THE DEVIL'S OBSESSION

HIS RULES, HER DEFIANCE

THE DEVIL'S OBSESSION

CHAPTER THREE

The first thing Isabella heard after the gunshots was Alexander breathing.

Not loudly. Not quickly. His breath was controlled, measured, as though the darkness had merely interrupted an ordinary evening. His arm remained across her waist, holding her behind the library desk while glass tinkled somewhere beyond the doors.

“Stay down,” he whispered.

“I am down.”

“Stay quiet, then.”

She wanted to tell him exactly what he could do with his instructions, but a shadow moved beneath the door. A thin blade of torchlight swept across the carpet, paused, then vanished.

Alexander raised one finger.

Three knocks followed.

Not a frightened servant’s knock. Three deliberate taps, evenly spaced.

“Mr Blackwood?” a man called. “It’s James. The east corridor is clear.”

Alexander did not move.

“Tell me what you see.”

“Two men by the gallery. One is injured. The other has gone towards the chapel.”

“Who is with you?”

“Thomas and four guards.”

“Keep them away from the chapel.”

A pause. “Sir, the message—”

“I read it.”

Alexander looked at Isabella. In the faint light from the emergency strip beneath the bookcase, his expression seemed carved from stone.

“Open the door,” he ordered.

James entered with a torch and a compact pistol. His gaze flicked to Isabella, then to the necklace at her throat. It lingered a fraction too long.

Alexander noticed.

“Something to say?”

“No, sir.”

“Then stop staring.”

James lowered his eyes. “The intruder left a photograph in the east hall. It’s of Miss Bennett. Taken outside her apartment yesterday.”

Isabella felt cold spread through her chest. “Yesterday?”

Alexander stood and offered her a hand. She ignored it, rising without help.

“Show me.”

The photograph lay on a silver tray beside the shattered window. Isabella recognised the cream scarf she had worn, the paper cup in her hand, the exact moment she had looked down to check the time. Whoever had taken it had been close enough to hear her breathe.

On its back, in red ink, were four words: THE CHAPEL REMEMBERS YOU.

“Where is the chapel?” she asked.

“No,” Alexander replied.

“I wasn't asking permission.”

“And I wasn't offering directions.”

James shifted uneasily. Alexander gave him a look that sent him from the room.

Isabella stepped closer. “You said my father brought me here. You said there was a passage. You said the necklace was a key. Now someone is threatening people because of it. I am done being moved around like luggage.”

“You have no idea what is waiting there.”

“Then explain it.”

“I can't explain what I don't know.”

“Convenient.”

His jaw flexed. “You think defiance makes you brave. It makes you predictable.”

“And controlling everyone makes you safe?”

For a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them. Alexander's eyes dropped to her mouth, then returned to her eyes. The movement was brief, but she felt it like a touch.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “Until we know who entered this house, you will follow three rules. You do not leave the estate. You do not remove the necklace. And you do not trust anyone who claims to be helping you.”

“Does that include you?”

“It should.”

The answer unsettled her more than a denial would have.

He led her through a concealed door behind the library shelves. A narrow stone passage descended beneath the house. At its end waited a reinforced room containing monitors, a first-aid cabinet and a telephone connected to the estate's security system.

“Stay here,” he said.

“Rule four?”

“Don't make me regret bringing you.”

“Too late.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

Before he could answer, the telephone rang. Alexander listened, his expression hardening with every word.

“Where?” he asked.

A voice crackled through the receiver. “The chapel doors are open, sir. There’s blood on the steps. No body.”

“Search the grounds. Quietly.”

He hung up.

Isabella stared at him. “Someone was hurt?”

“Possibly.”

“Was it one of your men?”

“I don't know.”

“Then we should go.”

“No.”

“Alexander—”

He turned sharply. “You don't get to turn other people's danger into a reason to satisfy your curiosity.”

“And you don't get to use danger to keep me ignorant.”

Silence held between them.

Then the monitor on the wall flickered. A grainy image appeared: the chapel, its narrow windows silvered by rain. A figure stood inside, facing the altar. The camera distorted the face, but the figure lifted one hand and placed something on the stone.

A small silver object.

Isabella moved closer.

“My necklace,” she whispered.

Alexander stared at the screen. “That isn't yours.”

“It looks exactly like it.”

The figure turned towards the camera. For one blurred second, its face became visible.

Isabella recognised the woman from the photograph in the library ledger: dark hair, pale eyes, the same delicate chin.

“Who is she?” Isabella asked.

Alexander's face lost its colour.

“My mother.”

“But you said she was dead.”

“She is.”

The figure on the monitor smiled.

Then every screen went black.

A soft click sounded behind them.

The reinforced room's door had locked from the outside.

Alexander reached for his weapon. Isabella backed away as a voice emerged from the ceiling speaker, warm and unmistakably female.

“Hello, Alexander. You took long enough to bring her home.”

He looked up.

“Whoever you are,” he said, “you have made a mistake.”

The woman laughed softly.

“No, darling. Your father made the mistake. You merely inherited it.”

A second screen illuminated. A live image showed the front gates of Blackwood Manor. A car stood outside, headlights blazing through the rain. Beside it was Thomas, on his knees, hands bound behind his back.

Isabella gasped.

The speaker crackled again.

“Bring me the girl and the ledger. You have ten minutes.”

Alexander moved towards the door, testing its lock.

“And if I refuse?” he asked.

The answer came without hesitation.

“Then the old butler dies first.”

Isabella looked at Alexander. For the first time, she saw the calculation behind his eyes collide with something much more human.

“Don't,” she whispered. “Please don't let them hurt him.”

Alexander met her gaze.

“Then we find another way.”

The lights returned, one by one. On the monitor, a countdown began.

09:59.

And beneath it, a new message appeared:

THE GIRL MUST CHOOSE.

Alexander searched the security cabinet while Isabella studied the countdown. “There must be another exit,” she said. “There is,” he replied, pulling a narrow metal case from beneath the shelves. “It opens into the old wine cellar, but the passage is unstable.” He checked the contents: a torch, a small radio, spare ammunition and a ring of keys. “You stay behind me. If I tell you to run, you run.” “And if I tell you to stop giving orders?” “Then I shall ignore you.” Despite everything, a breath of laughter escaped her. It vanished when he handed her a small torch.

“What about Thomas?” she asked.

“We get him out.”

“Even if they want me?”

“Especially then.”

She searched his face for a hidden bargain, but found only grim concentration. “Why does my choice matter to them?”

“Because the ledger may be useless without the key. Your necklace opens a compartment in the chapel altar. Your father must have hidden something there.”

“Something that can destroy your family?”

“Something that can destroy several families. Mine is simply the one closest to you.”

He unlocked a panel in the wall. Cold air breathed through the opening, carrying the smell of damp stone and old wine. Somewhere beyond it, a bell rang once.

Isabella looked at the countdown. Seven minutes remained.

“Alexander,” she said, “if we find what my father left, you tell me everything. No more half-truths.”

He held her gaze. “If we survive the next ten minutes, you can ask me anything.”

“That isn't a promise.”

“No,” he said. “It's the best I can give you.”

He entered the passage. Isabella followed, clutching the necklace as the panel closed behind them. In the darkness, his hand found hers—not tenderly, but firmly enough to guide her over the broken steps. She should have pulled away. Instead, she held on.

Above them, the countdown continued.

And somewhere in the house, someone began to sing a lullaby Isabella had not heard since childhood. She knew the melody, though she could not remember who had sung it, or why the final verse ended with a warning about doors locked at night.