Chapter 7

7

ISOLDE

T he relentless plodding of Walsh’s shoes against the polished floors of the Fitzwilliam Foundation had become a sound Isolde could no longer bear. Every time she turned, there he was—hovering, shadowing her, his presence an unyielding reminder of the danger that had quietly infiltrated her life. Even when he didn’t speak, his watchful gaze said enough: You’re not safe.

She hated it.

More than that, she hated the way Callum Kavanagh’s name seemed to linger in her mind like a whisper in the dark. His note about Eoin Lynch had been a warning, yes, but it had also felt like a claim. The thought ignited something volatile within her—a mix of rebellion and something far more dangerous.

When Walsh stepped out to take a call, she seized her chance. Leaving her phone deliberately on her desk, Isolde slipped out of her office, weaving through the emptying halls of the Foundation’s headquarters. By the time Walsh returned, she would be gone.

The scent of coffee and fresh-baked bread wafted through the air as Isolde stepped into the warm confines of the Fitzwilliam Foundation’s homeless shelter. The building was alive with quiet activity: volunteers moving between tables, clients eating modest dinners, and staff quietly managing the organized chaos. Isolde had always found solace in this place, where the work felt immediate and raw, untainted by the politics and pretenses of her world.

She rolled up her sleeves, tying on an apron as she greeted the familiar faces among the shelter’s staff. “Put me to work, Moira,” she said with a small smile, addressing the shelter’s coordinator, an older woman with a kind face and sharp eyes.

“Always good to see you here, love,” Moira replied. “You can help serve tonight. Full house as usual.”

For hours, Isolde moved between the tables, serving bowls of stew and warm bread, her polite words and soft smiles met with gratitude that tugged at her heart. Many of the faces she saw were the same ones she’d seen on previous visits, etched with the hard lines of life’s relentless trials. She wondered, not for the first time, how different her life might have been if she hadn’t been born a Fitzwilliam. If she hadn’t grown up in a world of privilege, would she have ended up here too, fighting for her next meal?

By the time the shelter began to wind down for the evening, exhaustion had settled in her bones. She helped the staff stack chairs and wipe down tables, the mundane tasks grounding her in a way that the polished sterility of the Foundation’s offices never could.

“Thanks, love,” Moira said as Isolde hefted the last trash bag from the kitchen. “That’s the last of it. I’d walk you out, but?—”

“Don’t worry about me,” Isolde interrupted with a reassuring smile. “I’ve got it.”

She pushed through the heavy metal door at the back of the shelter, stepping into the dimly lit alley. The smell of rain-dampened concrete mingled with the stale scent of garbage. It was a quiet night, the city’s usual clamor muted by the lateness of the hour.

She tossed the bag into the dumpster with a satisfying thud, brushing her hands together to rid them of invisible dirt. For an instant, she stood there, letting the cool air wash over her, a reprieve from the suffocating watchfulness she’d endured all week.

Then she heard it—a faint shuffle, just out of sight.

Her heart leapt into her throat as she turned sharply, her eyes scanning the shadows. “Hello?” she called, her voice steady despite the sudden spike of adrenaline.

Nothing.

She took a cautious step back toward the door, her fingers tightening around the handle of the dumpster for support. The alley was narrow, flanked by tall brick walls that seemed to close in around her. The faint hum of a streetlight buzzed above, casting long shadows that flickered ominously.

Another sound—a scrape, closer this time.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice sharper now.

A figure emerged from the shadows, and her breath caught in her throat. For one terrifying moment, she thought it might be Lynch or one of his men. But as the figure stepped into the light, the unmistakable shape of Callum filled her vision.

“Christ, Callum,” she breathed, her voice trembling with a mix of relief and anger. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his dark eyes scanning her from head to toe, his expression unreadable. He looked utterly out of place in the alley, his tailored coat and sharp features an eerie contrast to the grit and grime around him. But his presence was no less commanding for it—if anything, it was more so.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, his voice low and edged with steel. “It’s not safe.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking out the trash,” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t need you—or Walsh—hovering over me like some kind of personal bodyguard.”

Callum stepped closer, the heat of his presence sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. “You left your phone at the office,” he said, his tone accusatory. “Do you have any idea how reckless that was?”

She glared at him, refusing to back down. “Reckless? I’m not the one dragging innocent people into criminal turf wars.”

His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not the one who wandered into a world she doesn’t understand. But here you are, Isolde.”

Her breath hitched as he closed the distance between them, his gaze dark and intense. “You can’t keep doing this,” she said, her voice trembling despite her defiance. “Showing up, warning me, acting like you have any right to control my life.”

“Control?” he echoed, his tone mocking. “If I wanted control, love, you wouldn’t be here arguing with me. You’d be safe in my bed, under my watch, where Lynch’s men couldn’t touch you.”

She froze at his words, her pulse pounding in her ears. His words sank into her, the danger she’d been trying to ignore crashing down like a tidal wave. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing. “And you?” she asked, her voice quiet but firm. “Why are you here, Callum? Is it just about Lynch, or is this about you?”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes—something raw and unguarded. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the cold, calculated man she’d come to expect.

“It doesn’t matter why I’m here,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “What matters is that you’re not safe. Not from Lynch, not from Bradford, and certainly not from me.”

Her heart thundered in her chest as his words hung between them, heavy and undeniable. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her arm. The contact sent a jolt of arousal surging through her veins—hot and sweet—and she hated the way her body responded to him, her breath hitching, her resolve faltering.

“Go away, Callum. Leave me alone,” she snarled. She was fed up with everyone and their brother telling her what to do. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

“I told you before,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise. “This isn’t over, Isolde. Not by a long shot.”

As he stepped back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared, Isolde stood frozen in the alley, her pulse racing, her mind a whirlwind of fear and frustration.

She didn’t know what scared her more: the danger that surrounded her—or the way Callum Kavanagh made her feel.

The night was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and the faint, off-putting tang of fear. Isolde’s breath came in short, uneven bursts as she rounded a corner, the muted glow of a flickering streetlamp doing little to illuminate the shadowed alleyways. Her earlier determination to steal a moment of solitude now seemed reckless, her own steps echoing like a countdown to disaster.

She froze mid-step as the sound of voices reached her ears. Low and gruff, she could hear the underlying intent in them, the kind of intent that made her skin prickle with unease. She didn’t understand all the words, but she heard enough: her name, spoken with an edge that sent a chill racing down her spine.

“Keep moving,” another voice growled, closer now. “She couldn’t have gotten far.”

Her stomach twisted, the reality of Callum’s warnings crashing down on her with brutal clarity. This wasn’t paranoia. It was real. And she was in over her head.

Before she could retreat, a hand clamped around her wrist, pulling her with a force that stole the air from her lungs. She was yanked into the shadows of a narrow alcove, the rough brick wall pressing cold and unforgiving against her back. Panic surged, but before she could scream, another hand—strong, unyielding—covered her mouth.

“Quiet,” Callum’s voice rasped in her ear, low and dangerous. His body pressed against hers, shielding her completely from view as the sounds of heavy boots drew closer. The heat from his body was a stark contrast to the cold dread creeping through her veins. She felt trapped, consumed by the sheer dominance of his presence, but she didn’t fight. Not with danger so close. Instead, she clung to him as if he was a lifeline in the building maelstrom that threatened to consume her.

The thundering of her heart drowned out the distant hum of the city, her pulse hammering against her ribs as if trying to break free. Callum’s hands were firm, one still covering her mouth, the other braced against the wall beside her head, caging her in. Yet, for all their strength, there was a gentleness to his touch that confused her. A care that belied the violence she knew him capable of.

The voices grew louder.

“She was supposed to be here,” one man muttered, his tone laced with frustration. “I saw her go in the alley.”

“Then where the hell is she?” another snapped. “The boss isn’t going to like this.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe you want to tell him we lost her,” a third voice shot back, dripping with sarcasm. “Be my guest.”

The first man grumbled something unintelligible before another voice chimed in, quieter but sharper. “What does he even want with her? She doesn’t seem like the usual?—”

A dull thud interrupted the question, followed by a pained grunt. “It’s not our job to ask questions,” the third man snarled. “We follow orders. Got it?”

Isolde’s breath hitched as the full impact of their words sank in. The boss. Whoever they worked for, it wasn’t Callum. This was someone else—someone who had sent these men after her with a purpose she didn’t want to understand.

Callum’s hand pressed more firmly against her mouth, his body a solid wall of protection against hers as he listened intently. She could feel the antagonism coiled in him, the predator lurking just beneath the surface, ready to strike if the situation called for it.

The men’s voices began to fade as they moved farther down the alley, their heavy footsteps echoing in the still night. Isolde’s body trembled, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she struggled to catch her breath. Only when the silence stretched long and unbroken did Callum finally release her.

“What the hell—” she began, her voice a whisper, but he silenced her with a sharp look, his finger pressed against her lips.

His eyes burned into hers, dark and intense, and in that fleeting moment, the danger of the alley was eclipsed by the danger of him. The heat between them was intense, a volatile mix of fear, anger, and something far more primal.

“Not here,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “Not yet.”

He stepped back just enough to let her move, his hand wrapping firmly around her wrist as he guided her out of the alcove and down a side street. The grip wasn’t painful, but it left no room for argument. Isolde knew better than to protest. She followed, her heart still racing, her mind a whirlwind of questions and emotions she couldn’t begin to untangle.

When they finally emerged into the faint glow of a busier street, Callum stopped abruptly, turning to face her. His hands came up to cup her face, his touch startlingly gentle as he tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he said, his tone a mix of anger and concern. “Running off, ignoring the warnings. You don’t understand the game you’re in, Isolde, and it’s going to get you killed.”

Her eyes burned with defiance, though her voice trembled when she spoke. “I didn’t ask to be in this game, Callum. I don’t even know what this is.”

“This,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “is survival. And you’re not going to make it if you don’t start listening to me.”

She pulled back from his touch, her pulse quickening for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. “You don’t get to dictate my life. You don’t own me.”

His dark chuckle sent a shiver down her spine, his gaze locking onto hers with unrelenting intensity. “Not yet,” he said, the words both a promise and a warning. “But you’re mine to protect, whether you like it or not.”

Her breath hitched, the strength of his claim awakening something deep and dark inside her. She wanted to argue, to tell him he had no right, but the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, some part of her knew he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Before she could respond, his phone buzzed, the sound breaking the tension like a blade slicing through taut fabric. He glanced at the screen, his expression darkening as he read the message.

“We need to move,” he said, his voice all business now. “It’s not safe here.”

His words sent a shiver through her, but it wasn’t just fear. It was the way he said it, like a vow carved in stone, unyielding and absolute. The world she thought she knew had shifted irrevocably, and she wasn’t sure if she was terrified or relieved.

“Callum—” she began, but he cut her off with a low growl that sent heat pooling in her belly.

“You don’t get to argue with me about this, Isolde,” he said, his voice a razor’s edge. “Someone tried to hurt you tonight. They’ll try again. Until we get them shut down, you don’t take a step without me.”

She wanted to fight him, to push him away and reclaim the autonomy she felt slipping through her fingers. But the intensity in his voice and eyes—were a lifeline she hadn’t known she needed. And God help her, she felt safer here, pressed against this wall with Callum shielding her, than she had in weeks.

As they disappeared into the shadows once more, Isolde felt as if her life was no longer her own. Callum had dragged her into his world—a world of danger and intrigue where nothing was as it seemed. And as much as she hated to admit it, part of her didn’t want to leave.

“This is insane,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“This is survival,” he countered, his hand coming up to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. The gentleness of the gesture was at odds with the lethal power she could feel radiating off him. “And you’re lucky I found you before they did.”

Her heart raced, a wild drumbeat that echoed in the hollow space between them. “You can’t just… take over my life,” she said, though the protest sounded weak even to her own ears.

His lips curved into a dangerous smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I can. And I will.”

The raw certainty in his voice made her knees weak, and she hated herself for the way her body responded to him. She should be afraid, furious even. But instead, all she could think about was how the heat of his body pressed against hers chased away the cold that had seeped into her bones.

The sound of distant footsteps broke the moment, and Callum tensed, his head snapping toward the source. His hand came to rest on her hip, steadying her as he shifted slightly to block her from view. She didn’t dare move, her breath caught in her throat as the voices from earlier faded into the night.

When he turned back to her, his expression was darker, more dangerous than before. “This isn’t over. Whoever sent them won’t stop until they get what they want. And right now, that’s you.”

Her stomach twisted at his words, fear clawing at her chest. “Why me?” she whispered. “I’m just… no one. I don’t understand.”

His hand tightened on her hip, the pressure grounding her. “You’re not no one, Isolde. You’re in this now, whether you realize it or not. But as long as I’m here, they won’t touch you.”

The promise in his voice was as terrifying as it was comforting. She wanted to push him away, to fight the hold he had on her, but the truth was undeniable. She needed him. And that realization scared her more than anything else.

“I don’t trust you,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“You don’t have to,” he replied, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “You just have to stay alive.”

The words hung heavy in the air until Callum finally stepped back. The absence of his warmth was startling, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable.

“Come on,” he said, his tone softer now, though no less commanding. “We’re leaving.”

She hesitated, her mind a whirlwind of emotions she couldn’t untangle. But as she looked up at him, at the storm in his eyes and the strength in his posture, she knew there was no choice.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice steadying.

Callum’s lips curved into that dangerous smile again, a glint of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “Somewhere they can’t find you.”

And as he took her hand, leading her out of the shadows and into the night, Isolde couldn’t shake the feeling that her world had just been turned upside down. She wasn’t sure if she was running from danger—or deeper into it.