Chapter 4: The Devil's Rules...

The night passed in a haze of restless thoughts and quiet paranoia. Isabelle barely slept. Every creak of the penthouse made her flinch, every shift of shadows outside her window sent her pulse racing. Was someone watching? Was someone waiting?

By the time dawn arrived, she had convinced herself that sleep was no longer an option.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and inhaled deeply. The faint aroma of coffee drifted through the air, a sharp contrast to the tension in her chest.

She hesitated before stepping out of the bedroom, her bare feet silent against the polished floor.

Damian stood in the open kitchen, his movements precise as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He was already dressed—black shirt, black slacks, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the strong curve of his forearms. He looked completely at ease, like a man who hadn't just forced her into hiding overnight.

His gaze flicked to her the moment she stepped closer.

"You're up early," he said.

"Couldn't sleep."

He nodded, unsurprised. "Good. You'll need to stay alert."

She folded her arms. "Is that my life now? Always looking over my shoulder?"

He sipped his coffee, considering her words. "For now, yes."

She exhaled sharply. "Great."

Without waiting for an invitation, she grabbed a cup from the counter and poured herself some coffee. The warmth of the mug grounded her, but the tension in her stomach didn't fade.

She watched Damian cautiously. He was too controlled, too unreadable. Did he even have weaknesses? Or was he truly as untouchable as he seemed?

She took a sip and finally asked, "So, what happens next?"

Damian leaned against the counter, fingers tapping against his mug. "We figure out who put a target on your back."

"And how do we do that?"

His lips quirked into a smirk. "I ask the right people."

A chill ran down her spine. "By 'ask,' you mean—"

"Whatever it takes." His tone was calm, but there was something lethal in his words.

She swallowed hard. This wasn't a game to him.

"So, I'm just supposed to sit here while you—what? Torture people for answers?"

He arched a brow. "You sound judgmental for someone whose life I just saved."

Her jaw tightened. "I didn't ask for this."

"No," he agreed. "But you're in it now."

The room fell into heavy silence.

Then, Damian set his mug down. "There are rules, Isabelle. If you want to stay alive, you follow them. No exceptions."

She stiffened. "Rules?"

"Rule one," he said, stepping closer, "you do not leave this penthouse without me."

She frowned. "You can't just keep me here—"

"I can, and I will." His voice was like steel. "Rule two. You don't ask too many questions."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's convenient for you."

His smirk was quick and dangerous. "It is."

She set her coffee down with a thud. "And if I break the rules?"

His gaze darkened. "Then you won't like the consequences."

The air between them crackled with tension.

She hated how easily he could throw her off balance. She should be scared of him. Maybe she was. But something about the way he looked at her—like he was waiting for her to challenge him—made her pulse quicken for a different reason.

She crossed her arms. "And what am I supposed to do while you play detective?"

"You wait," he said simply. "And you stay out of my way."

Her frustration boiled over. "So, I'm just your prisoner now?"

He studied her, then tilted his head. "No."

"Then what?"

He leaned in, his voice dropping to something almost dangerous. "You're my responsibility."

Something twisted in her chest at his words.

His responsibility. Not his prisoner, not his hostage—his responsibility.

And somehow, that was worse.

She forced herself to step back. "I don't want to be your responsibility, Damian."

His gaze locked onto hers. "Too late."

She sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. The heat of his body, the quiet intensity in his eyes—it was overwhelming.

And then, just like that, he stepped away, as if the moment had never happened.

"Breakfast is in the fridge," he said flatly. "Eat something."

She stared at him, still thrown off by the shift in his demeanor.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To work."

She tensed. "Work?"

He grabbed his jacket. "Figuring out who wants you dead isn't going to happen by sitting around."

A knot of unease formed in her stomach. "And what am I supposed to do while you're gone?"

"Stay inside. Stay quiet. And don't open the door for anyone."

Her fingers clenched at her sides. "And if I don't?"

Damian smirked, amusement flickering across his face. "Then I'll have to punish you."

Her breath caught.

The way he said it—it wasn't a threat. It was a promise.

He turned and walked toward the door. "Be good, Isabelle."

Then, without another word, he was gone.

Leaving her alone in the penthouse with nothing but questions and the weight of the devil's rules hanging over her.