Page 24 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

He shrugs, unbothered. “I walk into danger every day.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be reckless.”

An inkling of apprehension strains his features, the corner of his mouth pressing into a hard line. For a second, I think he’s going to ignore me, brush me off like he always does. But then, there’s a shift.

A pause.

And then—he moves.

Not much, just one step, but it’s enough. Enough to burn a fire inside me. Enough to make me aware of just how close we are, how little space separates us.

His fingers graze my cheek, the touch impossibly light but purposeful. I stiffen, but I don’t move away. He trails his knuckles along my jaw, his touch lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. The warmth of his skin burns against mine, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“You don’t belong in this world, Isabella.” His voice is softer now, but no less firm. A warning. A command.

I swallow hard, my skin still tingling where he touched me.

Then, just like that—he turns and walks away.

Every instinct in my body screams at me to turn around, to go back inside where it’s safe, where I belong. But my body refuses to listen. My legs are already moving, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps as I make my way toward the idling car near the entrance. The low rumble of the engine vibrates through the still night, its headlights cutting through the thick fog veiling the darkness.My hands tremble as I reach for the door handle, my heartbeat a frantic drum against my ribs.

I glance around, my pulse hammering in my ears. No one’s paying attention. The guards are too busy shifting crates, their hushed conversations blending into the night. Dominic is already pulling away, his taillights glowing red like a warning, disappearing down the long driveway.

This is insane. Reckless. Stupid.

I should stay. Pretend I never heard anything, go back to my room, lock the door, and forget that Dominic Castellano is walking straight into danger.

But I can’t.

My chest tenses, making it impossible to ignore the gnawing dread twisting in my stomach. I don’t want to admit why I care—why the thought of anything happening to him makes my insides knot with fear.

My fingers tighten around the handle. Before I can second-guess myself, before logic can override my impulse, I yank the door open and slide into the driver’s seat.

The moment I settle behind the wheel, my hands gripping the cool leather, reality slams into me. The engine thrums beneath my fingertips, a soft, steady vibration, as if taunting me with the decision I’ve just made. My breathing is shallow, my mind racing.

I could still turn back.

But Dominic’s car is getting further away.

I suck in a deep breath, steadying my hands. My heart pounds so violently I feel it in my throat, but I force my foot onto the gas.

With one last, shaky inhale, I follow him into the unknown.

I feel like I have been driving for hours when the destination comes into view.

The industrial district is cold, the kind that seeps into your bones, wrapping around you like an unwelcome embrace. The scent of saltwater and rust lingers in the air, sharp and metallic,mixing with the distant stench of gasoline. A damp breeze drifts in from the harbor, carrying with it the faint, rhythmic slap of waves against the dock. The sound is oddly soothing, a steady contrast to the erratic thudding of my heartbeat. Overhead, a few dim streetlights cast long, fractured shadows across the cracked pavement. The warehouses loom like silent sentinels, their towering structures dark and foreboding, hollowed-out skeletons of a city that never quite sleeps.

I keep a cautious distance, my fingers clenching the steering wheel as Dominic’s car rolls to a stop in a secluded patch of the pier, hidden between stacks of shipping containers. He moves with precision, calculated and deliberate, exiting the car without hesitation. My breath catches in my throat as I watch him from behind the windshield, my pulse hammering against my ribs. The distant rumble of a cargo ship in the harbor is the only sound besides the blood rushing in my ears.

Then—he reaches into the backseat.

I lean forward, my hands gripping the dashboard as I strain to see what he’s doing. And then I see it.

My painting.

The realization slams into me like a freight train, confusion tightening around my chest. Why would he bring it here? What possible reason could he have to take a piece so personal and bring it to a place that radiates danger? My thoughts spiral, grasping for logic, but before I can make sense of it, something else steals my attention.

Movement.

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