Isla couldn't sleep.
She'd tried. God, she'd tried.
But every time she closed her eyes, she heard Killian's voice: I want the body gone by sunrise.
And then she'd be wide awake again, staring at the ceiling, her mind spinning with questions she knew better than to ask.
At one-forty-seven a.m., she gave up.
The house was silent. No staff at this hour. No Killian—he'd texted around eleven that he'd be late, not to wait up, as if she'd been planning to wait for a husband who didn't want her anyway.
Isla threw off the covers and padded to her door in bare feet.
The hallway was dark except for subtle floor lighting that guided the way without being harsh. More of that expensive architectural design, making even the nighttime feel controlled and deliberate.
She told herself she was just exploring.
Getting familiar with her new home.
Definitely not looking for answers to questions she wasn't supposed to ask.
The third floor—Killian's private wing—was off-limits.
But the rest of the house was technically fair game.
Isla descended the floating staircase, her hand trailing along the chrome railing. The first floor was even quieter, shadows pooling in corners, the city lights outside providing just enough illumination to navigate by.
She wandered through the living room she'd only glimpsed yesterday. It really did look like a museum. Expensive furniture arranged in perfect symmetry. Abstract art on the walls that probably cost more than her entire education. Nothing personal. Nothing human.
How did someone live like this?
The kitchen was spotless, no evidence that anyone had cooked eggs here this morning. The staff must've cleaned while she was hiding in her room, trying not to think about bodies and consequences and the monster she'd married.
Isla kept moving.
Found a library she hadn't noticed yesterday—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a leather reading chair, more of that cold perfection. But at least there were books. Actual books with worn spines, suggesting someone had read them.
Evidence that Killian was human after all.
She was reaching for a book when she heard it.
Voices.
Muffled. Coming from somewhere deeper in the house.
Isla froze, hand still extended toward the bookshelf.
The voices continued. Male. Multiple people. Talking quietly but intensely about something she couldn't quite make out.
She should go back to her room.
Should follow the rules.
Should absolutely not investigate mysterious voices in the middle of the night in a house owned by a man who casually ordered bodies disposed of.
Isla followed the sound.
Down another hallway she hadn't explored. Past more closed doors. The voices got louder, clearer, coming from behind a door at the very end of the corridor.
Unlike every other door in this house, this one was solid wood. Heavy. The kind of door designed to keep sounds in and people out.
Isla pressed her ear against it.
"—can't keep making excuses, Luca. The timeline was clear."
That was Killian's voice. Cold. Sharp.
"I understand that, but the situation is more complicated than we anticipated—"
Luca. Sounding stressed in a way Isla had never heard him.
"I don't care about complications. I care about results. We had an agreement. They failed to deliver. What do you suggest we do about that?"
A pause.
Then a third voice, one Isla didn't recognize: "We make an example. Show the others what happens when they don't meet expectations."
"Agreed," Killian said. "Contact Viktor. Tell him to handle it quietly. No mess. No witnesses."
"And the shipment?"
"Reroute it through the secondary channel. We can't risk using the primary one until we've cleaned house."
Shipment.
Secondary channel.
Make an example.
Isla's blood ran cold.
This wasn't a business meeting.
This was—
The door opened.
Isla stumbled back, nearly losing her balance, and found herself staring up at Killian.
He stood in the doorway, still fully dressed despite the late hour, his tie loosened, his ice-blue eyes absolutely furious.
"What," he said quietly, "are you doing here?"
Behind him, Isla could see Luca and two other men she didn't recognize, all of them turning to look at her with expressions ranging from surprise to something darker.
"I—" Her mind went blank. "I couldn't sleep. I was just—"
"Eavesdropping."
"No! I was exploring, and I heard voices—"
"So you decided to listen at a closed door in the middle of the night?" Killian stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. "In the one part of the house I explicitly told you was off-limits?"
"This isn't your private wing. This is the first floor."
"This is wherever I say it is." His voice was still quiet. Still controlled. Which somehow made it more terrifying than if he'd yelled. "And I said no questions about my business. What did you think that meant, Isla?"
"I wasn't asking questions, I was just—"
"Gathering information. Which is the same thing." He took a step toward her.
Isla took a step back.
"How much did you hear?"
"Nothing. I just got here—"
"Don't lie to me." Another step. "Your face gives you away every time. You heard something. What was it?"
"I don't—"
"What did you hear?" His voice dropped even lower, taking on an edge that made her skin prickle. "Answer me. Now."
"You were talking about a shipment," Isla said, the words tumbling out. "And making an example of someone. And someone named Viktor handling something quietly."
Killian went absolutely still.
Not angry-still. Predator-still.
The kind of stillness that preceded violence.
"Go to your room," he said.
"Killian—"
"I said go to your room." Still quiet. Still controlled. But there was something underneath now, something dark and dangerous that made every instinct scream at her to run. "Right now, Isla. Before I do something we'll both regret."
She should listen.
Should absolutely turn around and go back upstairs and lock her door and pretend she'd never heard any of this.
But her feet wouldn't move.
"What kind of business are you running?" she whispered.
Killian's jaw clenched.
Then he moved.
Fast.
His hand wrapped around her wrist—not rough, not painful, but absolutely unyielding—and he started walking, pulling her along with him.
"What are you—"
"You wanted answers?" His voice was still eerily calm. "You wanted to know what I do? Fine. Let's have that conversation. In private."
He dragged her down the hallway, not running but moving fast enough that she had to half-jog to keep up. Up the stairs. Down the third-floor hallway.
Straight to her bedroom.
He pushed open the door, pulled her inside, and released her wrist.
Isla stumbled back, rubbing where he'd gripped her. Not hurt. Just marked by the pressure of his fingers.
Killian closed the door behind them with a quiet click.
Then turned to face her.
And the look on his face made her breath stop.
Not anger. Something colder. Something that looked almost like disappointment.
"I gave you rules," he said quietly. "Simple, straightforward rules. And on your first full day in this house, you broke how many of them?"
"I wasn't trying to—"
"You challenged me this morning. You eavesdropped tonight. You entered a restricted area. You asked questions about my business." He counted them off on his fingers like he was tallying a bill. "Four rules. In less than twenty-four hours."
"I'm sorry—"
"No, you're not. You're curious. You want answers. You think you have a right to know what happens in this house because you're my wife now." He moved closer, and she backed up until her legs hit the bed. "But you don't have a right to anything, Isla. You have what I give you. Nothing more."
"That's not fair—"
"I told you life isn't fair." He stopped directly in front of her, so close she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "I told you I run an empire. I told you I do terrible things. But you didn't want to believe me. You wanted to think I was exaggerating. Playing some kind of game."
"You're scaring me."
"Good." His hand came up, and she flinched. He paused, something flickering across his face, then cupped her jaw gently—the contrast between the gentleness of his touch and the coldness in his eyes making her dizzy. "You should be scared. You should be terrified enough to follow my rules without question. But you're not. You're curious. And curiosity in my world gets people killed."
"What are you involved in?" The question came out barely a whisper.
Killian's thumb brushed across her cheekbone, almost tender.
"Nothing you need to know about."
"That shipment you were talking about—"
"Not your concern."
"Making an example of someone—"
"Still not your concern."
"Killian—"
"Stop." His grip tightened slightly on her jaw. "Stop asking questions. Stop pushing. Stop testing me to see how far you can go before I break."
"Or what?"
Wrong question.
Again.
His eyes darkened. His thumb stilled against her cheek. And when he spoke, his voice was so low it was almost a growl.
"You want to know what I am?" he asked. "You want to see the monster you married?"
He released her jaw and stepped back.
Started unbuttoning his shirt.
Isla's eyes went wide. "What are you—"
"You wanted answers." He shrugged out of the shirt, tossed it aside, standing before her shirtless for the second time today.
But this time it wasn't casual.
This time it was intentional.
He turned slowly, showing her his back.
The scars she'd noticed this morning were worse than she'd thought. Old marks crisscrossing his skin like a map of violence. Burns. Cuts. Something that looked like it might've been a bullet wound.
"This is what I am," Killian said, his back still to her. "A man who's been shot, stabbed, burned, and beaten more times than I can count. A man who's done the same to others. Who's killed seventeen people with his own hands and ordered the deaths of hundreds more. Who runs an organization that deals in things you can't even imagine and wouldn't want to know about."
He turned back around, and the look on his face was absolutely devoid of warmth.
"So when I tell you to stay out of my business, Isla, I'm not being controlling. I'm trying to keep you alive. Because the things I do? The people I work with? They would use you against me in a heartbeat. They would hurt you, torture you, kill you—just to get to me. And I can't—"
He stopped himself.
Took a breath.
"I can't protect you if you won't follow the rules designed to keep you safe."
Isla stared at him, at the scars marking his skin, at the coldness in his eyes that was trying so hard to hide something else underneath.
"What are you protecting me from?" she asked quietly.
"Everything." He picked up his discarded shirt. "My world. My enemies. Myself."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Then you're a fool." He pulled the shirt back on, started buttoning it with sharp, efficient movements. "You should be terrified. You should be in this room with the door locked, staying as far away from me and my business as possible. But instead, you're wandering around at two in the morning, listening at doors, asking questions that could get you killed."
"I just want to understand—"
"No." He cut her off. "You want to feel in control of a situation where you have none. You want to believe you have choices. Options. The ability to negotiate. But you don't, Isla. You signed a contract. You married me. And now you're mine for eighteen months, whether you like it or not."
He moved to her door, hand on the knob.
Stopped.
Looked back at her with an expression she couldn't read.
"You want to know what I am?" he asked quietly. "Keep pushing, sweetheart. Keep breaking rules and asking questions and testing boundaries."
He leaned against the doorframe, and the look in his ice-blue eyes was absolutely predatory.
"I'll show you exactly what kind of monster you married."
He left.
The door closed behind him with a quiet click that sounded like a cell door locking.
And Isla stood in the middle of her bedroom, staring at that closed door, her heart racing, her skin still tingling where he'd touched her jaw.
Sweetheart.
He'd called her sweetheart.
Not Isla. Not Mrs. Archer.
Sweetheart.
Like it was an endearment and a threat all at once.
She walked to her door on shaking legs and pressed her ear against it.
Listened.
Heard nothing for a long moment.
Then—footsteps. Moving away down the hall.
A door opening.
Closing.
Silence.
Isla's hand touched the doorknob.
She could lock it. Should lock it. Should do exactly what he'd said and stay in this room with the door locked until morning.
But her hand wouldn't turn the lock.
Because she'd just seen something in Killian's eyes.
Something he'd tried to hide but couldn't quite manage.
Fear.
Not of her.
For her.
He was terrified something would happen to her.
That his world would consume her.
That his enemies would use her against him.
All those rules, all that control, all the distance he maintained—it wasn't about dominating her.
It was about protecting her.
From a world she didn't understand.
From dangers she couldn't see.
From him.
Isla stepped back from the door.
Looked at the bed she was supposed to sleep in.
Thought about seventeen people dead by his hands. Hundreds more on his orders. Shipments and examples and bodies gone by sunrise.
She should be terrified.
Should run as far and fast as the contract allowed.
Should hate him for trapping her in this nightmare.
But all she could think about was the way he'd cupped her jaw.
Almost tender.
Almost like he cared.
Before reminding her exactly what kind of monster he was.
Like he was trying to scare her away.
For her own good.
Isla climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling.
Outside her door, somewhere in this massive fortress, her husband was probably not sleeping either.
Probably thinking about the rules she'd broken.
The questions she'd asked.
The boundaries she'd crossed.
Probably planning consequences.
I'll show you exactly what kind of monster you married.
That should terrify her.
It did terrify her.
But it also made her curious.
What would he do if she kept pushing?
How far would he go to maintain that careful control?
And what would happen if it finally broke?
Isla closed her eyes.
But she didn't sleep.
Because she was already planning which rule to break tomorrow.
And the monster in the master suite at the end of the hall had no idea what he'd started by calling her sweetheart.