Blood & Silk

Chapter 2: The safe house

The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red as Lucien drove like the devil was on their tail. Isabella’s fingers dug into the leather seat. Her pulse still hammered from the rooftop, from the blood on the stairs, from the way he had shoved her behind him without hesitation.

“Where the hell are we going?” she demanded.

“Somewhere they won’t look for a few hours.” His voice was low, controlled, but his knuckles were white on the wheel. “Keep your head down when I tell you.”

“I’m not a child, Lucien.”

“No.” His eyes flicked to her for half a second—dark, assessing. “You’re the target. There’s a difference.”

The car turned sharply into an underground garage beneath an old brick building on the edge of the industrial district. No signs. No cameras she could see. He killed the engine and was already out, opening her door before she could reach for the handle.

“Inside. Now.”

She stepped out. The air smelled of oil and rain. He led her through a heavy metal door, up a narrow flight of stairs, into a loft that looked like it had been designed by someone who expected company with guns. Blackout curtains. Reinforced door. A single large bed in the far corner. Kitchenette. Weapons case open on the table.

Isabella turned in a slow circle. “This is yours?”

“One of them.” He locked the door with three separate bolts, then moved to the windows, checking the street below. “Clothes in the dresser. Shower if you need it. You have ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes for what?”

“To stop shaking and start thinking.” He faced her fully. The coat came off, tossed over a chair. Underneath, a black shirt stretched across his chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms and the edge of an old scar. “They’re not amateurs. The men on the roof were bought muscle. The ones holding your father are not. Forty-eight hours is a countdown, not a suggestion.”

Isabella’s throat tightened. “How do you know he’s still alive?”

“Because they need you compliant. Dead fathers don’t motivate daughters the same way living ones do.” His gaze dropped to the blood smeared across the side of her skirt—someone else’s. “You’re still wearing the boardroom. Change.”

She didn’t move. “You’re not my father, Lucien.”

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. “I’m aware.”

The silence stretched, thick and electric. She could feel the heat coming off him even from three feet away. The same man who used to carry her on his shoulders when she was small now stood there looking at her like she was something he had already decided to keep.

“Turn around,” she said.

He didn’t.

“Lucien.”

He held her stare for another beat, then slowly turned toward the window. Isabella peeled the silk blouse off, then the skirt, letting both drop to the floor. The air in the loft was cool against her bare skin. She stood in black lace and nothing else, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the men hunting her.

She opened the dresser. Men’s shirts. Dark. Soft. She pulled one on. It fell to mid-thigh, sleeves swallowing her hands. When she turned back, Lucien was watching her reflection in the dark glass.

Their eyes met.

“You always did take what you wanted,” he said quietly.

“So did you.”

He crossed the room in four long strides. Stopped close enough that she had to tip her head back. The heat of him wrapped around her. His hand lifted, slow, and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was careful. Almost gentle. It made her stomach drop.

“Your father asked me to protect you if anything ever happened to him,” Lucien said. “That was fifteen years ago. I told him yes. I never said I would keep my hands off you while I did it.”

Isabella’s breath caught. “You don’t get to say things like that.”

“I just did.”

His thumb traced the edge of her jaw, then lower, resting lightly against the pulse at her throat. She felt him feel it jump. The air between them went thin.

A phone buzzed on the table.

Lucien’s hand dropped. He moved away like the contact had burned him, picked up the device, and answered on speaker.

A distorted voice filled the loft.

“Miss Vale is with you. Good. Saves us the trouble of collecting her. You have forty-six hours left. Bring her to the coordinates we send at midnight tomorrow. Alone. No weapons. No backup. Or we start removing pieces of her father and mailing them to Sunset Enterprises.”

The line went dead.

Isabella’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “We’re not doing that.”

“No,” Lucien agreed. His voice had gone flat. Cold. “We’re not.”

He opened the weapons case. Guns. Knives. Something that looked like it belonged in a war zone. He checked a magazine with practiced ease, then set it aside.

“There’s a second location. Older. Harder to find. We move in an hour. Until then, you eat something and you sleep if you can.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Then sit.” He pointed at the bed. “And stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re deciding whether to hate me or climb into my lap.”

Heat flooded her face. “You’re an asshole.”

“I’m the only reason you’re still breathing.” He stepped closer again, voice dropping. “And if those men get their hands on you, Bella, they won’t just kill you. They’ll break you first. Slowly. Publicly. So that every enemy your father ever made knows what happens when you touch what’s theirs.”

She swallowed hard. “And what am I to you, exactly?”

Lucien’s eyes were almost black in the low light. “Something I should have stayed away from.”

He turned toward the kitchenette, shoulders tight. Isabella stood there in his shirt, pulse still racing, the ghost of his touch burning against her throat.

Outside, somewhere in the dark, engines idled.

Inside, the clock kept ticking.

Forty-six hours.

And the man who had just admitted he wanted her was the only thing standing between her and the people who wanted her dead.