Chained By Faith

CHAPTER FOUR - THE DEVIL'S BARGAIN

Isabella's POV

Day eight. I woke up with a plan.

It comes to me in the early morning hours, watching the sky lighten over the Pacific. Every escape attempt so far has been passive: refusing food, pleading with staff, mapping exits I can't reach. But I'm a doctor. I have skills they need. And people in Damien Blackwood's world get hurt.

They'll have to bring medical personnel to me eventually. And when they do, that's my opening.

I start with subtle symptoms. A mention to Marie during breakfast that I'm feeling dizzy. A hand pressed to my forehead at lunch, claiming a headache. By dinner, I'm committed to the performance: flushed cheeks from pinching them, shallow breathing, a tremor in my hands that's only partially faked.

"I don't feel well," I tell Marie when she brings the evening tray. "Something's wrong."

She sets down the food and studies me with those sharp eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Fever. Chills. Nausea." I press a hand to my stomach. "It came on fast. Maybe food poisoning? Or….." I let worry creep into my voice. "Could be appendicitis. The pain is right here."

I see the flicker of concern. Good. They need me healthy; Damien made that clear when he threatened IV feeding. They can't risk me actually being sick.

"I'll inform Mr. Blackwood," she says, and I have to hide my satisfaction as she leaves.

I lie back on the bed, rehearsing my plan. A doctor will come, they'll have to bring one. Someone from outside, someone with a phone. I'll wait until we're alone for the examination, then I'll use whatever I can find as a weapon. I'm small, but I know anatomy. I know where to strike to incapacitate someone quickly. I'll take their phone, lock myself in the bathroom, call 911 before anyone can stop me.

It's not perfect. But it's a chance.

Twenty minutes later, footsteps approach. Multiple sets. My heart hammers as the door opens.

Damien enters first, and my stomach drops. Behind him is an older man carrying a medical bag; gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, the comfortable posture of someone who's been practicing medicine for decades. He looks utterly unsurprised to be here, in a locked room treating a prisoner.

Not from outside. From Damien's payroll.

"Isabella," Damien says calmly, "Dr. Chen is here to examine you. Marie says you're feeling unwell."

Dr. Chen. Of course. Even the doctor has been vetted, probably treats all of Damien's people for injuries they can't explain in hospitals. My plan crumbles before it's even begun.

"I'm fine," I say quickly, sitting up. "False alarm."

"Let him examine you anyway." Damien settles into the chair by the window, making it clear he's staying. "I'd rather be certain."

Dr. Chen approaches with professional efficiency, setting his bag on the bed. "Miss Moreno. I'm going to check your vitals and do a basic examination. Is that all right?"

What choice do I have? I nod.

He works immediately checking my temperature, pulse, and blood pressure. Palpates my abdomen where I claimed pain. Checks my throat, my eyes, asks questions I answer mechanically. His touch is gentle but impersonal, and I can see him cataloging symptoms against what he's actually finding.

After five minutes, he steps back. "You're perfectly healthy, Miss Moreno." His tone is neutral, but his eyes say he knows exactly what I was trying to do. "No fever, no signs of infection or inflammation. Whatever you thought you were feeling seems to have resolved."

Humiliation burns through me. Caught. Obviously, embarrassingly caught.

"Thank you, Dr. Chen," Damien says. "I appreciate you coming on short notice."

The doctor nods, packs his bag, and heads for the door. Before he leaves, he glances back at me with an expression I can't quite read. "Take care, Miss Moreno. I won't be fooled again."

A warning and a promise.

Then he's gone, and it's just Damien and me and the ruins of my escape attempt scattered between us.

"You can go too," I say, my voice tight. "I'm sure you have better things to do than babysit me."

"Actually, I don't." He leans back in the chair, perfectly at ease. "This seems like a good time to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"That's fine. I have things to say to you." He crosses one leg over the other, and I hate how comfortable he looks, how completely in control. "That was clever, Isabella. Using a medical emergency to force us to bring help. I should have anticipated it."

"Congratulations on catching me." The bitterness in my voice is caustic. "What's my punishment? Solitary confinement? Restraints?"

"Nothing like that." He actually looks offended by the suggestion. "I told you—I won't allow you to be harmed. That includes me."

"You're harming me by keeping me here."

"I'm keeping you alive." He says it as fact, not opinion. "But I understand that distinction doesn't matter to you right now. You need to fight. You need to resist. It's part of who you are—someone who takes action, who doesn't accept situations she can't control."

He's analyzing me. Right here, to my face, breaking down my psychology like I'm a case study. It makes my skin crawl.

"Don't pretend you understand me."

"But I do." He leans forward slightly, and those ice-blue eyes pin me in place. "You're intelligent, capable, trained to solve problems under pressure. Being trapped here with no purpose is torture for someone like you. You're not just losing your freedom—you're losing your identity."

The accuracy of it steals my breath. That's exactly what terrifies me most. Not the locked door or the cameras, but the slow erosion of everything that makes me *me*. Dr. Isabella Moreno, trauma surgeon, emergency medicine specialist—reduced to nothing but a captive who can't even fake illness convincingly.

"I hate you," I whisper.

"I know." He doesn't flinch from it. "But I'm going to make you an offer anyway."

"I don't want anything from you."

"You will." He settles back again. "One month. If you stop trying to escape for one month, if you accept your situation and make the best of it, I'll give you access to medical journals. Research papers. Online courses if you want them. Supervised internet access to medical databases and educational materials."

My heart stutters. Medical journals. Real information, current research, cases studies. The chance to keep learning, to keep my skills sharp, to maintain some connection to the profession that defines me.

It's cruel how much I want it.

"You can't seriously expect me to—"

"I expect you to be practical." His voice is matter-of-fact. "Every escape attempt will fail, Isabella. The estate is too secure, my people too loyal, the distance too far. You'll exhaust yourself fighting battles you cannot win while your medical knowledge slowly atrophies. Is that really what you want?"

"What I want is my freedom."

"What you want is impossible right now." No apology, just truth. "But what you need—professional stimulation, intellectual engagement, a way to maintain your identity—that I can provide. In exchange for one month of cooperation."

"Cooperation." The word tastes like ash. "You mean surrender."

"I mean adaptation." He stands, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "One month, Isabella. No escape attempts, no hunger strikes, no manipulations. In return, you get to remain Dr. Moreno instead of just becoming a prisoner."

He's good. Dangerously good. He's identified exactly what leverage will work not threats, not force, but offering me back pieces of myself in exchange for compliance. Making me complicit in my own captivity.

"And after a month?" I ask, hating that I'm considering it.

"We will renegotiate."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have right now." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "Think about it. You have until tomorrow morning to decide."

"What if I refuse?"

"Then you'll spend the next month in this room with nothing but novels and ocean views, feeling your medical skills rust away. The choice is yours."

He leaves, and I'm alone with the devil's bargain echoing in my head.

One month. Just one month of cooperation, and I can access journals, maintain my knowledge, and keep some part of my professional identity intact. It's not freedom, but it's something. It's a lifeline thrown to someone drowning in captivity.

But accepting means giving Damien Blackwood exactly what he wants—my willing participation in this nightmare. It means letting him win.

I walk to the window and press my forehead against the glass, watching waves crash against the cliffs. The doctor saw through my fake illness in minutes. The walls are twelve feet high with cameras everywhere. The staff are unshakably loyal. Gabriel was right; escape was impossible.

But this? This isn't escape. This is something worse.

This is me choosing to stay.

I think about my medical degree, earned through years of sleepless nights and impossible exams. I think about my residency, the patients I've saved, the skills I've honed until they're instinctive. I think about who I am when I'm in an OR, making decisions that mean life or death, using knowledge I've fought so hard to gain.

That person is worth preserving. Even here. Even like this.

I hate myself for it, but I already know what my answer will be tomorrow.

Damien Blackwood isn't just my captor. He's studying me, learning what motivates me, what breaks me, collecting information he'll use to ensure I can never truly escape even if I physically could. He's building a prison that isn't made of walls and cameras, but of compromises and concessions.

And I'm about to hand him the first brick.

When morning comes, I tell Marie I need to speak with Damien Blackwood.

And when he arrives, perfectly composed and unsurprised, I say the words that feel like surrender:

"One month. I agree."

His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those ice-blue eyes. Satisfaction, maybe. Or respect for acknowledging reality.

"The journals will be delivered this afternoon," he says simply.

Then he's gone, and I'm left with the knowledge that I've just made a deal with the devil.

And the worst part? I don't even regret it yet.