Episode 4 — When the Devil Prays

Beeping.

That was the first thing Isabella heard.

Slow. Rhythmic. Endless.

Her eyelids felt heavy, glued shut. Her body ached in places she couldn’t name. Every breath burned like her lungs were learning to exist again.

Voices echoed faintly.

“...critical but stable.”

"...poisoned dart, sir. Rare compound.”

“...lucky she survived.”

Survived.

The word floated through the fog of her mind.

Pain followed.

A dull, spreading ache in her chest, her neck, her veins.

Isabella groaned softly.

Instantly, movement.

Warm hands closed around hers.

“Isabella.”

The voice was deep, hoarse, raw.

Her eyes fluttered open.

White light flooded her vision. Machines surrounded her. Tubes snaked into her arms. Monitors blinked and hummed beside the bed.

And standing over her is Dominic.

His hair was disheveled. His jaw unshaven. Dark shadows carved beneath his eyes. His suit jacket was gone, his white shirt wrinkled and faintly stained with blood.

Her blood.

“You’re awake,” he breathed.

Something in his expression broke her heart.

She swallowed painfully. “Did… did I die?”

His grip tightened around her hand.

“No,” he said firmly. “You don’t get to leave me that easily.”

Her lips trembled faintly.

“What happened?”

“Poisoned dart” he replied. “Long range weapon... a professional hit.”

Her breath hitched.

“Am I… safe?”

His jaw clenched.

“You’re breathing. For now.”

Fear crept into her chest.

“How long was I unconscious?”

“Thirty-six hours.”

Her eyes widened.

“Your heart stopped once,” he admitted quietly. “They brought you back.”

Tears welled.

“I thought I lost you,” he said.

The words shocked her more than the bullet ever could.

Dominic Blackwood did not fear.

He did not beg.

He did not break.

Yet here he stood, gripping her hand like a lifeline, eyes burning with something dangerously close to pain.

“I stayed,” he murmured. “Didn’t leave this room.”

Her heart squeezed.

“Why?” she whispered.

His gaze locked onto hers.

“Because,” he said, “they tried to take what belongs to me.”

The words should have frightened her.

Instead, they steadied her.

A strange sense of safety wrapped around her chest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I never meant to..."

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “This is not your fault.”

A beat.

“This is mine.”

Silence fell between them.

She studied his face, the tension, the exhaustion, the barely restrained fury.

“Who did this?” she asked.

His eyes darkened.

“Victor Hale.”

Her breath caught.

“The man from the gala.”

“He wanted to send a message,” Dominic said coldly. “He succeeded.”

“What message?”

“That no one I love survives.”

The word hit her harder than the dart.

Love!

Her throat tightened.

“You don’t...”

“I don’t use that word lightly,” he interrupted.

The machines hummed louder.

His thumb brushed across her knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“And now,” he continued quietly, “he’s made it personal.”

Three days later, Isabella was moved to Dominic’s private medical wing inside the estate.

It felt surreal.

Doctors came and went. Nurses whispered. Security doubled.

Dominic never left her side.

Not once.

He took meetings beside her bed. Issued orders in hushed lethal tones. Slept in a chair beside her, one hand always gripping hers.

At night, when pain dragged tears from her eyes, he held her until it passed.

When nightmares tore through her sleep, he pulled her into his chest, grounding her with whispered promises of protection.

The world began to shrink.

Until only him remained.

“You should rest,” she murmured one evening, watching him stare at security feeds.

“I will when you’re safe.”

“I am safe.”

He turned to her slowly.

“You are breathing,” he corrected. “That is not the same thing.”

Something about his voice made her chest ache.

“Why me?” she asked softly. “Why bring me into your war?”

He studied her for a long time.

“Because I thought I could control it,” he said. “I thought I could shield you.”

“And now?”

“And now,” he said darkly, “they’ve learned how to hurt me.”

Her heart pounded.

“Dominic…”

He stepped closer.

“Do you know what happens to men like Victor Hale?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head.

“They vanish,” he said. “Their names disappear. Their bloodlines end.”

Fear flickered in her chest.

“You’re going to kill him.”

“Yes.”

It wasn't anger, not rage, but certainty.

“I don’t want more blood,” she whispered.

He lifted her chin gently.

“I do,” he said. “So you don’t have to.”

Their eyes locked.

Something dangerous pulsed between them.

“You’re changing,” she said.

“So are you.”

The nightmare came three nights later.

Isabella jolted awake, heart hammering, sweat soaking her skin.

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was.

Then... the window.

It was open.

Her breath caught.

The curtains fluttered violently.

Her pulse thundered as she slowly turned her head.

A shadow stood at the far end of the room.

Tall.

Still.

Watching.

Her scream lodged in her throat.

The shadow moved.

Too fast.

She barely had time to gasp before hands clamped over her mouth, dragging her from the bed.

Pain exploded as she struggled, nails scraping against cold skin.

A voice whispered in her ear:

“Tell your husband the game has begun.”

Suddenly, the lights flooded on.

Gunshots cracked.

The shadow released her, leaping backward as bullets shattered glass and marble.

Dominic stormed in, weapon raised, eyes wild.

“ISABELLA!”

The intruder crashed through the window, disappearing into the night.

Isabella collapsed to the floor, trembling violently.

Dominic dropped beside her, pulling her into his arms.

She shook uncontrollably.

“He was here,” she sobbed. “He was here.”

Dominic held her so tightly she could barely breathe.

“I know,” he murmured. “And now…”

His gaze hardened.

“…he’s crossed the final line.”

Outside, alarms blared.

Searchlights swept the grounds.

But Isabella knew.

This wasn’t over.

This was only the beginning.

And the war for her life had just begun.