The Rules

Chapter Six

At seven forty-five, I was still standing in front of my closet.

I had no idea what something you can move in meant.

A dress?

Jeans?

Something elegant?

Something practical?

I hated that I was even thinking about it.

I pulled on black jeans, a fitted dark sweater, and ankle boots. I tied my hair back and looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked ordinary.

Young.

Almost painfully young.

For a second, I wondered what Damien saw when he looked at me.

A witness?

A liability?

A frightened girl he could control?

I didn't want to know.

I grabbed my coat.

Before leaving, I looked at my father's photograph on my nightstand.

"Please be okay," I whispered.

Then I left.

The black SUV was waiting downstairs.

Of course it was.

Victor stepped out.

"You came."

"I almost didn't."

"I know."

I narrowed my eyes.

"Does Damien know everything I do?"

"Almost."

"That's terrifying."

Victor opened the rear door.

"Get in."

I did.

This time, the drive felt shorter.

Maybe because I wasn't surprised anymore.

Maybe because I knew I was heading toward the most dangerous man I'd ever met.

When the gates of Damien's estate opened, I noticed something different.

There were more men outside.

Two near the entrance.

Two near the garage.

Another standing beside the garden wall.

Security.

Lots of it.

I looked at Victor.

"Is something happening?"

"Not tonight."

"Then why all the guards?"

"Because Damien doesn't take chances."

I stepped out of the car.

The front doors opened before I reached them.

A woman stood inside.

She was probably in her late fifties, elegant and severe, with silver-blonde hair pulled into a perfect bun.

She looked at me.

Then at Victor.

"She's the girl?"

Victor nodded.

The woman looked me over.

I immediately disliked her.

"Mrs. Moretti," she said.

"Lena."

Her eyebrow lifted.

"Come."

I glanced at Victor.

He said nothing.

I followed her.

We walked through a long corridor.

"Who are you?"

"Isabella De Luca."

That name meant something.

I had seen it in the newspapers.

Not recently.

Years ago.

The De Luca family.

A name associated with businesses, scandals, disappearances and rumors.

I looked at her.

"Are you Damien's mother?"

"His aunt."

She stopped in front of a set of double doors.

"One piece of advice."

I waited.

"Do not mistake his silence for kindness."

Then she opened the doors.

Damien stood inside.

He was speaking to two men.

Both immediately stopped when I entered.

Damien looked at me.

His eyes traveled briefly over my clothes.

Then back to my face.

"You're late."

I checked the clock.

"It's eight exactly."

He glanced at his watch.

"Good."

I folded my arms.

"You said eight."

"I wanted to see whether you'd come."

"I almost didn't."

"I know."

I hated that answer.

He gestured toward the men.

"Leave."

They left immediately.

The doors closed.

I looked around.

This room wasn't like his office.

It was more informal.

A large table.

A fireplace.

Leather chairs.

A bar.

There were weapons displayed behind glass on one wall.

I stared at them.

"Do you always keep guns on the wall?"

"They're not all guns."

I looked closer.

Knives.

Several.

I turned away.

"What am I doing here?"

Damien poured himself a drink.

"Learning."

"Learning what?"

"What being my wife means."

I laughed.

"You've already decided."

"Yes."

"You keep saying that like I agreed."

"You haven't."

"Then we're done."

I turned toward the door.

"Wait."

I stopped.

Damien walked toward me.

"Before you leave, you need to understand something."

"What?"

"If you marry me, nobody will touch you."

"That's what you keep saying."

"It's true."

"And what do I give you?"

"Your silence."

"That's it?"

"No."

He stopped in front of me.

"You give me your name."

I frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"You become a De Luca."

I stared at him.

"And?"

"People will know you're protected."

"So the marriage is a warning to everyone else."

"Yes."

I crossed my arms.

"What happens behind closed doors?"

His eyes held mine.

"You have your own room."

I blinked.

"What?"

"Your own room."

I had expected something else.

I didn't know what.

"But we're married."

"On paper."

I swallowed.

"And if I don't want to share a room?"

"You don't."

The answer surprised me.

"What about..." I hesitated.

"Sex?"

His expression didn't change.

"You don't owe me anything."

I stared at him.

"You wouldn't..."

"No."

His voice became colder.

"I won't touch you unless you want me to."

Something inside my chest loosened.

It shouldn't have.

But it did.

Damien noticed.

Of course he did.

"You thought I would force you."

"You married me to keep me quiet."

"That doesn't give me ownership of you."

I looked away.

For the first time, I didn't know what to think of him.

He was a murderer.

A criminal.

A man who could destroy someone's life with a phone call.

But he had just given me a boundary.

One I hadn't expected.

He walked to the table and picked up a folder.

"These are the rules."

He handed it to me.

I opened it.

There weren't many.

No leaving without security.

No speaking to journalists.

No discussing the family.

No contacting anyone connected to the murder.

No entering certain areas of the property.

And one final rule.

Never lie to Damien.

I looked up.

"That's ridiculous."

"It's necessary."

"What happens if I lie?"

"I'll know."

"That's not an answer."

"It is."

I sighed.

"Do I get rules too?"

"Yes."

I blinked.

"Really?"

"Tell me."

I thought for a moment.

"No controlling my clothes."

"Fine."

"No deciding who I can talk to."

"Within reason."

I glared.

"No."

His eyebrow lifted.

"You don't get to decide who I speak to."

"Fine."

"No touching me without permission."

"I already agreed."

"And I want to continue university."

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

I stared at him.

"You agree too easily."

"You asked for reasonable things."

I closed the folder.

"That's it?"

"No."

He leaned against the table.

"You will also have access to a car, an account for expenses, and anything you need."

"I don't want your money."

"You need it."

"I can work."

"No."

I stiffened.

"You don't get to tell me whether I work."

"You won't work at the club."

My eyes narrowed.

"Why?"

"Because you're no longer safe there."

"That's my decision."

"Not anymore."

I stepped closer.

"You don't own me."

"No."

His voice was calm.

"But if you're my wife, your safety becomes my responsibility."

"And what if I don't want your responsibility?"

"Then don't marry me."

I hated how reasonable he sounded.

I hated even more that there was no obvious cruelty in his answer.

He wasn't shouting.

He wasn't threatening me.

He was simply telling me what he believed.

I looked away.

"I need time."

"You have until tomorrow."

"That's not time."

"It's more than most people get."

I stared at him.

"Why are you doing this?"

He didn't answer immediately.

His eyes moved toward the fireplace.

"When I was younger, someone I cared about was used against me."

I hadn't expected that.

"What happened?"

"She died."

The words were flat.

But something in his face changed.

Only for a second.

"Because of your enemies?"

"Because I trusted the wrong person."

Silence.

I didn't know what to say.

Finally, I asked, "And now?"

"Now I don't trust anyone."

"Except yourself."

"Especially myself."

I looked at him.

There was pain beneath the coldness.

A wound so old he had probably forgotten what it felt like to live without it.

I almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

Then I remembered the gun.

The body falling.

And I stopped.

"You should go."

I frowned.

"What?"

"You're tired."

I hadn't realized how exhausted I was.

"Victor will take you home."

I walked toward the door.

Then stopped.

"Damien?"

He looked at me.

"Thank you."

His expression hardened slightly.

"For what?"

"For my father's treatment."

He stared at me for several seconds.

"You don't need to thank me."

"Why?"

"Because I haven't done it for you."

I frowned.

"Then why?"

"Because your father is innocent."

Something in my chest tightened.

I nodded.

Then left.

The following morning, I arrived at the hospital before sunrise.

The doctor was waiting.

"Lena."

I looked at him.

"Something happened?"

He smiled.

"Your father's condition improved overnight."

My heart stopped.

"What?"

"His oxygen levels are better."

I rushed into the room.

My father looked exactly the same.

Still unconscious.

Still surrounded by machines.

But his hand moved.

Barely.

I froze.

"Did he—?"

The doctor smiled.

"It was small. But yes."

Tears filled my eyes.

I grabbed my father's hand.

"Dad?"

His fingers moved again.

I laughed through my tears.

"Come on."

I pressed my forehead against his hand.

"You can't leave me."

For the first time in months, I let myself believe he might wake up.

I stayed beside him for hours.

Until my phone vibrated.

One message.

We need your answer tonight.

I looked at the screen.

Then at my father.

I knew what I was going to say.

Not because I wanted Damien.

Not because I trusted him.

Because I wanted my father alive.

I typed three words.

I'll marry you.

I stared at the message.

Then pressed send.

Almost immediately, the reply came.

Good.

I expected relief.

Instead, I felt something much more dangerous.

The realization that I had just agreed to become the wife of a man I feared.

A man I hated.

A man I couldn't understand.

And somehow, somewhere beneath all of that fear, a tiny part of me wanted to know what would happen next.