Chapter 7: Dangerous Curiosity....

Isabelle lay awake in the dimly lit bedroom, her mind racing long after Damian had left her with his final words.

"No more games."

The warning had been clear, yet she knew he wasn't just telling her to behave—he was testing her, waiting to see how far she'd go before she crossed a line she couldn't come back from.

Her fingers curled into the silk sheets as frustration boiled inside her. How did my life turn into this? One moment, she was an ordinary woman with an uneventful life, and now she was trapped in the world of a man who was both her captor and protector.

Damian Cross.

A name whispered in dark corners, a ghost among shadows. He had been sent to kill her, yet she was still breathing. That alone meant something. But what?

She rolled onto her side, staring at the ceiling. If she wanted answers, she couldn't just sit here, waiting for him to hand them to her.

She had to take matters into her own hands.

The Forbidden Room

Isabelle pushed the covers aside and got to her feet, the cool air sending a shiver down her spine. The penthouse was eerily silent, only the faint hum of the city below breaking the stillness.

She had tried to snoop before, and Damian had caught her. But that didn't mean she wouldn't try again.

Moving carefully, she stepped out of the bedroom, her bare feet soundless against the marble floor.

The study was an obvious choice—too obvious. If Damian had anything truly important, it wouldn't be there.

She needed to look deeper.

Her gaze landed on a door at the end of the hallway. It was different from the others—sleek, black, and locked with a biometric scanner.

Bingo.

Heart pounding, she stepped closer, fingers hovering over the scanner. What are you hiding, Damian?

Before she could think of a way to get past the lock, the sound of approaching footsteps sent her heart slamming against her ribs.

Damian.

She turned sharply, pulse hammering.

The footsteps stopped. Silence stretched.

Then—

"You're persistent," his deep voice murmured from the shadows.

A shiver ran down her spine.

He stepped into view, his dark eyes unreadable, his presence suffocating.

"What exactly are you hoping to find, Isabelle?"

A Dangerous Game

Her throat went dry. How long had he been standing there? Watching her?

"I was just—"

"Lying?" His lips curved slightly, but there was no amusement in his tone.

Her heart pounded. "I—"

Before she could finish, Damian moved.

One moment, he was a few steps away. The next, he was right in front of her, closing the space between them effortlessly.

She gasped as her back pressed against the locked door.

His hand came up, fingers brushing against the scanner beside her head. The screen lit up, recognizing his fingerprint instantly.

With a quiet beep, the lock disengaged.

The door slid open behind her.

Isabelle's breath hitched.

"If you're going to trespass," Damian murmured, his voice smooth yet edged with warning, "you should at least have the skills to do it properly."

She swallowed hard, eyes flickering to the dimly lit room beyond the now-open door.

A part of her wanted to turn back. But another part—the reckless, desperate part—needed to see what he was hiding.

Without waiting for permission, she stepped inside.

The room was unlike the rest of the penthouse. It wasn't sleek and modern like the living area or the study. Instead, it was cold. Efficient.

A control center.

Multiple screens covered the walls, displaying live security footage of various locations. Some were familiar—views of the penthouse, the building's entrance, the streets below. Others, however, showed places she didn't recognize. Warehouses. Underground parking garages. Dark alleys.

Her chest tightened.

A single desk sat in the middle of the room, covered in neatly organized files. Some were sealed in thick, black folders. Others were open, revealing pages of names, photos, and classified-looking documents.

Her gaze darted across them until—

Her breath caught.

A file with her name on it.

She reached for it, but before her fingers could make contact, Damian's hand closed around her wrist.

A slow, dangerous smirk played on his lips.

"You really don't listen, do you?"

Her skin burned where he touched her.

"You have a file on me," she whispered, ignoring the way her pulse betrayed her. "Why?"

Damian didn't answer immediately. Instead, he tilted his head, watching her with that unreadable expression.

Then—

"You're not ready for that answer."

She clenched her jaw. "Let me decide that."

His grip tightened just slightly before he let go.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached down, plucked the file off the desk, and shut it.

"Go back to bed, Isabelle."

Frustration burned in her chest. "No."

A flicker of something crossed his face—amusement? Annoyance?

She grabbed the file, gripping it tightly. "I have a right to know why someone wants me dead."

He exhaled slowly, as if debating something. Then, in a move so swift she barely registered it, he pulled the file from her grasp.

With one hand, he tossed it onto the desk.

Then, before she could react, he caged her in.

Hands braced on either side of her, body impossibly close.

His scent surrounded her—clean, sharp, dangerous.

"You want the truth?" he murmured, his voice low, almost seductive. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

Her breath came quicker. "Try me."

A slow smirk curved his lips.

"Not yet," he murmured. "But soon."

With that, he stepped back, turning away as if dismissing her entirely.

"Go. To. Bed."

Isabelle's fists clenched, frustration and something else—something darker—twisting in her gut.

She had lost this round.

But she wasn't done playing.

Not by a long shot.