PRINCESS THUGRELLA

THE DEMI-GOD

CHAPTER FOUR

THE DEMI-GOD.

The walkway behind Club Rogue was narrow and dim, washed in low amber lights that hummed like a secret. The music from inside bled through the walls—muffled, distant—turning the space into something intimate, almost unreal.

Isabella barely had time to turn before Maverick stepped into her space.

Her back met the wall with a soft gasp, not from pain, but from the suddenness of him—the heat, the presence, the way his body blocked everything else out. One of his hands came up beside her head, palm flat against the wall, caging her in without actually touching her. The other hovered at her waist, close enough that she could feel the warmth of it through the thin air.

“You think you can look at me like that,” he said quietly, voice rough, “and just walk away?”

Her pulse kicked hard. She lifted her chin, refusing to shrink, even as her breath turned shallow. “I didn’t walk away,” she whispered.

“You followed.”

His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Because you wanted me to.”

He leaned in, inch by inch, giving her every chance to pull back. His breath brushed her cheek, warm, controlled, and his eyes—God, his eyes—burned with something raw and unfiltered, like restraint was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart right there.

Isabella’s hands pressed against the wall at her sides, fingers curling. Her body betrayed her, arching ever so slightly toward him, drawn by instinct. Her lips parted. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between their mouths.

Almost.

At the last second, she turned her head, his lips skimming past her cheek instead of claiming her. The near-miss sent a shock through her—sharper than a kiss would have been.

Maverick froze.

The air went tight. Charged.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, jaw clenched, eyes dark with frustration and desire tangled together. His hand finally settled on her waist, grip firm, grounding, like he needed something solid to hold onto.

“Don’t do that,” he muttered.

Her breath trembled, but her smile was soft, defiant. “Don’t what?”

“Make me want things I shouldn’t.”

She turned her face back toward him now, close again, close enough that their foreheads nearly touched. “You already do,” she said gently.

“That’s not on me.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

The wall was cool against her back, his presence fire in front of her, and the contrast made her dizzy. The tension hummed between them, thick and unspoken—unfinished.

Maverick finally stepped back, just one step, but it felt like miles.

His eyes never left hers.

“This isn’t over,” he said.

Isabella swallowed, heart racing. “I know.”

And as he walked away, the echo of his heat lingered on her skin, like a promise neither of them was ready to keep—but neither was willing to forget.

I stood there till he was no longer in sight, smiling knowingly.

“Maverick Ronan Blackwell the Demi-God, how sweet it is to have you under my spell.”

It was not yet time, Maverick isn't just someone I can penetrate easily, if I act too wild I would lose him too soon, and if I stayed too calm I would barely have his attention. To get under his skin completely I needed to be extremely calculative, this time my aim wasn't just a random person.

The thought of his father Ronan Blackwell was already making me feel sick.

It was the late hours of the afternoon, when I came out through the back door of the pastry shop to dispose of some trash, when I noticed the black sedan that was parked not too far from the pastry shop, I recalled instantly that I had been seeing the same black sedan every day for the past one week.

Something in me suddenly felt uneasy.

Who could it be?

Who has suddenly gained interest in me or the pastry shop?

I knew it wasn't just a random car that was parked along the roadside, something felt off about it.

Could it be what I'm thinking?

My mind drifted to Maverick Ronan Blackwell, could it be he was watching me slowly from afar?

The unease made my chest tighten.

Or could it be his Greek godfather, Ronan Blackwell?

Ever since Madam Doris and I came to Los Angeles, we haven't made any move apart from me working as a stripper in Club Rogue to get close to Maverick.

I couldn't quite fathom what we might have done to gain someone's attention.

I stayed chill, trying not to act like I've noticed the black sedan that was parked not too far from the pastry shop.

I walked back inside acting normal.

I didn't want to inform Madame Doris yet.

What if I was being overly sensitive, I asked myself.

I needed to be sure before making any conclusions, I needed to watch the black sedan too.

If truly whoever was in the car was watching me or the shop, I needed to know why.

I brought out my phone, writing down the plate number of the black sedan.

Firstly I need to know whose name the car was registered with.

I forwarded the number to Ethan, the hacker whom Madam Doris introduced to me, he has been in this game with us even before I joined Madam Doris.

“Hey, Ethan, look into these car plate numbers for me, give me every detail concerning them, and make sure you don't inform Madam Doris about any of these.

I pressed the send button and went on with my day.

Maverick Blackwell sat behind his desk like a man carved from restraint.

The office was all steel and shadow—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, the kind of view that reminded everyone who owned the skyline. His suit jacket was discarded over the chair, sleeves rolled to his forearms, watch glinting as he skimmed through documents he already knew by heart. Power has bored him lately. It came too easily.

He sat there staring at the vacant space lost in thought.