Chapter 2 Into Another Devil’s Arms

The moment Isabelle heard her own desperate promise, she felt a wave of regret rise inside her chest, but the words had already been spoken, and there was no way to pull them back. She could only remain frozen where she knelt, her trembling fingers clutching the polished leather of the man’s shoe while tears blurred her vision. As he stepped closer, Isabelle forced herself to lift her gaze, and for the first time she saw his face without the haze of panic clouding her mind.

He was undeniably foreign. The sharpness of his features, the pale coldness of his blue eyes, and the aristocratic severity etched into every line of his face made him stand out even among the dangerous men crowding the room. His beauty was striking enough to steal breath, yet there was nothing warm or reassuring about it. He looked like the kind of man whose hands were accustomed to power and blood in equal measure. Even the silence surrounding him felt heavier than the drunken laughter echoing in the chamber.

Recognition came to Isabelle like a slap.

Fynn Wunder.

His name was not unfamiliar to ears that had heard society’s darker whispers. Behind expensive parties, hidden business deals, and conversations spoken only in hushed voices, Fynn Wunder existed like a phantom ruler of the underworld. He was known as a man whose wealth could buy nations, whose influence could erase people without consequence, and whose enemies seldom survived long enough to seek justice. Isabelle had never imagined she would stand this close to someone whose reputation was built on fear.

A tremor passed through her body as she realized that in trying to escape one nightmare, she might have thrown herself into the hands of something far more dangerous.

Fynn looked at her with unreadable calm, as if he were studying a rare object placed unexpectedly in front of him. Isabelle expected lust from his eyes because every other man in the room had looked at her with naked hunger, but his gaze was disturbingly composed. It traveled over her tear-stained face, lingered briefly on the trembling of her lips, and then, to Isabelle’s surprise, his thumb rose to wipe away the moisture clinging to her cheek. The touch was careful, almost restrained, and that quiet gentleness made Isabelle’s fear deepen rather than soften. Before she could process his intention, he slipped his hand beneath her arm and lifted her to her feet, moving her behind him as though she were now under his protection or perhaps under his possession.

Maximo’s outraged voice shattered the stillness. “What exactly do you think you are doing, Wunder? That woman is mine tonight.”

Fynn did not answer at once. He merely straightened the sleeve of his tuxedo and tilted his head slightly, giving the impression that Maximo’s fury was beneath his concern. When he finally spoke, his tone was smooth and low, but every syllable carried the chill of command.

“I have decided to take her.”

Maximo let out a disbelieving laugh, though anger was already rising in his expression. “Take her? I paid eight million dollars for that girl.”

Fynn slowly turned until his blue eyes settled on Maximo with the same detached calm one might use when discussing the weather.

“Then consider your payment wasted.”

The room fell silent.

Even Isabelle could feel the shift in the atmosphere, as though everyone present instinctively understood that the line between business and blood had just been crossed. Fynn reached back, found Isabelle’s trembling hand without looking, and enclosed it firmly in his own. His fingers were warm and unyielding, swallowing hers completely as he began to lead her toward the door. For a brief second Isabelle allowed herself to believe they might actually leave.

But Maximo stormed forward and seized her wrist with brutal force, yanking her back so suddenly that she cried out. “You arrogant bastard,” he snarled. “Do you think I will simply watch you walk away with what I bought?”

Fynn stopped moving.

Isabelle turned her head toward him and felt her heartbeat stumble. There was no visible anger on his face, no tightening of the jaw, no flare of temper. His expression remained frighteningly blank, and somehow that made him seem even more terrifying.

He pulled Isabelle behind him with one swift motion, placing his body between her and Maximo. Then his hand disappeared beneath his jacket.

The gunshot came before Isabelle could inhale.

The deafening crack ricocheted against the walls, tearing a scream from her throat. Maximo’s eyes widened in stunned disbelief before his body dropped heavily to the marble floor. Blood spread beneath his head in a dark pool that gleamed under the chandelier’s golden light.

Chaos erupted at once. Men cursed, chairs scraped violently, and several of them reached for weapons, but before anyone could react, the steel door burst open. Armed men dressed in black flooded into the chamber with practiced precision, their guns raised and their expressions emotionless. They moved like a machine built solely to obey one command.

One of them stepped forward and lowered his head respectfully. “Boss, the vehicle is prepared. We have secured the route.”

Fynn slipped the gun back under his jacket as though he had done nothing extraordinary. “Dispose of the body,” he said coldly. “Release every woman here. Kill the remaining filth and make it appear to be an overdose.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Isabelle stared at him, horrified by the ease with which he commanded death. Maximo had been alive only seconds ago, screaming in fury, and now he was a corpse cooling on polished marble while Fynn’s tone remained unchanged.

Without another word, Fynn guided Isabelle out of the chamber.

The corridor beyond felt dim and suffocating, and Isabelle struggled to steady her breathing as her heels clicked unevenly against the floor. Her mind was still trapped in the image of blood splattering beneath the chandelier, and with each step she became more aware that the hand holding hers belonged to a man capable of ending lives without hesitation.

Halfway down the hall, panic returned to her in a fresh violent wave, and she stopped so abruptly that Fynn turned.

“I cannot let Sebastian see me with you,” Isabelle said, her words tumbling out between ragged breaths. “If he realizes I escaped or knows I left with someone powerful, he will not come after me first. He will go after my parents.”

Fynn looked at her silently. His eyes drifted over the fragile state she was in, from her tear-streaked face to the thin silk dress molded to her shaking body, and Isabelle suddenly felt far too exposed beneath that assessing gaze.

Without speaking, Fynn pulled his phone from his pocket and made a call.

The answer came instantly. “Yes, sir?”

“Find Sebastian,” Fynn said in a tone so calm it chilled Isabelle’s bones. “Kill him before sunrise.”

“No.” Isabelle grabbed his arm with both hands, her fingers tightening desperately around him. “Please don’t.”

Fynn lowered his eyes to her face. “After what he did to you, you still ask me to spare him?”

Isabelle swallowed hard, struggling to sort through the chaos inside her. “I do not forgive him,” she whispered, tears gathering again. “I hate what he did, but I cannot carry his death on my conscience. I just want him gone. I want him far away from my family.”

For several moments Fynn simply watched her. There was a softness in her plea that did not belong in a place stained by so much cruelty, and something in him shifted in response to it.

He returned the phone to his ear. “Change the order. Transfer seventeen million dollars to his account and make sure he disappears. If he ever searches for her again, then kill him.”

The call ended.

Relief weakened Isabelle’s knees, but it did not erase the unease tightening around her heart. She was standing before a man who could decide life and death with a few spoken words. Gratitude toward him felt dangerous.

“Are you afraid of me?” Fynn asked.

His voice was low, almost conversational, yet Isabelle felt the question sink straight into her chest.

“Yes,” she admitted honestly.

A faint shadow of amusement crossed his face, but it vanished as quickly as it came. “You should be.”

A shiver moved through Isabelle, though she still did not release his arm. Fear was there, thick and undeniable, yet mixed with it was the terrible realization that he was now the only barrier between her loved ones and Sebastian’s wrath.

She gathered what little courage remained inside her and slowly slid her hand down until it covered his. “I know I have no right to ask for more,” she said, looking up at him with pleading eyes, “but please protect my parents. I will repay you somehow. I will do whatever you ask.”

Fynn stared at her hand resting on his and then at the desperate sincerity in her face. He had intended to remain composed, to treat her as a temporary responsibility rescued from Maximo’s den, but the warmth of her touch and the trembling innocence in her voice broke through the restraint he had been forcing upon himself.

Without warning, he pulled her into him.

Isabelle gasped softly, both palms pressing against the hard plane of his chest as she looked up in alarm.\

Fynn lowered his face until only a breath separated their lips. His blue eyes held hers captive, darkened now by something far less controlled.

“You already promised me your body,” he murmured, his voice dipping into a dangerous softness. “Did you truly believe I would let that promise fade?”

Before Isabelle could answer, his mouth claimed hers.

The kiss was deep, commanding, and unapologetically possessive, carrying none of the tenderness of rescue and all of the certainty of ownership.