CHAPTER 11: THE SAFE HOUSE

 Isla did not expect the safe house to be what it was.

No deserted hut in the woods, no subterranean bunker.

It was instead, a sleek penthouse with a view of the Hudson far atop the city, away from the view of prying eyes. 

The type of place only a man like Damien Cross would think of as a hideout.

He said nothing as he ushered her inside. A soft 'snick' as the door slid shut, separating them from the world outside.

Isla swallowed hard, nerves frayed.

"Tell me the truth." She turned to face him.

 "How bad is this?"

Damien's jaw worked, his hands slipping into his pockets as he looked her over.

"Your father struck a deal with Sergei Antonov," he finally said. 

"You were the collateral."

She exhaled sharply. "Collateral," she said again, the word bitter on her tongue.

Damien's gaze darkened. "He thinks of you as a bargaining chip. That means Antonov does too."

It settled on her shoulders. She always knew Richard Lancaster was ruthless, but this? Turning her over like she was property?

She huddled her arms around herself, begging the nausea to depart. 

"And you?" She lifted her chin and searched his face. 

"What do you see me as?"

His silence was heavy.

Then he stepped closer between them, without saying a word.

There was an adjustment in the air, thick with something electric.

Damien extended his fingers and brushed them across her wrist — light, purposeful. A counterpoint to the deadly edge in his voice.

"I see you as mine."

Those words jolted her.

She should have pulled away. Should have fought this — fought him.

But she didn't.

Because, even amidst the chaos, while everything burned around them, Damien Cross was the only one that wasn't going to fall apart.

And that scared her more than anything.

***

 He watched her carefully.

Every rise and fall of emotion, every tiny variation.

Isla Lancaster was a walking impossibility: headstrong and weak, reckless and careful. And she had been in front of him, after everything, after the war brewing outside.

Still fighting.

He admired that.

But admiration did not alter the reality of their predicament.

She was in danger. And that meant she was now under his care.

Damien faced away, walking toward the bar. He poured himself two fingers of whiskey, then stopped. 

"Drink?"

She shook her head.

He nodded, tossing his back in one quick motion and putting the glass down.

"Get some rest," he said. 

"We leave at dawn."

She frowned. "Where?"

"To finish this."

For a long moment, she remained still.

Then she moved in close, her voice low but specific.

 "And if I don't want to run?"

Damien took a deep breath, fighting the rising temptation to pull her back against him. 

"Then you fight."

Her gaze didn't waver. "And you'll fight with me?"

A dangerous, slow smile creased his lips.

"Always."

***

 Sleep didn't come easily.

The penthouse was quiet — too quiet. 

Every shadow loomed long on the walls, and every sound from down in the city felt amplified.

She was sprawled across the huge bed in the spare room, looking up at the ceiling, her mind going over it all again.

Her father had betrayed her.

Damien had saved her.

And she didn't know what that would mean for her future.

A noise interrupted her stream of thought.

A soft beep.

Not from within the room—but close enough.

Isla slowly sat up, heart racing. The penthouse had hours of silence. She had heard Damien lock the place himself.

So why had it sounded like someone had just come in?

She got out of bed, inching slowly toward the door. The hallway was dark, but the security panel near the entrance was blinking. A red light.

Compromised.

Her pulse spiked.

Turning, she retreated toward the bedroom — but before she could inhale again, a hand had latched over her mouth.

She floundered, survival instincts engaged, but the hold was firm — unrelenting.

A low, familiar voice whispered in her ear.

"Don't scream."

Her entire body went still.

Because she knew that voice.

And it wasn't Damien's.

The instant the hand cinched down over her mouth, every muscle in her body went stiff.

Adrenaline flooded her veins, and she got ready for battle — writhing, scratching, whatever it took — until the whisper in her ear paralyzed her.

"Don't scream."

That voice.

Familiar. Dangerous.

She breathed hard, her heart bashing against her ribs. The hold on her mouth slackened just enough for her to turn.

And when she finally did, everything tilted.

"No," she whispered.

The man in front of her shouldn't have been here. Shouldn't have been alive.

Yet, there he was.

Nathaniel Cole.

Her father's former enforcer. The man who had been sworn to protect her. That man she had seen die three years ago.

And yet somehow, impossible as it was, he was standing in Damien Cross's penthouse, his dark-as-night eyes fixed on hers, a warning etched on his features.

"You need to leave," he said softly. 

"Now."

Isla gaped at him, her pulse still racing. 

"How the hell are you alive?"

Nathaniel let out a breath, looking toward the hallway as though expecting Damien to materialize at any moment. 

"Long story. One we don't have time for."

She shook her head, having never gotten used to this. 

"You faked your death?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he stepped closer, speaking more softly. 

"Antonov knows you're here. He's already moving."

Fear gripped her chest.

Damien had assured her safety. This penthouse locked down, secured —

But Antonov had come in search of them, anyway.

"How?" she said, her voice nearly inaudible.

Nathaniel's face turned dark. "Your father."

The realization landed like a gut punch.

Of course.

Richard Lancaster had never taken losing for an answer. His whole life had been about controlling people, shaping people in his image. And now he was demonstrating how far he'd go to win.

Even if that meant throwing his own daughter to the wolves.

Nathaniel's hand closed around her wrist. " We have little time, Isla. You have to trust me— "

"Trust you?" she spat, wrenching her arm free. 

"You made me believe you were dead."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "It was the only way to live."

"Then why are you here now?"

Silence.

But the answer was obvious in his eyes.

Because this time, he wasn't a candidate. He was here to save her.

Then an abrupt sound pierced the tension—footsteps. Heavy. Fast.

Damien.

All of a sudden, the energy in the room changed. Nathaniel stiffened, retreating into the shadows, but it was too late.

The door to the bedroom slammed open.

And Damien Cross had stood in the doorway with murder in his eyes.

He had felt that something was wrong the moment he had opened his eyes.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the feeling in the air that was wrong.

Either way, by the time he stepped into the hallway and saw the security panel flashing red he had known — someone was in here who wasn't supposed to be.

And when he walked into Isla's room and saw a man standing inches from her, his fury was immediate.

"Who the hell are you?"

The stranger stood still, unflinching. He just turned — slow, deliberate — and locked Damien's gaze.

The tension crackled, heavy and overbearing.

But it was Isla's voice that penetrated it.

"Damien, wait—"

Too late.

Damien moved.

The man was standing near shadows one moment. The next, Damien had him up against the wall, his forearm pressed forcefully against his throat.

"Five seconds," Damien said, his voice cold as death. 

"Tell me who you are and why you're in my house."

The man barely reacted. He seemed amused.

"Same old Cross," he said. 

"No patience."

Damien's grip tightened.

Isla rushed forward. "Damien, stop! I know him."

That made him pause.

His eyes darted sideways at her, searching. 

"What?"

She swallowed hard. "His name is Nathaniel Cole. He—he used to work for my father."

Damien's grip didn't loosen. If anything, it grew colder.

"Then that means he ain't your problem anymore."

Nathaniel exhaled slowly. "You don't get it, Cross. I'm not here to hurt her. I'm here to save her."

Damien's face didn't budge. "From whom?"

Nathaniel held his gaze.

"Antonov."

Silence.

Damien didn't stir, didn't respond. But Isla felt the air change, the calculation snaps into position.

"Go on," Damien said quietly.

Nathaniel took the opening.

" Antonov already knows she is here. Your little safe house? " He gave a humorless smirk. 

"Not so safe anymore."

Damien finally let him go and stepped back. 

"How do you know this?"

Nathaniel sat up immediately, rubbing at his throat. 

"Because I had to bring the message."

Isla stiffened. "What message?"

Nathaniel's eyes darted to hers, inscrutable.

"Richard Lancaster struck a deal. If you don't hand yourself over to Antonov by tomorrow night…" His voice dropped.

"Someone you love dies."