Isabella sat sulking beside Killian in his car. He had stormed into her room early in the morning and ordered her to pack her things—they were leaving immediately. She had argued, insisting she wanted to stay a little longer, but the look he gave her was strange, unreadable, something she couldn’t quite name. He hadn’t bothered to hear her out, only stated that he would be waiting in the car and that she had twenty minutes to pack and be ready.
Now, as he drove in silence, Isabella stared out the window, fuming with anger.
After making her want him, he had left her last night, lying in her bed, aching for him, her body still trembling with need—as though he had never wanted her at all. She had been so lost in that moment with him, ready to give herself completely, ready to do anything he
