Chapter 4 Dawn’s Theft
Sunlight stabbed through the crack in the heavy drapes like a warning.
Isabella sat on the edge of the massive bed, bare feet pressed to the cold marble floor, Lucien’s black card clutched between trembling fingers. The penthouse was eerily silent—no footsteps, no breathing, no heartbeat except her own thundering one. The sheets still smelled of him—dark spice, smoke, and the faint copper tang of blood—and of her own release. The evidence of last night lingered on her skin: faint bruises on her hips where his fingers had gripped, two small puncture marks on her throat already healing faster than they should, a dull ache between her legs that reminded her exactly how thoroughly he’d claimed her.
She should be terrified.
She wasn’t.
Not entirely.
The bite had done something to her. Not just the physical rush—though that had been cataclysmic—but something deeper. A thread of awareness now lived under her skin, faint but undeniable. Like a distant echo of him. She could almost feel where he was: somewhere below, in the labyrinth of Blackthorne Tower, probably in a boardroom or a crypt, pretending the sun didn’t exist while his empire ran on autopilot.
She pressed two fingers to the healed bite marks. They tingled.
“Shit,” she whispered.
She had let the Vampire King drink from her.
She had drunk from him in return—his wrist pressed to her lips at the height of it all, his blood sliding down her throat like molten starlight. The exchange had sealed something irreversible. A partial bond. Not full mating—thank God—but enough that running would hurt. Both of them.
Her gaze fell to the black card again.
Matte. Heavy. Embossed silver: Lucien Blackthorne – Private. A phone number beneath it, and that single line in his elegant, slashing script:
Come find me when you’re ready to stay.
Arrogant bastard.
Beautiful, dangerous, arrogant bastard.
Isabella stood on shaky legs. The torn gown hung off her in rags; she found a black silk robe hanging in the wardrobe—his, judging by the scent—and wrapped it around herself. Too big, sleeves swallowing her hands, hem brushing her calves. It felt like wearing him.
She moved to the floor-to-ceiling window and pushed the drape aside just enough to peek. Dawn had broken over the city. The skyline glowed rose-gold, harmless to her. But for him—for any full vampire—it would be lethal.
He’d left her here alone. In his sanctuary. With his card.
Trust? Or a test?
She didn’t care which. She only knew one thing: she wasn’t going back to the Thorne estate. Not to Damien’s smug face, not to Victoria’s glittering ring, not to Lord Harlan’s cold calculations about the bride auction. Not to being the tainted sister sold off like a problem to be solved.
She was done.
The black card felt like freedom in her palm.
She crossed to the private elevator—the same one they’d ridden up in, bodies fused, mouths desperate. The panel required a fingerprint. She hesitated, then pressed her thumb to the scanner.
It lit green.
Of course it did. He’d keyed her in. The bond recognized her now.
The doors opened.
She stepped inside.
As the elevator descended, she pulled the robe tighter and tried to ignore the way her body still hummed with aftershocks. Every shift of fabric reminded her of his hands, his mouth, his fangs. She clenched her thighs together and forced herself to focus.
First: clothes. Money. Escape.
She had nothing but the ruined gown, her heels, and Lucien’s card.
The card would do.
The elevator opened into a discreet underground garage—rows of gleaming black vehicles, tinted windows, license plates that probably didn’t exist in any database. A sleek matte-black SUV waited closest to the elevator, driverless, engine already purring softly.
Another gift. Or leash.
She didn’t care.
She slid inside. The interior smelled of new leather and him.
A screen lit up on the dashboard:
Destination?
She hesitated only a second.
“Nearest twenty-four-hour bank,” she said aloud.
The car pulled out smoothly, gliding up a hidden ramp into the waking city.
Isabella leaned back, robe slipping off one shoulder, and stared at the black card in her hand.
She could use it once—maybe twice—before he tracked it. Before he came for her.
But once would be enough.
She had six years of freedom ahead of her. Six years to build something unbreakable. Six years before the bond would start to ache too badly, before the pull became unbearable.
Six years to forget the way he’d whispered her name like a prayer while buried inside her.
The SUV stopped outside a private banking branch—Blackthorne-affiliated, of course. Irony tasted bitter.
She stepped out barefoot, robe cinched tight, hair wild, bite marks barely concealed. The security guard at the door blinked once, then opened it without a word.
Inside, marble and hushed voices. A private teller appeared almost instantly.
“Ms. Thorne,” he said smoothly, as if women in silk robes arrived every day. “How may we assist?”
She slid the black card across the counter.
“I need access. Maximum withdrawal. Cash. Now.”
The teller didn’t blink. He swiped the card.
A soft chime.
“Limitless,” he murmured. “How much?”
“Enough to disappear,” she said.
He nodded.
Twenty minutes later, she walked out with a leather duffel stuffed with banded cash—more money than she’d ever seen in one place. Enough to start over. Enough to vanish.
She hailed a regular cab this time—no more Blackthorne vehicles.
“Airport,” she told the driver.
As the city blurred past, she touched the bite marks again.
They throbbed faintly, like a heartbeat not her own.
She closed her eyes.
Goodbye, Lucien.
For now.
The plane took off just as the sun cleared the horizon.
Isabella watched Lagos—no, wait, the city below wasn’t Lagos; it was the fictional metropolis she’d always called home in this world—shrink beneath her.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, instinctive.
Nothing yet. No nausea. No knowing.
But she felt it anyway.
A tiny spark.
A secret.
His.
She leaned her head against the window and whispered to the empty seat beside her:
“You’ll never find us.”
But even as she said it, the bond pulsed once—soft, possessive, patient.
And somewhere far below, in the shadowed heart of Blackthorne Tower, Lucien Blackthorne opened his eyes in a light-proof chamber and smiled.
A slow, predatory smile.
“Oh, little moon,” he murmured to the empty room. “I already have.”