The waltz faded.
One moment, I was surrounded by glittering masks and the scent of champagne. The next, the world was a blur of pain and cold asphalt.
He threw me to the ground.
Hard.
The air rushed out of my lungs in a single, ragged gasp. My bones screamed. The silk of my ball gown, once a pale blue dream, was now just a dirty rag on the alley floor.
He stood over me, a mountain of darkness.
His mask wasn't for a party. It was a demon's face of black leather, all twisted horns and silent snarls.
I didn't even have time to think.
A boot slammed into my stomach.
"PLEASE—STOP!" I screamed, choking on my own breath.
"You talk too much," he growled.
The next kick hit harder, stealing the air from my lungs.
Fire exploded inside me with each impact. I folded in on myself, helpless.
"Why are you doing this?" I gasped, my voice trembling.
He laughed, low, cruel, almost amused.
"Because I can."
He knelt down. I could smell his expensive cologne mixed with something else. Something metallic.
Blood.
His fingers, strong as steel, wrapped around my neck.
He squeezed.
Panic. Pure, primal panic. I couldn't breathe. Black spots danced in my vision. Through the opening in his mask, I saw his lips curl into a small, satisfied smile.
He was enjoying this.
"No," I tried to gasp. "Not like this."
My nails raked across the exposed skin of his neck. I punched at his chest, solid as a wall. He didn't even flinch.
"You think you can fight me?" His voice was almost mocking, the words dripping with dark amusement.
My hand latched onto his dress shirt, and with a surge of terror, I pulled.
RRRIP.
The sound of tearing fabric was violent in the silence. His chest was bare.
And inked.
A dark, terrifying tattoo glared at me in the faint moonlight.
He growled, a low, angry sound. He released my neck and I choked on the sudden rush of air.
A metallic click.
A switchblade appeared in his hand, its blade glinting. He traced the cold steel slowly across my throat. A cold promise. He stopped the tip right over my pulse, which hammered frantically against the blade.
"What are your last words?" His voice was a low, merciless growl.
"P-please…" My own voice was a pathetic whisper.
He smiled that cruel smile again. He ripped my mask from my face.
The world was already fading. The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was the dragon tattooed on his chest. Large, terrifying, and ready to devour me.
.....
"Izzy? Sweetheart? Izzy?"
The voice pulled me out of the dark.
I blinked my eyes open. The ceiling wasn't night anymore, it was white, sterile, painfully bright.
The smell of trash and blood was gone, replaced by antiseptic.
My father was there.
His suit was perfect, but his face wasn't. It was tight, pale, trembling between love and fury.
"Dad?" My voice came out rough, barely a whisper. "What... happened?"
I tried to sit up, but pain ripped through me. "Ouch—"
"Don't move, Isabella." His tone was calm, but it carried the kind of calm that comes before a storm. "Lie still."
My throat ached. My stomach burned. Every breath hurt.
"How long have I been here?" I whispered.
He didn't answer right away. His eyes darkened.
"Someone signed their own death warrant when they touched you."
I stared at him, dizzy. "What are you talking about?"
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a low growl.
"Someone wants a war," he said. "They're going to get one."
"Dad…" My voice trembled. "Please don't—"
"Shh." He kissed my forehead. The gesture should've felt warm, but it didn't. His touch was cold. Controlled. A promise of revenge disguised as affection.
"But first," he murmured, "I'll make sure no one ever lays a finger on you again."
He straightened, turned to the hospital room door.
"Don't you dare leave her side," he told someone outside, his voice steel and ice. "Not for a second. Understood?"
"Yes, sir." A male voice answered.
My father left without another word.
He didn't look back. He didn't need to. The temperature in the room dropped with him gone.
He was going to kill someone because of me.
I swallowed hard. My hands were shaking.
And then
He walked in.
He filled the doorway. Tall, broad, dressed in an immaculate black suit. He was beautiful in a brutal, dangerous way. He stopped at the foot of my bed, crossing his arms over his chest.
His eyes locked on mine.
They were dark, intense, and empty. Not pity. Not worry. Nothing.
He looked at me like I was a job to be done. His gaze scanned my bandaged body, assessing the damage with a clinical coldness.
And then I saw it.
A flicker. Just for a microsecond.
It wasn't pity.
It was recognition. The same dark satisfaction I had seen in the smile of the man behind the mask.
My heart stopped.
My breath caught in my throat.
It can't be.
It can't be him.
Can it?