The Devil in His Eyes

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Adrain's POV

When I opened my eyes, the light through the curtains told me more than the clock ever could.

Six hours. Straight.

That had never happened before. Not for years. My sleep came in fragments—two hours here, one there. Always light, always ready to wake at the smallest sound. It was survival, not rest.

But last night—our wedding night—I had fallen into something different. Not peace, not comfort… something deeper. I had surrendered to the dark without even realizing it.

And the reason was pressed against me before my thoughts could form: something soft. Warm. Real.

Her.

The scent of roses and vanilla clung to my skin, sweet and maddening. Her breath brushed against my chest, her body curled into me as if she belonged there. My arms were around her, holding her close, our legs tangled beneath the sheets.

It was wrong—everything about it was wrong. But it felt so damn right.

My pulse kicked up, that slow, dangerous rhythm that always came before chaos. Her hair was a mess of silk against my shoulder, her lips parted slightly, her face calm. She looked peaceful. She looked like something I shouldn’t want.

For a man who’d learned to live with steel in his veins, this—this softness—was lethal.

My arms tightened around her before my mind caught up to what my body was doing.

And that was when disgust hit. Hard.

I froze, the realization burning through me like acid. What the hell was I doing?

I shoved her away, rolling out of bed like the sheets were fire. Her body shifted, a small sound escaping her lips, but she didn’t wake. She just turned slightly, murmuring something incoherent. Innocent.

I stood there, breathing hard, staring down at her. My jaw tightened until I felt it ache.

No. This wasn’t who I was. I didn’t do comfort. I didn’t need warmth. Love, touch, softness—they were weaknesses I’d killed years ago. And yet, last night… she’d disarmed me without even trying.

I grabbed my robe and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me.

The shower came on hot. Scalding. The kind of heat that should burn everything clean. But even with water running down my skin, the scent of her stayed. The memory stayed. The feel of her breath on my neck—her heartbeat against mine—it was carved into me.

I pressed my palms to the cold tile, jaw clenched. This woman had already crossed lines she didn’t even understand. My wife, yes, by name—but in every way that mattered, she was a stranger. And strangers didn’t get close to me.

Not like that.

By breakfast, my armor was back in place.

Black suit. Cold silence. Coffee—black, no sugar. The toast went untouched. The staff kept their eyes down, knowing better than to speak.

I didn’t need noise. I needed control.

And control meant distance.

The morning papers blurred before me as I scanned them without reading. My mind wasn’t here—it was at the warehouse. Shipments. Men. The usual problems that required a leader, not a husband. And I was better at being the first.

By noon, I’d already been at the docks, overseeing the men, giving orders, making decisions that smelled of gunpowder and risk. The kind of work that kept my blood steady and my thoughts sharp.

It grounded me—because out there, everything made sense. You gave an order. It was obeyed. No confusion, no emotions, no soft looks from someone who saw too much.

I should have stayed longer.

I should have buried myself in the noise and the steel. But for some damn reason, I found myself heading home early.

I told myself it was for paperwork. Contracts, reports—something that needed signing. But even as I drove back through the gates, I knew I was lying.

I just didn’t want to admit to what part of me wanted to see.

The mansion was quiet when I stepped inside. Too quiet. The air held that stillness that made my instincts rise.

I crossed the marble floor toward the staircase, my mind halfway back to business when something stopped me cold—a sound.

A faint creak.

Floorboards.

A door.

From her room.

No—not hers. My mother’s.

Every muscle in me went still. My chest turned to stone.

That room was off-limits. No one entered it. Not the maids, not the guards, not even me unless I had to. It was untouched—a shrine to everything I’d lost. My grief. My memory. My punishment.

I moved before I even realized it, my stride turning into a storm. Each step down that corridor brought the old ache crawling back.

And then I saw it—the door. Slightly ajar. Light spilling from within.

A chill sliced down my spine.

I pushed it open.

And there she was.

Isabella.

Standing by the vanity, her back to me, her fingers grazing the edge of a framed photograph. My mother’s face smiled up from behind the glass, soft and radiant. A smile I hadn’t seen outside my memory in years.

Something in me snapped.

“What the hell are you doing here?” My voice came out like a blade—sharp, cold, final.

She froze. The photo slipped slightly in her trembling hands before she caught it. Her wide eyes turned toward me, startled, guilt flashing across her face.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“You disobeyed me.”

The words cut through the silence.

“This room is forbidden.”

Her chin lifted, but I saw her throat move with a swallow. Fear flickered in her eyes, but she covered it fast with something else—defiance.

“I was curious,” she said quietly, her voice small but steady. “You hide this place like it’s a sin. I didn’t mean disrespect.”

I took a step closer.

Then another.

The air thickened between us, heavy with something more than anger. I stopped just in front of her, close enough that I could see the way her breath stuttered, the quick flutter in her pulse.

“You think curiosity gives you the right to ignore my orders?” I asked, voice low, dangerous.

Her lips parted. “I didn’t think it would matter. It’s just a room.” Thinking this is a joke.

My jaw locked. “It’s not just a room.”

Before she could step back, I wrapped my hand around her neck holding her still.

Her skin was warm, soft under my fingers. She flinched—not from pain, but from shock. Her eyes darted up to mine, wide, searching.

“Why did you disobey me?” I demanded. My voice was a quiet storm now, more dangerous than shouting. “Do you enjoy testing me? Or do you really not understand what this means?”

She shook her head, her breath catching. “Adrian, I—please—”

“Answer me,” I snapped.

She blinked hard, tears forming but refusing to fall. “Because I was genuinely curious. I'm sorry that I intruded but I just wanted to know a thing about you, whether good or bad.”

Her words hit harder than I expected. The rawness of them. The honesty.

For a moment, my grip faltered.

I looked at her—really looked. The reflection of my own fury burned in her eyes, but beneath it was something else.

Fear.

But not of me entirely.

It was fear of what she’d seen.

Because she saw me. Not the man everyone else feared. The one who carried ghosts behind his eyes.

The rage twisted, turned in on itself. My hand loosened around her neck, but I didn’t let go just yet. My thumb brushed her skin, and she shivered—not from fear this time, but something more complicated.

Her voice broke the silence.

“She was beautiful,” she whispered, looking toward the photograph again. “Your mother.”

The name alone was enough to make the ground tilt beneath me. My chest tightened until breathing hurt.

For a second, I couldn’t speak.

I couldn't think.

Could only feel the familiar ache clawing up my throat.

“She was,” I said finally, though the word barely left me. It sounded foreign. Weak.

Isabella’s gaze softened, and that tenderness was unbearable. It stripped me bare in ways I didn’t allow anyone to.

And that terrified me more than anything.

I withdrew my hand from her neck like it burned. She stepped back instantly, rubbing her skin, her eyes never leaving mine.

I turned away, trying to bury the chaos that surged inside me. “Get out,” I said, voice flat but trembling underneath. “Now.”

She hesitated. I could feel her behind me, quiet, torn between apology and defiance. She wanted to speak—I could feel it—but she didn’t.

When she finally moved past me, the brush of her presence sent something sharp through my chest.

The faint sound of her footsteps faded, the door closing softly behind her.

And then there was silence.

I stared at the photograph she’d touched. My mother’s smile. That unguarded warmth I’d been running from all my life. I lifted it from the vanity, my fingers ghosting over the frame. The glass was warm from Isabella’s touch.

That was the part that broke me.

Fuck

I set it down carefully and ran a hand through my hair, gripping it tight. My reflection in the mirror was a stranger—jaw clenched, eyes burning with too many things I didn’t want to name.

She had crossed a line.

She had walked straight into the one place I had buried my heart—and worse, she had seen the cracks I’d spent years hiding.

And the worst part?

She hadn’t run.

That look in her eyes—the softness, the understanding—had undone me more than any weapon could.

I exhaled, the breath shaking out of me. My fists clenched at my sides.

This couldn’t happen again. I wouldn’t allow it.

She had to learn her place.

I had to remember mine.

That would be the last time she crossed that line.

It had to be.

But even as I told myself that, a bitter taste rose in my mouth. Because deep down, I knew the truth I didn’t want to face.

It wouldn’t be the last time.

Not with her.

Not ever.