Chapter 10 - The Sovereign’s Sanctuary
Rhett turned on his heel, re-entering apartment 2B.
He did not look at the spilled pastries or the broken key ring on the floor. He walked straight into the modest kitchen, where Dr. Vance had already knelt beside Isa on the linoleum.
The elderly physician was moving with quiet, surgical efficiency. He had administered a localized nerve block to Isa’s shoulder, his experienced hands gently palpating the joint before executing a smooth, practiced reduction. A soft thunk echoed in the small room as the humerus slipped back into the socket.
Isa let out a long, trembling gasp of relief, her eyes rolling shut as the agonizing pressure in her neck and back dissolved into a cool, medicated numbness.
Rhett knelt beside her, his massive frame folding onto the floorboards. He took her uninjured right hand between both of his large, warm palms, holding it with an unshakeable, reverent steadiness.
“How is she, Alan?” Rhett asked quietly.
Dr. Vance finished taping a stabilizing sling around Isa’s arm, his expression solemn. “The reduction was clean, Don Valin. Moderate soft-tissue contusions on the facial zygomatic arch, two cracked ribs on the left side, and defensive lacerations on the wrists. No intracranial hemorrhage. She needs forty-eight hours of strict bed rest, high-potency analgesics, and proper nutrition.”
“She’ll have it,” Rhett said.
Dr. Vance packed his instruments into the silver case, stood up, and bowed his head respectfully. “I will prepare the private medical suite at the Gold Coast residence. I’ll have the nurse waiting with the pharmaceuticals.”
“Thank you, Alan. Wait in the car.”
The doctor stepped out of the apartment, pulling the heavy timber door shut behind him, sealing the room once more in warm, quiet intimacy.
The pale February sunlight was beginning to brighten, casting long, golden bars across the linoleum, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Isa slowly opened her eyes. The terror that had haunted her for three years—the suffocating, perpetual dread of the footsteps in the hall, the sound of the key in the lock—had vanished. Her brown eyes were clear, luminous with an ocean of unshed tears as she looked up into the rugged, handsome face of the man kneeling beside her.
“He’s gone, Isa,” Rhett said softly, his gravelly baritone filling the quiet space like an unbreakable vow. “He will never touch you again. He will never speak your name again. Your past is dead.”
Isa’s chin quivered. A single, hot tear broke from her lower lashes, carving a clean path through the dried blood on her cheek before dropping onto his calloused fingers.
“Why?” Isa whispered, her voice cracking with raw, unadulterated vulnerability. “Why would you do this for me? I’m just… I’m just your housekeeper. I lied to you about who I was.”
Rhett looked down at her.
He did not look like the terrifying Don of Chicago who had just sentenced a high-ranking executive to exile with a whisper. His dark eyes softened, revealing the deep, ancient warmth of a man who had finally found the one thing in his vast empire that was worth bleeding for.
“You were never just a housekeeper to me, Isa,” Rhett said gently, his thumb brushing away the tear from her cheek. “You were the only peace in that entire house. And under my roof, nobody hurts what belongs to my heart.”
With agonizing, featherlight care, Rhett slid his powerful arms beneath her knees and shoulders.
He lifted her from the cold, blood-stained linoleum of the apartment floor, pulling her slender frame securely against his massive chest. Isa did not resist; she let out a soft, shuddering sigh of total surrender, resting her forehead against the hollow of his neck, her fingers curling weakly into the black silk of his shirt, breathing in the scent of cedarwood, leather, and absolute protection.
May you like
Rhett turned, carrying her out of the small, broken kitchen, down the narrow hallway, and past the open door.
He walked down the wooden stairs of Damen Avenue, out into the crisp, bright winter morning where his armored convoy waited. As the heavy steel doors of the Maybach clicked shut, sealing them inside a sanctuary of warm leather and impenetrable glass, the ghost of Isabelle Cross was buried forever in the snow—and Isa Voss began her life in the light of the sovereign who would burn the world before he ever let her fall again.
