There’s a scrape of a dining chair. The approach of steps.
Isla stiffens, her attention straying over my shoulder.
“I think an introduction is in order,” Bishop drawls. “Don’t you?”
Chapter
Twenty-Three
ISLA
Raffael’s holdon my wrist is a silent balm, a stark contrast to the dull ache left by the crewmen’s grip. But no amount of his comforting solace erases the malicious presence of the man behind him.
The intruder is broad, intimidating, yet somehow handsome in a way that threatens violence—a threat underscored by the scar peeking from beneath his beard.
Raffael turns to face him, guiding me behind his back, a protective shield vibrating with hostility. “Get your fucking eyes off her. You talk to me.Onlyme.”
The man levels Raffael with a smug look that doesn’t just question, but demeans. “I suggest you calm down.”
“Calm isn’t a direction this conversation is headed.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, then meet the stranger’s eyes and refuse to blink. It’s a lie, blatant and sickeningly optimistic. I raise my chin, step around Raffael, and inch closer to the threat with an extended hand. “I’m Isla. And you are?”
Raffael’s fingers plant on my wrist, firmly lowering my arm. “Don’t. If you knew this man’s notoriety you wouldn’t want to touch him.”
The man grins as if the vicious reputation is a point of pride. “The name’s Bishop.” He jerks his chin toward the table. “Take a seat.”
A glance at Raffael highlights the storm darkening his features. Temperamental and enraged, he leads me to the outdoor setting and pulls out a chair to drag it directly beside his in a territorial display.
“That wasn’t so fucking hard, was it?” Bishop reclaims his position at the table.
The other man remains quiet, not as overtly cold and cocky, but his scrutiny is unnerving in its precision.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Isla,” he says, all charm and refinement. “My name is Matthew. I’d offer to shake your hand, but it seems my cousin has staked a claim.”
Cousin? Claim?
“There’s no claim,” Raffael seethes.
“Tell that to your face,” Bishop mutters. “It also doesn’t help that she’s half-naked and wearing what I assume is your shirt.”
Matthew glances at him in warning, then returns his attention to me. “I apologize if the crew took liberties while escorting you from the cabin. That wasn’t our intent. We’re only interested in speaking to you about the current situation.”
They all look at me. Bishop—arrogant and assessing. Matthew—patient and deceptively charismatic. And Raffael—a live wire of protective fury.
This is a test. Maybe even a trap.
I swallow against the grit in my drying throat. “It takes more than a little rough handling to scare me.”
Bishop’s smirk is one of approval, or maybe it’s patronizing.
“Good.” Matthew smiles, a devastatingly gorgeous curve of lips unmistakably meant to lull me into a false sense of security. “You hear that, cousin? She’s fine. So you can quit glaring at me as if you’re planning my death.”
Raffael’s expression doesn’t change from the features carved in granite, his eyes promising retribution.
“Don’t fret, Isla,” Matthew soothes. “I behave the same when my wife is threatened. Thankfully, my cousin doesn’t have the stomach for the family business.”
“I’m willing to learn.” Raffael’s voice melts with an undercurrent of surgical malice.