Chapter 4 - The Sound in the Dark
The east wing guest suite assigned to Isla was larger than her entire apartment on the south side. It featured a king-sized canopy bed draped in velvet, a private marble bathroom with a clawfoot soaking tub, and French doors that opened onto a stone balcony overlooking the churning black waters of Lake Michigan.
Yet, despite the luxury, Isla couldn’t sleep.
It was 2:14 AM. The house was dead silent, save for the muffled howling of the wind off the lake against the reinforced glass.
She sat upright in bed, wearing a simple oversized cotton t-shirt and sweatpants, staring at the ceiling. Her mind raced with the events of the past forty-eight hours. She had traded her stressful, honest life as a trauma nurse for a gilded cage inside a mafia stronghold. Marco was safe—she had seen him earlier that evening, wide-eyed and thrilled by the massive suite and the endless supply of gourmet snacks provided by Mrs. Gable—but she was inextricably bound to the Phantom King.
Suddenly, a dull, muffled crash echoed through the wall connecting her suite to the master chambers next door.
Thud.
Followed by a guttural, choked gasp of pure agony.
Isla was out of bed before her conscious mind could catch up. She didn't bother grabbing a robe. She rushed to the adjoining door, turned the brass knob, and pushed it open without knocking.
The master bedroom was bathed in a pale, eerie blue glow from the moonlight filtering through the uncovered windows.
Dominic Ashford was thrashing violently across the king-sized mattress. The heavy woolen blankets were twisted around his legs like a snare. His hands clawed desperately at his own chest, his fingers tearing at the fresh surgical bandages until crimson spots began to bloom through the white gauze. His face was drenched in cold sweat, his teeth clenched so hard a low, animalistic growl tore from his throat.
The nightmare.
He wasn’t awake. He was trapped somewhere terrifying in the labyrinth of his own mind, reliving the blood, the bullets, and the betrayals that had forged him into a monster.
“Dominic!” Isla cried out, rushing across the Persian rug.
She reached the bedside and grabbed his wrists, trying to pull his hands away from his wounds before he tore his stitches open. But his strength in the throes of his terror was immense. With a violent jerk, he threw her off balance, sending her crashing against the heavy oak bedpost.
A sharp pain shot up her shoulder, but she didn’t care.
“Dominic, wake up! It’s just a dream! You’re bleeding!” she shouted, lunging forward again.
This time, she threw her entire body weight over him, pinning his powerful arms down against the mattress with her hands, pressing her chest close to his. Her voice cut through the darkness, fierce, clear, and steady.
“Dominic Ashford! Open your eyes right now! You are in your house! You are safe! Look at me!”
His eyes snapped open.
They were wild, bloodshot, and feral, gleaming with the primal panic of a trapped beast. For a terrifying second, his hand shot toward the pillow where a suppressed Sig Sauer pistol lay hidden beneath the silk slip cover. His fingers curled around the grip.
Isla didn’t flinch. She stared directly into his dark, chaotic eyes, her breath warm against his skin.
“Go ahead,” she whispered, her voice shaking slightly but holding absolute ground. “Shoot me. Or wake up.”
The heavy silence stretched between them like a taut wire.
Slowly, the feral light in Dominic’s eyes receded, replaced by the crushing weight of reality. The tension in his massive frame melted away in a single, shuddering breath. His fingers slowly uncurled from the pistol grip.
He looked up at her—at her tangled hair, her fierce, tear-streaked eyes, and the way her hands were still planted firmly against his wrists to keep him from destroying himself.
“Isla,” he breathed, his voice broken, raspy, and stripped of all its terrifying authority.
“You’re tearing your stitches open, you idiot,” she muttered, her voice trembling with a mix of adrenaline and sudden, overwhelming empathy.
Dominic didn't answer. Instead, with a gentleness that completely defied his reputation, he raised one large, calloused hand and gently cupped the back of her head, pulling her down against his shoulder.
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“Stay,” he murmured against her hair, his grip surprisingly tender. “Just... stay until the dark goes away.”
Isla closed her eyes. Against every instinct, against every warning siren screaming in her brain, she let out a long breath, slid her arm across his uninjured side, and lay beside him in the dark as the storm raged outside.
