Her Dark Protector

~Crazy Fate~

The morning light cut through the heavy velvet drapes of the lounge’s private suite like a blade. Elijah stood completely motionless by the edge of the bed, his coat thrown over one arm. He was staring down at the woman asleep beneath the silk sheets.

His chest tightened. The wild, reckless heat of the previous night had all vanished. The stillness of the space between them was almost dreadful.

She looked entirely different in the daylight. Without the haze of alcohol and the dim, flashing neon of the bar, her features were so delicate. Her dark lashes cast soft shadows against her cheekbones. Her lips, slightly parted in deep sleep, still held a faint trace of the pink gloss she had been wearing when she crashed into his chest.

When she had pressed her mouth onto his with an intoxicating and desperate hunger that had nearly made him forget who he was. But he didn't forget.

He looked down at the bedside table where her small, glittery clutch purse sat half-open. A sleek silver smartphone protruded from the top, alongside a stray lipstick and a laminated card that had slid halfway out of a leather slot.

Elijah reached out, his gloved fingers completely silent as he slid the card the rest of the way out. It was a driver’s license. He looked at the photo, then down at the text printed beneath it. Isabella Volkov!

The air rushed out of Elijah’s lungs as if he had taken a blow to the sternum. The blood in his veins instantly became cold. Volkov!

The name burned behind his eyes, igniting a twenty-year-old firestorm of pain and vengeance.

He looked back at the girl on the bed. This innocent, fragile creature who had clung to him as if he were her only sanctuary in a cruel world was a snake! Or, more accurately, the daughter of his enemy.

She was the flesh and blood of Viktor Volkov! The man who had ordered the execution of Elijah’s parents and sister while he hid trembling in the dark spaces of a bedroom closet. He was only eight years old.

Elijah’s grip tightened on the card until the plastic bent. For two decades, he had trained, planned, and bled to infiltrate the Volkov syndicate. He had studied their shipments, their allies, and their security protocols. He had built an untraceable identity, preparing to strike from the shadows like a ghost.He had never factored her into the equation! He din't know about her existence.

Slowly, his shock faded, and it was replaced by something dark and evil. He looked at Isabella’s peaceful, sleeping face. A slow smile crept onto his lips. Viktor Volkov thought he was untouchable. He kept his operations locked down behind iron walls and heavily armed guards. But he had left his most precious treasure completely unguarded in a downtown lounge.

You wanted to destroy them, Elijah, a voice whispered in his mind. Now, fate has just handed you the perfect weapon. He carefully slid the license back into her purse, adjusting it precisely so she would never know it had been touched.

He didn’t wake her. He didn’t even leave a note. Instead, he stepped backward into the shadows of the doorway, his eyes locked on her face one last time.

"Sleep well, princess," he murmured. "The next time you see me, your world is going to burn." With a silent click of the door, he was gone.

Isabella woke up with a sharp, throbbing ache behind her eyes and the distinct taste of regret on her tongue. She groaned, rolling over onto her side as she shielded her face from the aggressive morning sun streaming through the windows.

As her senses slowly returned, she realized she wasn’t in her own bed. The sheets were a little bit too soft and the scent in the air wasn’t her usual vanilla perfume. It smelled like expensive leather, and a faint, masculine trace of clean rain.

The memory of last night hit her all at once, making her sit up abruptly. The events of the bar: the disgusting man who had pinned her against the wall. And then, him.

She remembered his piercings, and those stormy gray eyes. His large warm hands that had held her steady, treating her with a protective gentleness she had never experienced in her entire life.

She remembered crying into his chest, being carried into this room. Her cheeks flared bright crimson when the kiss she had with him resurfaced. She had thrown herself at a complete stranger!

She had pressed her lips to his, desperate to feel something, other than the suffocating dread that had been following her for weeks. And he hadn't pushed her away. He had held her until the darkness took her. Every single detail was clear in her mind.

Isabella looked frantically around the room. It was completely empty. "Hello?" she called out. There was no answer. She swung her legs out of bed, realizing she was still fully clothed in her party dress from the night before, minus her heels.

On the nightstand, her purse and phone were perfectly intact. The brooding stranger was gone. He hadn't stolen from her. He hadn't taken advantage of her. He had simply kept her safe and vanished into the night like a ghost!

A deep sense of emptiness washed over her. She didn't even know his name. She sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers wrapping around the silk sheets, trying to anchor herself. The silence of the room was too heavy, only reduced by the distant hum of traffic outside.

For the first time in months, she felt a strange, lingering sense of warmth beneath her panic. The stranger hadn't demanded anything from her. He'd just held her when she needed it the most.

She reached for her purse, her fingers brushing against the soft leather. Everything was exactly where she had left it. She pulled out her phone, clicking the screen to life.

Missed calls and a lot of text messages popped up almost instantly. Her heart sank into her stomach. The temporary illusion of freedom shattered right in front of her. The suffocating reality she had spent the entire night running from was back.

Before she could process the notifications, the heavy wooden door to the suite swung open. Isabella flinched, pulling the silk sheet up to her chest defensively, but relaxed the moment she saw the familiar figure stepping into the room.

"Malcolm," she breathed, letting out a sigh of relief. Malcolm looked exactly as he always did; immaculately dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his dark hair tinged with silver at the temples, and his face etched with deep lines of exhaustion and worry.

At thirty-eight, he was a man who'd been built for violence. But he possessed a quiet charisma that Isabella had relied on since she was a child. He was her father’s most trusted advisor, but to Isabella, he was the only person in the Volkov empire who saw her as a human being rather than a piece of property.

"You're alive." His deep voice carried a mixture of intense relief and stern frustration. He closed the door behind him and crossed his arms.

"Do you have any idea what kind of hell broke loose when you slipped away from your security detail last night, Isabella?"

"I just needed to breathe, Malcolm," she whispered, looking down at her lap. "Just for one night! I felt like I was choking."

Malcolm’s expression softened. The rigid posture of a mafia lieutenant melted away. He walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge, keeping a respectful distance.

He handed her a bottle of water and two pain relievers he had pulled from his pocket. "I know," Malcolm said softly, his voice dropping as he looked at her. "I know how hard it is for you inside that house. But running off to public lounges without protection makes you an open target!

Your father's enemies are always looking for a vulnerability. If anyone found out who you were, if anyone realized you were a Volkov standing alone in a crowded room, it would be a disaster!"

He paused. His sharp eyes scanned the room, noting the empty glass, the neatly made space on the other side of the bed, and the lingering scent of another presence.

"The security guard downstairs said a man brought you up here. Who was he? Did he touch you? Did he find out your name?" Isabella quickly shook her head, swallowing the pills with a long gulp of water.

"No! No, he didn't do anything like that. Someone was trying to hurt me at the bar. A creep wouldn't let me go. He stepped in and saved me. He brought me up here so I could sleep it off safely. He was a gentleman, Malcolm. He left before I even woke up this morning. I am sure he doesn't know who I am."

Malcolm eyed her closely, his sharp instincts analyzing her expression for any sign of a lie or hidden trauma. He had been protecting her for too many years not to notice the faint, nervous flush on her cheeks.

Sensing she was telling the truth about her safety, he let out a heavy, ragged breath that seemed to carry the weight of the entire night's frantic search.

He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. "You lucked out, kiddo," Malcolm said, using the affectionate nickname he had called her since she was ten years old. He reached down to pick up her discarded high heels from the floor, placing them gently beside her feet.

"But your luck just ran out for the day. Your father knows you stayed out. He’s been tracking my phone since five in the morning, demanding updates every ten minutes."

The hangover ache in Isabella's head was instantly replaced by dread that curled up in her stomach. The warmth of her memories vanished.

"Is he furious?"

"Worse," Malcolm said grimly while standing up and pulling his suit jacket straight. His face hardened, returning to the Stoic mask he wore whenever he had to face the head of the syndicate.

"He's calm. And you know whenever Viktor Volkov is calm, it means he’s already made a decision you won't like. He’s waiting for you at the estate, Isabella. He demands your return immediately. Put your shoes on. We need to get you home right now."

Isabella stared at the shoes at her feet, feeling the invisible golden chains of her family tightening around her ankles once more. She nodded silently, reaching down to slip them on, knowing that her night of freedom was officially over.

The nightmare was about to begin!