Chapter 10

10

ISOLDE

T he sound of Deirdre’s voice still echoed in Isolde’s head, her words circling like vultures over carrion. They’re coming for her. Isolde hadn’t been able to breathe, much less move, until Callum’s hands—strong, steady, unyielding—had gripped her shoulders.

Now, she could barely keep up with him.

“Callum!” she snapped as he practically dragged her through the penthouse, his long strides eating up the floor. “Slow down! What’s happening?”

His phone was already at his ear, the low rumble of his voice so sharp it felt like a blade. “We’re coming in hot. Have the gates open, and make sure the house is ready.”

“Who are you calling?” she demanded, but he ignored her, his eyes scanning the windows as if expecting them to shatter at any second.

His silence only added to the suffocation she felt in her chest. Her heart thundered as he grabbed a black duffel bag from a hall closet—one that clinked ominously—and swept her coat around her shoulders before pulling her out the door.

“Callum, stop?—”

“Not now, Isolde,” he said, his tone a warning, clipped and harsh. “Move.”

The air and silence between them was almost suffocating. The slam of the door as he shoved her in the vehicle reverberated through her, jolting her spine. Callum rounded the car and slid into the driver’s seat, the vehicle roaring to life beneath his hands.

“Callum,” she said again, her voice shaking. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at her, his expression set like granite, his jaw tight enough to crack as he exited the underground lot.

The SUV lurched forward, tires squealing as they hit the slick pavement. Rain hammered against the windshield, but Callum barely seemed to notice, his hands steady on the wheel as they tore through the Dublin streets. The city lights smeared into streaks of white and gold, everything outside a blur of wet darkness.

“You’re going too fast!” she said, grabbing onto the door handle as the SUV swerved sharply around a corner.

“Buckle up,” he ordered.

“I am buckled,” she snapped back, “but that won’t help if you wrap us around a lamppost!”

He ignored her again, the faint glow of his phone illuminating his face as it buzzed with a message. Without taking his eyes off the road, he swiped the screen, read the notification, and let out a low curse.

“Care to tell me what’s going on?” Isolde pressed, frustration rising to match her fear. “You can’t just drag me out of my life without answers, Callum!”

His knuckles flexed around the wheel, the stiffness in his shoulders evident. “I told you,” he said finally, his voice a dangerous calm. “Lynch won’t stop until he has what he wants. Tonight proved that.”

“And Deirdre?” she shot back. “Who is she? How does she know so much?”

His jaw ticked. “No one you need to worry about.”

“That’s not good enough!”

Callum’s gaze cut to her, the sheer intensity he found there stealing the air from his lungs. “It’ll have to be,” he said.

The SUV took a sharp turn onto a narrow road, rainwater splashing up like waves from the tires. Beyond the city, the streets stretched into darkness flanked by tall hedges and the distant silhouettes of trees. Isolde’s pulse pounded harder as she realized they weren’t heading for her home. They were leaving the city entirely.

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Someplace safer,” Callum said, and that was all.

Callum backed his foot off the accelerator as he approached a massive set of iron gates looming ahead, their wrought-iron spires rising like the teeth of a beast. Isolde opened her mouth to tell him to stop—surely they couldn’t just barge in—but the gates creaked, splitting open as if they’d been expecting him.

“What is this place?” she breathed, craning her neck to see the sprawling neighborhood beyond the gates.

“Private,” was all Callum offered as he pressed down on the accelerator again, speeding through winding lanes that curved like serpents between massive estates. Through the sheets of rain, Isolde caught glimpses of sprawling lawns, hedges manicured to perfection, and stone mansions that seemed to loom in the shadows like sentinels.

As they approached a second set of gates—these even taller and heavier than the first—Isolde’s hands curled into fists. He’s not going to stop.

“Callum—”

Before she could finish, the gates swung open, and the SUV shot through. The driveway ahead was long and sweeping, flanked by rows of massive trees that swayed violently in the wind. At the end of the lane, an imposing mansion came into view—a monolith of stone and glass, its wide windows glowing faintly with light.

Callum drove straight up to the entrance, the SUV skidding to a halt in the circular drive.

All Isolde could hear was the hammering of her heart and the steady rhythm of the rain. She turned to Callum, her mouth opening to demand an explanation—but before she could speak, movement caught her eye.

The house was surrounded.

Armed men emerged from the shadows, their weapons held close to their chests, their eyes scanning the area with ruthless efficiency. One of them approached Callum’s door and knocked twice.

Callum didn’t flinch. He turned to Isolde, his expression unreadable. “Stay close to me. Don’t say a word unless I tell you to.”

Her chest tightened as he stepped out into the rain, walking around to open her door. The storm swallowed her whole as she stepped out, her coat plastered to her skin. Callum’s hand came to rest on the small of her back, steady and possessive, as he guided her toward the house.

“What is this place?” she asked again, her voice all but drowned out by the downpour.

“Sanctuary,” he said simply.

The men parted as they approached the massive double doors. One of them nodded to Callum, his voice barely audible over the storm. “All clear, sir.”

Callum didn’t respond. He pushed the doors open, ushering Isolde inside.

The mansion’s interior was even more intimidating than the exterior—polished marble floors gleamed beneath chandeliers, and wide staircases stretched up toward shadowed halls. Isolde turned to Callum, shivering slightly as she hugged her coat tighter around herself. He halted their progression as he pulled his phone from his pocket.

“What is this really ?” she demanded. “Why are there men with guns outside? Who are you calling, Callum? Who are you hiding me from?”

Callum turned to face her, his dark eyes locking onto hers. The storm outside had followed him in—it radiated from him, alive and crackling. “You’ll get answers when it’s safe,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Until then, you listen to me. You stay close, and you don’t argue.”

Her chest rose and fell with her rapid breath, frustration warring with fear. “And if I don’t?”

Callum stepped closer, his gaze dropping to her lips, then back to her eyes. “Then I’ll make you.”

He removed her coat and handed her a towel with which she could dry. He led her into an enormous sitting room with a roaring fire and had her sit on a lovely Chesterfield couch.

Her pulse leapt at his words, at the absolute certainty in them. She should have been furious—outraged at his arrogance—but instead, all she could feel was the heat rolling off him, the storm between them building until it threatened to consume her. There was something about the way he looked at her that sent a thrill through her system. And although she would never admit it, every time he threatened to spank her, she could feel the words in her pussy.

She’d seen the couples in Baker Street who didn’t just play at the D/s lifestyle but lived it. At first, she’d found the idea of submitting to any man abhorrent, but the more she visited Baker Street and got to know the submissives there, the more she longed to find a dominant man to whom she could truly submit. The strength of the women she’d met—JJ, Olivia, Rhiannon, and the rest—had made her re-evaluate her ideas around dominance and submission.

Before she could find her voice, Callum turned away, speaking to the men gathered in the foyer. “Double the security. No one gets in or out unless I say.”

The men nodded, dispersing silently as Callum turned back to her.

“Welcome to your new home,” he said darkly.

And as she stared up at him, it was as if she could feel his words settling over her like chains. Isolde knew instinctively that everything had changed, and nothing would ever be the same again.

Isolde sat stiffly on the leather couch, her hands clasped in her lap, trying—and failing—not to focus on the man pacing in front of her.

Callum hadn’t said much since they entered the mansion, dragging her into this sprawling, fortress-like house. Instead, he’d ushered her to the plush leather sofa, practically forcing her to sit before pulling out his phone.

He was speaking again—his voice a low growl in his native tongue, a language that rolled off his tongue like fine Irish whiskey. Gaelic, she recognized, though she only understood a word here and there. House. Security. Trouble.

The rest was lost to her, but the sharpness in his tone told her enough: he was angry. Dangerous. And so damn sure of himself.

Callum turned sharply, his dark eyes glinting like that of a predator. He wasn’t a man who belonged in soft, warm rooms like this—he was made for battlefields and violence. It was in the way he moved, every step deliberate, controlled, like he could unleash himself at any moment.

“You’re growling,” she said finally, her voice breaking through the quiet of the room.

Callum’s head snapped toward her, his gaze sharp. He wasn’t holding the phone to his ear anymore, but his fingers flexed around it like he wished it were someone’s neck.

“Stay put,” he said, his voice low, as if he hadn’t even heard her observation.

Isolde scowled. “I am staying put.”

He resumed pacing without replying, running a hand through his dark hair before dialing another number. Isolde watched as he muttered into the phone again, the sharp edge to his voice making her stomach twist. He switched between English and Gaelic so fluidly it made her dizzy, though his clipped tone in either language left no room for misinterpretation. Whoever was on the other end was getting orders—and they were taking them without argument.

“You’re barking orders,” she muttered under her breath, though she knew he heard her.

Callum didn’t stop pacing. “Because I need them followed.”

“And what about me?” she asked, the bite in her voice bolder than she felt. “You keep throwing me into situations without a single damn explanation, Callum. I deserve to know what’s going on.”

The flicker of something dangerous sparked in his gaze as he turned to face her fully, his shoulders squared, his expression unreadable. “What you deserve,” he said, his voice calm but seething with authority, “is …” he paused and seemed to gather himself… “is to stay alive.”

The way he said it—like it was non-negotiable—made her pulse quicken.

“I don’t need you babysitting me,” she shot back, but her voice lacked the force she wanted.

He growled low in his throat and resumed pacing, muttering something in Gaelic she didn’t catch. She slumped back against the couch in frustration, folding her arms tightly over her chest.

The man was impossible.

Her emotions tangled in knots, looping over themselves until she didn’t know what to feel anymore. Fear, for the faceless men Callum had dragged her away from. Anger, for the way he handled her—like she was something fragile and untrustworthy. But beneath it all was a heat that simmered in her veins, a slow burn she hated herself for feeling.

It wasn’t fair.

She hated that she noticed the way his muscles flexed under the crisp line of his shirt every time he moved. She hated that his voice—so dark, so rough—sent an electric current racing down her spine every time he spoke. She hated that he made her feel safe, even as she wanted to slap him for treating her like a possession.

He’s a predator, she thought, watching him move. Everything about him screams danger.

The set of his shoulders, the way he prowled from one end of the room to the other—it was all too controlled, like he was holding something dark and primal at bay. His sharp eyes cut to her every few moments, checking to see if she’d moved, and each time she shifted even an inch, he let out that low, irritated growl that made the hair on her arms stand on end.

“Stop growling,” she snapped again, though her voice was softer this time, her pulse betraying her.

He stopped pacing. Just stopped, like his body had turned to stone. The room seemed to still with him as he slowly turned to face her.

“Then stop moving,” he said, his voice quiet, lethal.

Isolde froze, her breath catching in her throat. Light danced across his features, throwing shadows over the sharp lines of his jaw and the dark scruff dusting his skin. His gaze pinned her to the couch, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away.

The room crackled with something she didn’t want to name. Something dangerous and hot and far too consuming.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Callum’s gaze tracked the movement, his eyes darkening.

“You’re scaring me,” she said finally, though her voice wavered for a different reason entirely.

Callum’s expression shifted, softening just a fraction as he stepped closer to the couch. “Good,” he murmured. “If you’re scared, maybe you’ll listen to me.”

“I’m not some puppet you can control,” she shot back, lifting her chin stubbornly.

“No,” he said quietly, his gaze locked on hers as he loomed over her. “You’re not. But you are mine to protect.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver racing through her, her body betraying her again with that unwanted, traitorous heat.

She pressed back against the couch, trying to ignore the way his nearness made her pulse flutter. “You can’t keep me here forever.”

Callum smiled faintly, though the darkness in his eyes didn’t waver. “Try me.”

Neither of them moved as the atmosphere between them grew heavy, cloying and almost suffocating. Finally, Callum let out a slow breath and ran a hand down his face. “I need you to trust me, Isolde.”

She blinked, surprised by the rough honesty in his tone. “Trust you? You’ve kidnapped me, locked me in your house, and dragged me into some criminal nightmare?—”

“No, you stumbled into that when you witnessed the murder at the gala.”

“Why haven’t I heard anything about that in the news?”

“Because the cops are smart enough to keep their noses out of things that don’t concern them.”

“Murder doesn’t concern them?”

“Some murders do, and some don’t. Keep in mind, I saved your life,” he answered, his voice a low, gravelly promise.

Her throat tightened as she looked up at him. “Why?” she whispered.

Callum didn’t answer immediately. Then he crouched down in front of her, his broad hands resting on his knees as he looked her dead in the eyes. “Because losing you isn’t an option, mo chroí . Whether you like it or not, you’re under my protection now. And I don’t fail.”

Her chest rose and fell with her uneven breath, her heart hammering at the intensity in his voice. He wasn’t just speaking words—he was making a promise, one carved in stone.

Before she could respond, his phone buzzed again. Callum stood, his gaze lingering on her for a beat longer before he answered it, turning away as he walked toward the windows.

Isolde stayed where she was, watching him as he spoke, his voice low and controlled. The predator was back, pacing slowly, his hand curled into a fist at his side as he listened to whoever was on the other end.

What have I gotten myself into?