poured cream into her coffee. “Like… ‘Isabelle has a dirty secret’ weird.”
Isabelle scowled and glanced around the café. “Would you not say that so loud?”
Lydia smirked and sipped her cup. “Oh good. So it is a secret.”
“It’s not a secret. It’s... complicated.”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “Are you cheating on Peter?”
“What? No!” Isabelle leaned in. “Lydia, come on. Never. It’s just… someone’s been sending me things. Anonymous notes. Gifts. It started at work, but now they’re showing up at home.”
Lydia’s face went through a full reel of expressions—shock, amusement, then finally suspicion. “And Peter hasn’t gone on a killing spree?”
“Not yet.”
“Then either he’s mellowed a lot, or he knows something you don’t.”
Isabelle tilted her head. “What are you saying?”
Lydia shrugged casually. “You and Peter are twistedly perfect for each other. But even twisted soulmates have to keep the magic alive. Maybe your secret admirer isn’t so... secret.”
Isabelle frowned. “If you’re implying Peter is doing this—”
“Why not?” Lydia leaned forward. “You said the notes are poetic. Deep. That screams Peter when he’s in one of his moods. And you’re his. This sounds like some weird Peter Hale courtship behavior.”
Isabelle opened her mouth, then closed it. The idea was absurd. And yet... the way he’d reacted wasn’t normal jealousy. It was sharper, knowing.
Could it be?
No. No way.
Peter wasn’t the secret-admirer type. He was the pin-you-to-the-wall-and-growl-his-claim sort. Not some anonymous poet leaving flower arrangements and perfume.
Was he?
The Turning Point
The sixth note was the first one Isabelle didn’t show Peter.
It wasn’t because she was keeping secrets—at least, that’s what she told herself.
It was because the note was personal. Devastatingly so.
I watched you fall apart that night in the clearing.
And I’ve never wanted to hold someone more.
You rose from fire and ruin, and you’ve never looked more like a goddess.
Her breath caught when she read it. That wasn’t public knowledge. Barely anyone knew what happened in the clearing after her near-death all those years ago. How she’d stumbled through recovery. How she screamed in her sleep and tried to bite her own hands to stop the shaking.
Only some of the inner circle knew.
She clutched the note in her hand, knuckles going white.
It wasn’t a stranger.
It was someone who knew her. Intimately.
And her heart started racing not from panic… but something terrifyingly like thrill.
Was it Peter?
Could it really be?
Or was someone else watching her that closely?
Red Flags and Misdirection
The next gift showed up at the vet’s office again. Delivered by hand. Not through a courier this time.
A hand-carved wooden wolf, no larger than her palm. The detail was immaculate—fur etched in delicate strokes, eyes alert, mid-snarl. It sat on her desk when she came back from lunch, perfectly still, perfectly ominous.
No note.
Her mind reeled. Too many thoughts at once. Was it a message from someone about Peter? A threat? A joke? A warning? A gesture?
It unsettled her more than the poetry ever had.
By the time she got home, her skin was buzzing with unspent energy. Peter was in the kitchen again, shirtless, hands deep in some prep work for dinner. His back flexed as he chopped. Controlled. Dangerous. Beautiful.
And vibrating with tension.
She tossed her bag on the table harder than she meant to. “You’re mad.”
Peter didn’t turn. “I’m always mad.”
“Mad at me.”
He stopped chopping. The sound of the knife halted mid-rhythm.
“You haven’t shown me the last two notes,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “You think I wouldn’t notice?”
Isabelle blinked. “How do you know I got more?”
“Because you’re walking around like you’ve been kissed by a ghost,” he growled. “And every time I get close to you, you smell like longing.”
Her breath hitched. “Peter…”
He turned, stalking toward her, predatory. The knife still in his hand.
“You said you liked being seen.” His voice was dark velvet. “So who is it that’s seeing you now, Isabelle? Hm? Who’s watching you close enough to know you?”
She swallowed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.”
“Trying. But not asking. Not confronting. Just letting the fantasy bloom.”
She stared at him. “Why are you so angry?”
“Because someone is trying to steal my wife.”
Isabelle stepped back, heart hammering. “You think this is about stealing me? Peter, this isn’t about ownership!”
He surged forward, pinning her against the wall with a hand beside her head, the blade discarded on the counter. “Everything is about ownership when it comes to you. You’re mine.”
Her chin trembled—not in fear. In rage. “Then why don’t you act like it?!”
His nostrils flared. “Excuse me?”
“You act like I’m the problem. Like I’m enjoying this because I want someone else. I’ve done nothing but be honest with you.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve told you about every note, every gift, every—”
“Until you didn’t.”
And there it was. The line between possession and doubt. The place where jealousy sours the air.
“Fine,” she snapped. “You want honesty? I thought maybe it was someone close. Someone who’s not you. Because you’ve been so busy being angry that you’ve forgotten how to love me lately.”
Peter flinched like she’d slapped him.
“And if I was curious,” she whispered, “it’s only because you’ve been so cold. So goddamn distant.”
He stared at her, stunned.
So she pushed past him and stormed upstairs, chest heaving, eyes stinging. She needed space. She needed to think.
A Silver Possibility
It was Lydia who said the name first.
They were walking through the park the next day, both pretending it was casual, though Isabelle’s thoughts were anything but.
“You really think it’s not Peter?” Lydia asked.
Isabelle sighed. “Not after yesterday. He’s too angry. Too off-balance. Whoever’s doing this is... careful. Thoughtful. Intimate in a way that Peter’s not built for. He’s blood and steel. This admirer is poetry and shadow.”
Lydia nodded slowly. “Okay, so... who does that leave?”
Isabelle looked down at her phone, thumbing through the photo she’d taken of the carved wolf. “Someone who knows me. Knows about the clearing. Knows what I’ve been through. Could be someone in the pack.”
Lydia raised a brow. “Derek?”
Isabelle laughed. “Not his style. Too... emotionally constipated. Besides, he's too into Stiles, even if he won't admit it.”
“Stiles?”
“No,” Isabelle said immediately. “He's my twin! Some of these are way too intimate. Besides, he can’t keep a secret longer than two hours.”
Lydia considered. “Okay. So who’s emotionally competent, knows your history, and has reason to be... quiet about feelings?”
The answer hit her like cold water.
Chris.
Chris Argent.
He’d always been respectful. Steady. Occasionally too close, but never threatening. And they had history—brief, but meaningful. He’d seen her cry. Sat beside her when she couldn’t speak.
Could it be?
She hated herself for the rush in her chest at the thought. He was a good man. Safe. Stable. Nothing like Peter, who was all sharp edges and obsessions.
But something didn’t add up.
Still, that night she couldn’t sleep.
So she texted Chris.
Can we talk? Privately? Tomorrow?
The Elimination Game
Chris met her at the Argent warehouse, the usual scent of silver, oil, and old wood clinging to the air.
“Isabelle,” he greeted her warmly, leaning against the railing of the upstairs office. He wore a blue button-up and his usual calm. “You okay? Your text sounded serious.”
Isabelle nodded, suddenly unsure of herself. “Yeah. Just… wanted to ask you something. And I need you to be honest.”
His brows lifted. “Alright.”
She crossed her arms. “Have you been sending me notes? Gifts? Anonymous ones?”
Chris blinked once. Then again.
“No,” he said slowly, clearly surprised. “Why would I—?”
“I don’t mean to be weird about it. It’s just—whoever’s doing it knows things. Personal things. And I thought… maybe it was someone who cared.”
Chris smiled, a gentle thing. Not pitying—understanding.
“We’re friends, Isabelle. And that’s all we’ve ever really been.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“I don’t go after married women,” Chris added with a wink. “Even if they’re stunningly out of their husband’s league.”
She laughed, soft and relieved. “You’re impossible.”
“But flattered,” he said. “In a completely innocent way.”
She nodded, stepping forward to hug him. “Thank you. For not making this weird.”
Chris’s arms wrapped around her briefly. “Be careful, okay? Whoever’s doing this clearly knows your boundaries. But boundaries can shift.”
“I will,” she promised.
But her mind was already racing again. If not Chris… who?
Possession in the Kitchen
When she got home that evening, Peter was already there.
He was at the stove, slow-stirring some thick sauce, sleeves rolled up, forearms slicked with oil and heat. He glanced at her once as she came in. Just once.
Then he returned to the pan.
“You smell like Argent,” he said flatly.
Isabelle dropped her keys on the counter. “Asked him if he was the one sending everything.”
Peter’s shoulders stiffened, barely. “And?”
“It’s not him.”
Peter didn’t respond. He just reached for the salt and poured it in one precise stream, the muscles in his arm tight and slow.
Isabelle crossed her arms. “You’re doing it again.”
He said nothing.
“You act like I’m running off with someone when I’m just trying to figure out who thinks they know me so well.”
Peter turned toward her finally, eyes blue and burning. “You keep smiling when you talk about them.”
The accusation wasn’t shouted. It was whispered. Dangerous.
“Peter—”
“You smile,” he continued, stepping closer, “like it makes you feel good to be wanted by someone else. Like it excites you.”
“It doesn’t excite me,” she snapped. “It confuses me.”
“Bullshit.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you want from me? You want me to cry over it instead? Be terrified? Run to you with my tail between my legs?”
“I want you to remember who you belong to,” he growled.
“I know who I belong to,” she shot back. “I just wish I knew why he’s suddenly so unsure of me.”
Peter’s jaw twitched. His eyes dropped for a half-second. “I’m not unsure of you.”
“It’s how you're acting.”
She left him standing there, sauce forgotten, fists clenched.
The Quote
She didn’t expect the next one.
It came to the vet’s office again. Her name, handwritten, no return address. But this time the envelope was thicker. Weightier.
Inside was a slim velvet box and a note card. The card was thick cream parchment, expensive to the touch, hand-torn edges.
The words, written in dark ink, made her breath catch.
“Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.”
Her mantra.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
No one outside the pack knew she used to write that on everything. That she whispered it during panic attacks. That she carved it into her damn high school locker door overseas.
Only Peter ever called her—
She opened the box.
Inside was a necklace. Simple but stunning. A delicate chain of white gold, the charm a small circular pendant engraved with one word in swirling script:
Belleza.
Her knees went weak.
Peter was the only person who called her that. Ever. He first said it when he'd finally given into his feelings. He’d said it when she was bleeding and broken and furious, lying on the cold ground after an argument. He’d cupped her jaw and growled it like a prayer.
“Mi Belleza.” My beauty. My chaos. Mine.
She closed the box fast and pressed it to her chest, heart pounding like a drumline.
It was Peter.
It had to be.
But why the act?
Why the deception?
Why the game?
Unmasked
The necklace felt heavy around her neck, like a truth she couldn’t keep hidden anymore.
The card, tucked in her bag, burned hotter than a match.
She barely said goodbye to Scott as she turned to leave.
“I have to go,” she said sharply.
Scott blinked from behind the front counter. “Okay… it’s almost closing anyway. Place is dead.”
She didn’t even nod.
The drive home blurred past her windows. Her fingers clutched the steering wheel so tightly that the leather creaked beneath her grip. Her pulse beat like thunder in her ears—fast, insistent, angry.
When she pushed the front door open, the house was quiet except for the soft crackle of ice in a glass and the faint hum of classical music from the sound system.
Peter was in his recliner.
Relaxed.
A crystal glass of whiskey in one hand, a book closed on the end table beside him. His legs crossed, shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest indifference. He looked up at her, unreadable.
His lips curled slowly. Lazily.
Sadistically.
Isabelle didn’t wait.
She tossed her bag to the side, pulled out the card, and held it up like evidence in a courtroom.
Her voice shook. “You.”
Peter didn’t flinch. He simply set the glass down on the armrest and leaned back, amused.
“Me,” he confirmed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Isabelle’s hands trembled as she lowered the card. “It was you. It’s been you the entire time.”
Peter nodded. “Yes.”
She stared at him. At her husband. Her Alpha. The man who had practically torn the world in half for her… and still, this?
“Why?” she breathed. “Why would you do that to me?”
Peter looked at her, that smug façade flickering for just a second. In its place was something raw. A shadow of vulnerability that tried not to exist.
“I wanted you to fall in love with me again.”
Isabelle blinked. “What?”
“I saw how you reacted to the first note. The way you smiled.” He stood now, slow and graceful, like a wolf circling its prey. “I sent it on a whim. Fully intending to tell you. But then… then I saw it. That spark. That little flicker in your eye that I hadn’t seen in months.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened. “I do love you. I always have loved you. What the hell are you talking about?”
Peter stopped in front of her. He didn’t touch her. Just stood there, radiating heat and tension.
“I know you love me,” he said, voice soft but biting. “But love isn’t always loud. It isn’t always obvious. It becomes habit. Familiar. Expected. You stopped smiling like you used to. You stopped looking at me the way you did when this was still dangerous. When it was new.”
Isabelle’s voice cracked. “So instead of talking to me, you played a game? You lied?”
“I watched you come alive,” Peter said, eyes gleaming. “Each time you found a gift. Each time you read a note. You glowed. And then I made myself jealous. I pretended I didn’t know—because the idea that someone else might see what’s mine?” He stepped closer. “It lit something up in me too.”
She blinked, utterly stunned. “So you pretended to get jealous… of yourself?”
Peter smirked. “It was quite the performance, wasn’t it?”
“Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?” Her voice shook between fury and disbelief. “You gaslit me for weeks. You made me question everyone. I even thought it might be Chris.”
Peter chuckled. “Chris wouldn’t know poetry if it bit him in the ass.”
“I was scared,” she snapped. “I didn’t know if it was a stalker or someone trying to get in my head—”
“But it wasn’t,” Peter said coolly. “It was me. The man who has always protected you. Worshipped you. Loved you more obsessively than is probably healthy.”
“And you thought this—” she gestured between them, “was the way to prove it?”
“I didn’t want to prove it,” Peter said simply. “I wanted you to feel it.”
Isabelle stared at him. For the first time, she didn’t have a comeback.
Not because she forgave him. Not because she understood.
But because part of her—the dangerous, foolish, feral part—did feel it.
And that scared her more than anything.
The necklace around her throat burned.
She reached up and touched the charm. “Belleza,” she murmured. “That’s what gave you away.”
Peter’s eyes darkened.
“I should’ve stopped,” he admitted. “But by then, I liked watching you guess.”
“And what happens now?” she asked quietly.
Peter stepped close enough that his breath ghosted over her cheek. “Now? That depends on whether my Belleza wants to push her Alpha.”
Her breath caught.
The air thickened like honey.
Their bond—simmering, snarling, seductive—pulsed between them.
Claim and Chaos
The red-gold burn in Isabelle’s eyes lit the room like a wildfire.
Peter didn’t move. He didn’t dare.
She was trembling—not with fear. With something older. Wilder. Her wolf and her woman aligned, both furious and wanting.
Peter stood there in front of the bookshelf, still half smug, but with the tiniest sliver of uncertainty dancing across his features.
Then she growled.
And the sound ripped through the room like thunder.
In a blur, Isabelle grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him back into the bookshelf. The wood rattled, a book toppled to the floor, but Peter didn’t fight it. His spine hit the shelves with a satisfying thunk, and his eyes widened for half a heartbeat.
Was she going to claw his face?
Rip his throat?
Leave him bleeding and satisfied?
No.
She kissed him.
Hard.
Her lips crashed against his like a storm slamming into the coast, her teeth scraping, tongue fierce, and body pressed so close he could feel her heartbeat hammering against his chest.
One of her hands clenched his shirt so tightly that a button popped and skittered across the floor, lost and forgotten.
Peter’s hands rose slowly, gripping her hips like he was grounding himself—like she was the only thing anchoring him to this plane.
And then she broke the kiss, panting, lips swollen, eyes still burning.
She licked his jaw.
A slow, lazy drag of her tongue over the stubble and skin just beneath his cheekbone.
“You are a bastard,” she hissed, voice wrecked and triumphant. “You know that, right?”
Peter’s grin unfurled like sin.
Dominant. Dangerous. Possessive.
And utterly, stupidly, beautifully hers.
“But I’m your bastard,” he said, voice dropping into a growl of his own, “little beta.”
Her body reacted instantly to the nickname, knees almost buckling, her grip tightening instead.
The smirk in his eyes told her he noticed. Of course he noticed.
He leaned in, nose brushing against hers, voice so soft it felt like a caress.
“You liked the chase.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I don’t need to,” he murmured. “I watched your pupils dilate with every gift. Every note. You were wet before you even opened the necklace box, weren’t you?”
She shoved him again—just to wipe the smirk off his face—but it didn’t work.
He grinned.
Because she was still pressed against him.
Because her hands still hadn’t let go.
Because her wolf was thrumming beneath her skin, echoing his.
Peter cupped her face, his thumbs brushing along her jaw. “I didn’t do it to manipulate you,” he whispered. “I did it to remind you. Of who we are. Of what this is.”
She blinked slowly. “You thought I forgot?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I forgot how good it felt… when you fight for me like this.”
She kissed him again.
Slower this time.
Still fierce, but laced with something deeper. Something ancient. Their bond, their fire, their claim.
When she pulled back again, she rested her forehead against his.
“I should make you sleep on the couch,” she muttered.
Peter’s grin turned wolfish. “You could.”
“But I won’t,” she whispered. “Because I want to ruin you in our bed.”
Peter growled low and sharp. “There’s my Belleza.”
The Reward
Isabelle didn’t wait.
She launched herself into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist, arms tangled behind his neck, her mouth trailing kisses over his cheekbones, his jaw, his nose, his forehead, like she was trying to mark every inch of him with affection and fire.
Peter stumbled back with a surprised laugh, bracing one arm under her ass while the other slammed against the doorframe to catch his balance.
He grinned like the devil himself, blue eyes sparking with amusement and heat. “Is my little submissive trying to top?”
Isabelle didn’t hesitate. “I think I deserve it.”
Her voice was honeyed defiance, golden and sinful. Her smile was pure trouble, and Peter loved it.
He tilted his head, eyes raking over her flushed cheeks and kiss-bruised lips. “This is what I get for being a secret admirer?”
She nodded as she leaned in again, licking the corner of his mouth. “You asked for this.”
“I asked for you,” Peter said. “This chaos came as a bonus.”
She bit his lower lip, gently, tugging before letting go with a satisfied smile. “Then shut up and take your prize.”
Peter groaned, one hand sliding up her back as he carried her toward their bedroom with purpose.
“Every time you opened a note,” he muttered, “I pictured this. You, losing your mind over me. Tearing me apart. Coming undone for me.”
Isabelle kissed his throat. “You’re lucky I don't actually kill you.”
“Oh, I considered the risk,” he said, laughing breathlessly as he nudged the door to their bedroom open with his foot. “But it was worth it.”
“Cocky bastard,” she murmured against his skin.
“I’m your cocky bastard,” he reminded her, dropping her carefully onto the bed, following her down without letting her go.
The moment her back hit the mattress, he was on top of her, one hand tangled in her hair, the other braced beside her head. His body caged hers in perfectly, his weight pressing her into the sheets like a promise.
Their lips met again—hungry, open, aching.
Between kisses, Peter rasped, “I’m never letting you forget who you belong to.”
Isabelle arched into him. “Good. Because I don’t want to.”
And neither of them had the words to explain it—the need to devour and be devoured, the hunger for worship that came with complete trust, the raw want tangled up in submission and control.
But they spoke it anyway.
In breathless gasps.
In bruising kisses.
In the sound of fabric tearing and whispered growls of “mine.”