Page 21 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

Too many.

Isabella wouldn’t understand. She doesn’t know this world, doesn’t grasp what it means to be responsible for so many lives. But that’s not the problem. The problem is that some part of me wants her to understand. Wants her to see the man I used to be, the man I might still be, buried under all this. I shake my head, disgusted with myself. This is weakness, plain and simple. And I can’t afford weakness. Not now. Not ever.

Tomorrow, Pier 12 will bring answers—or more questions. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Because in the end, there’s only one truth I can rely on.

Power comes with a price. And I’ll pay it, no matter what it costs me.

Chapter 9 - Isabella

My room feels different.

It’s an unsettling realization, the kind that prickles at the back of my neck even before I know why. I step away from the bed, bare feet pressing against the cool wooden floor, and scan the space for whatever is causing this feeling.

Then, I see it.

The painting is gone.

I stare at the empty space where it had stood just last night, the faint outline of paint-smudged fingerprints still visible on the easel’s edges. A strange mix of frustration and confusion twists inside me.

Dominic.

It has to be him.

I wrap my arms around myself, frowning. The painting was his commission, but he didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me he was taking it. That alone ignites rage inside me. I should feel relief that it’s finally out of my hands, that I won’t have to stare at it anymore, wondering why I felt compelled to make it perfect.

But instead, I feel… robbed. Because this painting wasn’t just a transaction. At least not for me. It was mine, too. A piece of me.

And now, it’s gone.

I let out a slow breath, trying to shake the prickle of unease crawling over my skin. It’s not just the missing painting that unsettles me—it’s everything else.

The house feels different. On edge.

I first noticed it in small ways—the added security, the whispered conversations in the hallways that stopped when I entered. But now, standing in my bedroom, I realize it’s not just in my head.

Something is happening.

And I need to find out what.

I grab a shawl from the chair, wrapping it around my shoulders before stepping out onto the stone pathway that leads to the garden.

The night air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and the distant salt of the sea. The garden, usually a sanctuary of color and fragrance, feels different tonight. The roses seem darker under the silver moonlight, their petals curling in on themselves as if they, too, sense the approaching danger.

But it’s not just the stillness that unnerves me—it’s the movement.

Unfamiliar men weave in and out of the house, their shadows long against the lantern-lit pathway. Some carry heavy black cases, their expressions grim, their voices low. Others speak in hushed tones, their words clipped and urgent.

Weapons. Guns.

The realization clicks into place as I see one of the men discreetly open a case near the garage. The metallic gleam of a gun catches the light before he snaps it shut again.

My pulse jumps.

I know this world—at least, I know what it looks like from the outside. Demitri has been involved with the wrong people ever since he was in high school, and while he rarely confided in me, I wasn’t blind. I had seen the signs.

This isn’t business as usual.

This is more than that.

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