Chapter 9 9

Isabella POV

The morning after my culinary assassination attempt, Gina practically vibrated with nervous energy as she laced my corset in my suite.

"Leo told me everything, Miss," she whispered, her eyes wide. "After he threw the broth at the wall, Grayson didn't stay angry. Leo said he actually smiled. He asked Leo, 'Do you think she really wants to poison me, or is she just desperate for my attention?'"

A cold knot formed in my stomach. I had wanted to terrify him into breaking the betrothal. Instead, my sudden display of lethal intent had somehow bypassed his arrogance and ignited a sick, morbid fascination. He thought I was playing a twisted game.

"He thinks you're more interesting than Clara now," Gina added, her voice laced with disgust.

"If he wants a game, I will give him one," I murmured, though unease prickled my skin. "I'll use this new obsession to push him over the edge."

That evening, the exhaustion of another brutal session at the Trinity College shooting range weighed heavily on my bones. Gina and I were walking down the dim, Persian-carpeted corridor of The Villa, the shadows stretching long against the oil paintings.

"We need to adjust the plan," I told Gina quietly. "If Grayson is looking for my attention, I will suffocate him with it until he-"

The air in the corridor instantly turned to ice.

A towering shadow detached itself from the alcove ahead. Damon.

Gina gasped and immediately dropped her gaze, shrinking back against the wall. Damon didn't even look at her. His storm-blue eyes were locked onto me, radiating a terrifying, suffocating darkness. He had heard Grayson's name on my lips.

"You have a very short memory, Isabella," Damon said, his voice a lethal, velvet rasp that made my pulse hammer in my throat.

I swallowed hard, my mind racing. The Plaza Hotel. The fountain. "The... the library," I stammered, heat rushing to my cheeks as I realized I had completely ignored my debt to him. "I apologize, Uncle. I can come tomorrow-"

"Tomorrow," he cut me off, his tone carrying the absolute, crushing weight of a Don's Command. "Before sunset. 'The Nest'."

He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving me trembling in his wake. I thought he was furious about my broken promise. I had no idea it was the mention of his nephew that had darkened his eyes.

By late afternoon the next day, the cavernous library of 'The Nest' was bathed in the dying, golden light of the setting sun. The scent of aged leather, whiskey, and Damon's cedar cologne was intoxicatingly thick.

I had spent hours sorting through towering stacks of first editions. My muscles still screamed from the push-ups in the mud, and the quiet isolation of the penthouse finally broke my defenses. I rested my head on the cool mahogany of his massive desk, just for a moment.

The darkness pulled me under.

I didn't know how much time had passed when the scent of Cuban cigars pulled me back to the surface. The air was heavy, charged with a familiar, terrifying electricity.

I slowly opened my eyes. The sun had dipped below the skyline, casting the room in deep shadows. Damon was sitting in the leather chair beside me. He was perfectly still, his broad shoulders relaxed, his gaze tracing the line of my cheek with a strange, quiet intensity I had never seen before.

My mind was thick with sleep. The shadows, the desk, his overwhelming presence-it all blurred seamlessly into the dream I'd had nights ago. The dream where he had pinned me to this very wood, his lips bruising mine with dark obsession.

A flush of heat swept through my body. Half-asleep and entirely defenseless against the phantom memory of his touch, I let out a soft, breathless murmur.

"Stop it..."

The words hung in the quiet room, fragile and intimate.

Damon's entire body went rigid. The fleeting warmth in his eyes vanished, instantly replaced by a Siberian winter. The air in the room seemed to freeze, snapping my mind fully awake.

He leaned forward, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek. The sheer violence radiating from him pinned me to the chair.

"Who are you talking to, *piccola*?" (little one) he asked, his voice a terrifying, glacial whisper.