Chapter 133

CHAPTER20

She hadn’t even thought about it. The moment his grip loosened and his lips stopped moving, she scrambled to her feet. He was still dazed, his expression almost dreamlike as he tried to process what had just happened. She seized the opportunity, bolting from his lap as if her life depended on it.

Her heart had been pounding so loudly she could barely hear anything else, but she caught the sound of her name—his voice low, hoarse, and full of frustration as it carried after her.

“Isla.”

The way he had said it, with such raw hunger and impatience, sent a shiver racing down her spine. But she didn’t stop. She didn’t dare.

Her face was flaming, every nerve in her body still alive and buzzing from his touch. She had barely made it to the door when Maggie—of all people—appeared, holding a tray of dessert. Isla nearly collided with her, stumbling in her rush to escape.

Maggie had paused, blinking in confusion as Isla mumbled a hurried apology and slipped past her. She could only imagine what Maggie must have thought, seeing her with her face as red as a beetroot, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Isla couldn’t bear to look back, couldn’t bring herself to explain.

Instead, she had fled to her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her and locking it for good measure. She threw herself onto the bed, burrowed beneath the covers, and stayed there, hiding from the world.

The most shameful part of it all? It wasn’t just the memory of his kiss, or the way her body had melted under his touch. It was the fact that, even now, with no one there but her, she still felt that same heat. That same inexplicable need.

A few minutes later, the silence in her room was broken by the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps heading toward her door. Isla’s heart leapt into her throat, her body freezing beneath the blankets. She huddled deeper, clutching the fabric like it could somehow shield her from the inevitable.

His room—the master bedroom—was on the opposite side of the house. He had no reason to be here. No reason, except her.

He was coming for her.

Her breath hitched as the footsteps stopped just outside her door. The knock that followed was firm but unhurried, the kind that left no doubt who was on the other side.

“Isla.”

Her name rolled off his tongue slowly, deliberately, his voice low and muted through the door. It sent a shiver racing down her spine. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing him to leave, willing herself to disappear.

“Open the door, darling. We need to talk.”

The word darling made her chest tighten, both soothing and unsettling in equal measure. She bit her lip, her pulse roaring in her ears. But she didn’t move, didn’t reply.

When the silence stretched between them, he spoke again, his voice softer now.

“Things got out of hand a little there,” he admitted after a pause, the words tinged with something she couldn’t quite place. Regret? Frustration? Guilt? “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Her breath caught at his words. Hurt her? He thought he’d hurt her?

Another pause. She thought she heard him sigh, the sound heavy and resigned.

“But I realize I scared you,” he said, quieter now, as though he were speaking more to himself than to her.

And then, just like that, his presence faded. She heard the sound of his footsteps retreating, growing softer until the house swallowed them completely.

Isla remained motionless under the blankets, her body rigid as her mind replayed his words.

Scared her?

She scoffed silently, her lips twisting in self-directed disbelief.

She wasn’t scared of him. She was scared of herself.

The truth was, she’d always known she was… different. Strange, even. At her age, most people had already been through these rites of passage. They’d had steady boyfriends, shared stolen kisses in the backseats of cars, explored their desires. Some had even crossed that ultimate threshold, giving themselves fully to another person.

But not Isla.

She had held herself apart, not out of fear or prudishness, but out of sheer ignorance. She hadn’t known what she was missing, hadn’t felt the pull that others seemed to feel so effortlessly. Even when she was alone, the idea of touching herself the way some of her friends had whispered about had seemed alien. Unnecessary.

When Isla was sixteen, she had a friend named Maria who lived in one of the cottages on their property. Maria’s family rented the space from Isla’s stepfather, who managed the estate with a practical eye for business. Maria’s father was an architect at a prominent firm in the city, but her mother, with her love for open fields and quiet mornings, had insisted they live in the countryside. Every day, Maria’s parents made the long commute to the city for work, leaving Maria with hours to explore and entertain herself.

Maria was a whirlwind—a bold, outspoken, and fiercely independent girl who seemed to know things Isla couldn’t even begin to imagine. Maggie, the older woman who’d taken care of Isla since her mother had passed, was wary of Maria from the start. “That girl is trouble,” Maggie had said, her disapproval evident in the tight press of her lips. To Maggie, Maria was wild and unruly, a storm in the guise of a teenage girl.

But to Isla, Maria was fascinating. There was something magnetic about her confidence, the way she seemed to move through life without fear or hesitation. Isla had always felt like a quiet shadow compared to Maria’s vivid energy.

One warm summer afternoon, as the two of them lounged on the soft grass behind the cottage, Maria brought up a topic that made Isla’s cheeks burn. The conversation had been casual at first—school gossip, boys from the village, dreams of leaving the countryside behind. But then Maria had turned to Isla, her dark eyes glinting with curiosity and something else Isla couldn’t quite name.

“Do you ever touch yourself?” Maria asked, the question as casual as if she’d inquired about the weather.

“Touch myself?” Isla echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. Her face flushed red, and she sat up slightly, unsure if she’d misheard.

Maria smirked, propping herself up on one elbow. “You know… down there.” She gestured vaguely, her tone light but teasing. “It’s natural, Isla. Everyone does it.”

Isla stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. She shook her head slowly, the heat in her cheeks spreading to her neck and ears. “No… I’ve never… ”

Maria’s expression shifted to one of genuine surprise. “Seriously?

Isla understood what sex was—she wasn’t naive about the mechanics or the reasons people did it. After all, they were living in the digital age, where knowledge was only a click away. But despite knowing the how and the why, Isla had never felt the fiery passion or irresistible pull that Maria described so effortlessly.

Maria’s vivid descriptions of desire and longing left Isla feeling awkward, as though she were missing some vital part of herself. And in those moments, as Maria spoke with confidence and ease, Isla couldn’t help but feel like a fool—unsure, inexperienced, and out of place in a world that everyone else seemed to navigate so naturally.

Isla worried that something might actually be very wrong with herself for not having any physical urges had decided to experiment that night. She had searched on google about everything she needed to know. She had quietly pulled her nighty over her stomach that night, when she had been sure everyone had gone to sleep before she had experimented by touching herself down there between the juncture of her limbs, rubbing herself at the nubbin as some articles on the internet had told her to do. But nothing had worked. Worried even more, she had rubbed her fingers even harder on the outside of the lips but still she had felt nothing.

That had scared her more than anything else. What if Maria’s analysis had been correct? That something was really wrong with her. She had searched the internet again, scouring for information and came up with nothing that she might have some kind of neuronal damage down there?

Isla lay in bed, her mind racing, unable to shake the anxiety that had gripped her. There was no one she could talk to about what she was feeling. Her mother had passed away years ago, leaving a silence in her life that was impossible to fill. Maggie, their long-time housekeeper, had taught her the basics about growing up—periods, hygiene, all the practical things—but they had never been close enough for Isla to open up about anything more personal. Talking to her about something as intimate as what she had just experienced felt impossible.

That left Maria, the only other female in her life who might understand. But Maria wasn’t someone Isla could confide in. She was a notorious gossip, always ready to share every juicy detail with anyone who would listen. Isla could imagine Maria blabbing her secret to the entire town, turning something personal into public knowledge. That fear of being exposed kept her silent.

So, like many teenagers faced with uncomfortable feelings, Isla decided to bury it all. She shoved it into the back of her mind, convinced it was something that would pass, that she would forget about it if she just pretended it never happened. It was easier to ignore than confront.

Now, three years later, she finally knew what Maria had been talking about and she didn’t like it one bit.