Never Again Yours (Isadora and Magnus) novel Chapter 155

Victor parked the car and stepped out, gently taking Isadora’s hand in his. Together, they crossed to the glass elevator and rode all the way up, the city lights flickering further and further below. When the doors slid open, they stepped out onto the rooftop—a dazzling canopy of midnight blue stretching above them, studded with bursts of fireworks and a thousand glittering stars, as if someone had sewn diamonds into velvet.

The rooftop itself felt almost magical. Balloons and vibrant roses framed a cozy, intimate viewing deck—just for the two of them.

Victor produced a small first-aid kit from somewhere—Isadora had no idea where he’d been hiding it. He took out a cotton swab, soaked it in antiseptic, and reached for her, careful and deliberate as he dabbed at the red, swollen cut at the corner of her mouth.

The sting was sharp. Isadora flinched, instinctively turning her face away, her voice barely a whisper. “That hurts…”

Victor frowned, his tone gruff but his touch impossibly gentle. “Hurts now, does it? Funny—why didn’t you dodge when Prescott hit you?” His voice was low, rough around the edges, but his movements softened even further.

Isadora looked away, frustration clouding her eyes. How could she have known Prescott would just walk up and slap her in front of everyone? Even if she’d shouted, even if she’d fought back, it wouldn’t have mattered. A woman’s strength was no match for a grown man’s.

Prescott was impulsive and hotheaded, always ready to defend his own—but only when it came to Pearl. Just thinking about it dimmed the light in Isadora’s usually bright eyes.

Victor finished bandaging her split lip and said, “Next time, I’m taking you to boxing lessons.”

“Boxing?” Isadora looked up at him, a little incredulous. “You mean… two against one? Are you any good?”

Victor’s mouth quirked with the hint of a smile, his voice dry as he replied, “What’s this? I swoop in like a knight in shining armor and your first thought is to turn on me?”

That wasn’t what she meant at all. At the party, Victor had fought for her. She remembered how effortlessly he’d hauled Prescott out, his forearm taut with muscle, every line in his body radiating cold, dangerous energy that seemed to freeze the air around him. It was violent, yes—but in that moment, she’d thought he was impossibly, devastatingly handsome.

Now she finally understood why people always whispered about the Capitol heir’s boxing skills. If only she could be half as strong as him, she might finally be able to stand up to someone like Prescott.

Victor finished tending to her injuries, then flopped back onto a lounge chair, one arm tossed behind his head, the other lazily playing with her slender, silken fingers.

Suddenly, his phone rang.