Isabella woke to the soft hum of the warehouse. Sunlight streamed through a high, narrow window, casting sharp lines across the floor. She rubbed her eyes, groaning as the events of the previous night came rushing back. Alek was here. In control. Watching her. And she was still… alive.
Alek was already awake, standing near the makeshift desk, reviewing documents with the intensity of a man who measured every move. When he noticed her stirring, his piercing gaze landed on her.
"Up," he said, his voice low but firm. "We have work to do."
Isabella sat up quickly, defensive. "Work? Since when do I have work with a mafia kingpin?"
Alek's lips twitched, barely suppressing a smirk. "You're under my roof. You follow my rules. That's your work for now."
She glared at him. "You mean… my prison."
"Prison implies you're trapped. You are technically trapped, yes. But I call it protection.
She froze. Protection. The word should have disgusted her. Instead, a part of her—a part she hated admitting—wanted to believe it.
Alek stepped closer, his presence dominating the small space. "You were near your father during the attack," he said, his tone softening just slightly. "You shouldn't have been. You could have died. Do you understand that?"
Isabella swallowed, meeting his eyes. There was something in them—a flicker of concern, buried beneath the cold exterior—that made her stomach twist. "I don't need anyone to protect me," she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her defiance.
"You do," he replied simply. No argument, no justification—just a statement of facts.
She wanted to argue, to refuse, but the memory of his calm, deadly efficiency during the ambush held her tongue. She knew he was right.
The morning passed in tense silence. Alek interrogated her about her family, asking careful, probing questions. She answered, carefully avoiding the truth where necessary. Every answer seemed to frustrate him, and yet he never raised his hand or lost control—a fact that made her respect him even as she seethed.
At one point, she accidentally brushed against his arm while reaching for the water bottle. She recoiled instantly, but not fast enough. His eyes lingered on her longer than necessary, dark and unreadable.
"I suggest you learn restraint," he murmured. "It will serve you well here."
Her cheeks burned, but she lifted her chin defiantly. "And I suggest you learn humility," she shot back.
For a moment, the warehouse was quiet, the tension between them almost tangible, like a live wire ready to spark. And maybe it had already sparked.
By evening, Alek finally allowed her a break, sending her to a corner of the warehouse to rest. Isabella curled up on the cot, exhausted physically and emotionally. The events of the day, combined with the ever-present threat outside the warehouse, had left her vulnerable.
She hated how much she thought about him. About his cold efficiency, his sharp eyes, the subtle way he had cared enough to keep her alive.
And somewhere deep down, she hated herself for starting to feel something more.