Page 11 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

There’s a moment of silence. A long, pregnant pause. I can feel the unease building, stretching out between us like a taut wire. Dominic’s eyes widen just slightly—just enough for me to notice.

“What did he look like?” he asks.

I shrug, “They were wearing a mask… I have no idea.”

“I didn’t send anyone,” he finally says, his voice low and steady, almost incredulous. “I’ll admit last week I did. It’s protocol and you’re new here. I can’t just trust anyone. But not yesterday.”

My breath catches in my throat. I want to argue, to demand answers, but the way he says it... there’s a sincerity in his tone that I can’t ignore. But why would someone go through my things? And why would Dominic lie about it when he doesn’t care what anyone thinks about him?

I don’t have time to think, because before I know it, he’s taking a step closer, closing the distance between us. The space around us grows warmer, heavier, as if the garden itself isholding its breath. His presence is overwhelming. I feel it deep in my chest, a pull I can’t quite explain, like gravity itself is shifting. His scent—fresh, dark, and rich—fills my senses, and I try not to let it affect me.

He stops just inches away, his gaze never leaving mine. The pull between us crackles, thick and charged, a current of electricity I can’t escape. I glance at his lips—his strong, chiseled jawline, the faint scar beside his lip that I hadn’t noticed before. My fingers twitch, wanting to reach out, to touch it, but I stop myself. Getting too close to this man won’t do me any good.

But still, I linger, caught in the magnetic pull of his presence. And for the briefest moment, I wonder what it would be like to let go—to stop fighting the way he makes me feel.

But I can’t. I won’t.

Because I know, deep down, that getting close to Dominic Castellano won’t just break me. It will destroy me.

He looks at me for a long moment, his unblinking dark eyes look like they are weighing some decision, some unspoken thought before finally stepping back, breaking the tension between us. It suddenly feels colder now that his body isn’t close to mine and I can’t help but miss it a little.

“You don’t have to worry about your safety, Isabella,” he says softly. His voice now calm, but with an edge that’s hard to ignore. “You’re safe as long as you’re here.”

I nod, swallowing hard, watching him turn and walk away. And as his figure disappears into the shadows, a slow chill creeps down my back.

A storm is approaching and I’m a part of it. Despite the danger, knowing Dominic isn’t someone to be taken lightly, I know I won’t be able to rest until I know exactly what it is. I don’t think I’m ready but I need to keep up with Dominic if I want to figure out what exactly is going on.

Chapter 6 - Dominic

The evening brims with eagerness, the Castellano estate bathed in deepening shadows as preparations for the poker night unfold. I’ve spent days orchestrating every detail, ensuring nothing can go wrong. My staff moves like a well-oiled machine—trays of food circulating, bottles of wine uncorked, every corner polished to perfection.

Today’s game isn’t just another poker game; it’s a chess move in a larger plan. Tonight’s stakes are far more significant than the pile of chips on the table. Every decision I’ve made up until now has led to this moment. The Castellano name demands nothing less than precision, and tonight, I’ll deliver it.

But a feeling gnaws at me—an edge to my focus I can’t quite shake. I can’t seem to forget yesterday’s conversation with Isabella. There’s a rat in the house, snooping around, trying to uncover Isabella’s purpose. I need to figure out who it is before it’s too late.

I enter the kitchen, and the head chef’s booming voice echoes across the room, barking orders. The scent of freshly baked bread and simmering sauces fills the air. My gaze sweeps over the bustling chaos until it lands on a sight that freezes me mid-step.

Isabella.

She’s standing at the center of it all, a streak of flour on her wrist as she leans over the marble countertop, laughing softly. The sound of her laughter—it’s light, unguarded—hits me like a punch to the ribs. Her cheeks are flushed, her brown hairspilling over her shoulders. There’s a maddening allure about how she looks in this moment, she’s too radiant.

But as if jolted back to reality, I realize, she is not alone.

That damn assistant chef, some younger guy whose name I can’t recall, is standing too close, leaning in as he shows her how to roll dough. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms dusted with flour, and he’s smiling like he’s got a right to be that comfortable near her.

A knot of heat coils in my chest.

“What’s going on here?” My voice cuts through the room like a blade.

The kitchen falls silent, all motion halting. Isabella’s head snaps up, startled, her hands pausing mid-motion. For a split second, her eyes meet mine, wide and unguarded. Then, just as quickly, her expression shifts—warmth replaced by a sharper expression.

“I’m learning to bake a pie,” she says, her tone even, though there’s a touch of defiance in her voice. That defiance stirs a dangerous emotion in me.

“Do I look like I run a cooking school?” I snap, my gaze swinging to the assistant. He stiffens under my glare. “You. Get back to work. Now.”

The guy seems unsure, his eyes darting to Isabella, and that small act of loyalty grates against me. But he’s not stupid. He mutters a quick, “Yes, sir,” before retreating to the far end of the kitchen.

“Was that really necessary?” Isabella demands, her tone stone despite her lethal expression. Her hair falls into her face,and she brushes it back with a floured hand, smudging her cheek in the process.

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