Isla woke to silence.
For a disorienting moment, she forgot where she was. The bed was too soft, the sheets too expensive, the room too big. Then memory crashed back—the contract, the wedding, the fortress, Killian's confession that he didn't trust himself near her.
She was Mrs. Archer now.
Trapped in a beautiful cage with a husband who wanted her but wouldn't touch her.
Morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, painting everything in shades of gray and white. Her wedding dress hung on the back of the closet door where she'd left it last night, a ghost of white silk mocking her.
She'd been too exhausted to explore the closet full of clothes Killian had bought for her. Too overwhelmed to do anything except collapse into bed still wearing her slip, staring at the ceiling until sleep finally dragged her under sometime around three a.m.
Now it was—she checked her phone—seven-fifteen.
And there was something white on the floor near her door.
Isla threw off the covers and crossed the room. A single sheet of paper, folded once, like someone had slid it under the door while she slept.
She picked it up with shaking hands.
Unfolded it.
And read.
HOUSEHOLD RULES — READ AND MEMORIZE
You are not to leave the premises without Luca or approved security accompanying you. No exceptions.All visits from family require 48 hours advance notice. Friends are not permitted without my explicit approval.You will answer my calls and texts within 15 minutes. Failure to respond will result in security being dispatched to your location.Public appearances require appropriate attire. Luca will inform you 24 hours in advance of any events you're expected to attend.You do not discuss our marriage, my business, or anything you see or hear in this house with anyone. Ever.My private office and bedroom are off-limits unless I explicitly invite you in.Staff are here to serve, not to be your confidants. Maintain professional distance.You will attend all meals I request your presence at. Declining is not an option.Do not answer the door. Do not accept deliveries. Do not engage with anyone who comes to this house without clearing it with Luca first.Breaking any of these rules will have consequences. Don't test me.
— K.A.
Isla read it twice.
Then a third time, anger building with each word.
These weren't rules. They were commands. Orders from a commanding officer to a subordinate, from an owner to property, from a man who saw her as something to control rather than someone to live with.
Don't test me.
Her hands crumpled the paper.
She'd signed a contract, yes. Agreed to play a role. But nowhere in those thirty pages had it said she'd be a prisoner. That she couldn't see her friends or leave the house or have a single conversation without his approval.
Isla threw on the first thing she found in the closet—soft gray lounge pants and a white t-shirt, both of which fit perfectly because of course they did—and stormed out of her room.
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. Like the whole house was holding its breath.
She made it down the floating staircase without falling, her anger propelling her forward even though she had no idea where Killian actually was in this massive, empty fortress.
She found him in the kitchen.
And forgot how to be angry for approximately three seconds.
Because Killian Archer was standing at the stove, shirtless, cooking eggs like this was completely normal.
He wore black pants slung low on his hips and nothing else. Just bare skin stretched over muscle that looked carved rather than earned at a gym. Broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist. His back was to her, and she could see scars—not just the ones on his knuckles but others, thin white lines across his ribs, a darker mark on his shoulder blade that looked like it might've been a burn.
Evidence of violence written on his skin.
He moved with easy grace, cracking eggs into a pan one-handed, completely comfortable in his own space, apparently unconcerned that his new wife might walk in and see him half-naked.
Isla's mouth went dry.
Then he turned slightly, reaching for a spatula, and she saw more scars across his abdomen. And something else—ink. A tattoo she couldn't quite make out from this distance, dark lines curving across his ribs.
"Are you going to stand there staring, or did you actually want something?"
His voice snapped her back to reality.
He hadn't turned fully around. Hadn't even looked at her. But somehow he'd known she was there.
"I want to talk about this." Isla held up the crumpled list of rules.
"Not much to talk about. They're fairly straightforward." He flipped the eggs with practiced efficiency. "Coffee's in the pot if you want some."
"I don't want coffee. I want to know why you think you can control every aspect of my life."
"Because legally, I'm your husband. Contractually, you're my employee. Practically, you live in my house under my protection." He finally turned to face her, and the full impact of him shirtless made her take an involuntary step back. "Which of those gives you the impression you have negotiating power here?"
His ice-blue eyes were as cold as ever, but there was something else in them now. Something that looked like he was testing her. Waiting to see if she'd actually push back or if last night's boldness had evaporated in the daylight.
Isla forced herself to hold her ground.
"Rule number two," she said, lifting the paper. "I need forty-eight hours notice to see my own sister? She's sixteen, Killian. She needs me."
"She has school, friends, a stable life. She doesn't need you hovering."
"She just lost her father to a heart attack—"
"Her father is alive and recovering in a private facility I'm paying for. She's fine."
"You don't get to decide that."
"Actually, I do." He plated the eggs, added toast from somewhere, moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. "You signed a contract. Part of that contract involves maintaining security. Your sister coming and going without notice is a security risk."
"A security risk? She's a teenager!"
"And you're the wife of someone very powerful with a lot of enemies." He finally looked at her directly, and there was no warmth in his gaze. "Enemies who would love to use your sister against you. Against me. So yes, Isla, she's a security risk until we can properly vet her movements and ensure she's not being followed or manipulated."
That... actually made a horrible kind of sense.
Isla hated that it made sense.
"What about rule five?" she pressed. "I can't discuss our marriage with anyone? Ever? What am I supposed to tell Mara?"
"That you fell in love, got married quickly, and you're very happy. The same thing you'll tell everyone else." He carried his plate to the kitchen island and sat on one of the bar stools. "You're not to discuss the contract, my business, or anything that happens in this house. That's non-negotiable."
"Because you have secrets."
"Because I have a life you're not entitled to know about." He took a bite of eggs, completely unbothered by her anger. "Anything else you want to challenge?"
Yes. All of it. Every single rule on that controlling, condescending list.
But Isla picked her battles.
"Rule ten," she said. "Breaking the rules has consequences. What kind of consequences?"
Something dangerous flickered across Killian's face.
He set down his fork.
Stood.
And crossed the kitchen toward her with slow, deliberate steps that made her heart rate spike.
Isla's instinct was to back up. But she held her ground, chin lifted, refusing to show fear even as he got close enough that she could see water droplets still clinging to his chest from what must've been a recent shower.
Close enough to smell soap and something masculine and warm.
Close enough to make her very aware that he was half-naked and she was in thin lounge clothes and they were alone in this massive house.
"You want to know what happens when you break my rules?" Killian asked quietly.
"Yes."
He moved faster than she expected, one hand coming up to brace against the counter behind her, caging her in without actually touching her.
Isla's back hit the granite.
"You're testing me," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Pushing boundaries on your first morning here to see how far you can go. To see if I'll actually enforce consequences or if I'm all talk."
"I'm asking legitimate questions about unreasonable rules."
"You're challenging my authority in my own home." His other hand came up, boxing her in completely. Still not touching her. Just surrounding her with his presence, his heat, the barely restrained danger that radiated off him like a physical force. "And that's a mistake."
"What are you going to do?" Isla forced herself to meet his eyes. "Hit me? The contract says you won't."
"I don't need to hit you to punish you, Isla." His gaze dropped to her lips, stayed there. "There are much more effective ways to make you regret testing me."
"Like what?"
Wrong question.
She knew it the second the words left her mouth.
Killian's eyes darkened. His jaw clenched. And for one breathless moment, she thought he might actually kiss her—really kiss her, not the barely-there brush of lips from yesterday's ceremony.
But he didn't.
Instead, he leaned in close enough that his breath ghosted across her ear.
"Test me again," he whispered, "and you'll learn exactly what I do to disobedient wives."
Then he pushed off the counter and stepped back, leaving her gasping against the granite, her heart hammering, her skin hot despite the cold threat in his words.
He returned to his breakfast like nothing had happened.
Picked up his fork.
Took another bite.
"The rules stand," he said without looking at her. "Follow them, and we'll get along fine. Break them—" His ice-blue eyes finally met hers. "—and you'll wish you hadn't."
Isla's hands were shaking.
From fear or something else, she wasn't entirely sure.
"I need to see Mara," she said, hating how unsteady her voice sounded. "Tomorrow. Not in forty-eight hours. Tomorrow."
"No."
"Killian—"
"I said no. She can come here this weekend. Supervised. After Luca has confirmed she hasn't been followed and doesn't pose a security risk. Until then, you can call her. Text her. But you don't see her in person."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair, Isla. You should know that better than anyone." He finished his eggs and carried his plate to the sink. "I have meetings all day. Luca will be here if you need anything. Stay in the house. Don't answer the door. Don't break any rules."
He walked past her, still shirtless, still infuriatingly calm.
Stopped at the kitchen doorway.
"Oh, and Isla? Welcome to day one of your new life. I suggest you get used to it."
He left.
Isla stayed frozen against the counter, her pulse racing, her mind spinning with everything that had just happened.
He'd threatened her.
Not with violence. With something else. Something she didn't entirely understand but that made her skin flush hot and her stomach do complicated things.
She looked down at the crumpled list of rules in her hand.
Ten commandments from a man who expected absolute obedience.
Who punished disobedience with... what exactly?
She was still standing there, trying to process, when she heard his voice from somewhere upstairs.
Raised. Sharp.
Talking to someone on the phone.
Isla moved to the doorway, listening.
"—don't care what excuses he has. I was very clear about the deadline." A pause. "Then make him understand. I don't accept failure, and neither should you." Another pause, longer this time. Then, so cold it made her blood freeze: "Handle it. I want the body gone by sunrise."
Click.
Silence.
Isla stood rooted to the spot, her hands numb.
I want the body gone by sunrise.
Body.
Not problem. Not situation. Not package.
Body.
Her husband—the man who'd just been cooking eggs shirtless in the kitchen like a normal person—had just ordered someone to dispose of a body.
Casually.
Like it was a routine part of his morning.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Isla bolted back to the kitchen, grabbing a coffee mug with shaking hands, trying to look like she'd been here the whole time doing normal things, not eavesdropping on what sounded like a murder being covered up.
Killian appeared in the doorway, now wearing a crisp white dress shirt, buttoning the cuffs with efficient movements.
He glanced at her, seemed to catalog her pale face and trembling hands, and his expression shifted into something almost amused.
"You heard that."
Not a question.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Isla lied.
"You're a terrible liar. Your hands are shaking so badly you can't hold that mug steady." He finished with his cuffs and reached for a suit jacket draped over one of the bar stools. "What did you hear?"
"Nothing."
"Isla."
"I heard—" She swallowed hard. "You said something about a body."
"And?"
"And I'm trying very hard not to think about what that means."
Killian shrugged into his jacket, adjusted it with practiced ease. "Smart. The less you know, the safer you are."
"Did you—" She couldn't even finish the question.
"Did I what? Kill someone?" He checked his reflection in the microwave, smoothing down his tie. "Not personally. Not today, anyway. I have people who handle that sort of thing."
He said it so casually.
Like he was discussing his calendar, not murder.
"This is insane," Isla whispered.
"This is my life. Which is now your life, at least for the next eighteen months." He picked up his phone, checked something, pocketed it. "I told you I wasn't a good man, Isla. I told you I do terrible things. You chose not to believe me."
"I didn't have a choice."
"You always have a choice. You just didn't like your other options." He moved toward her, and she flinched back against the counter. "That phone call? That was me cleaning up a mess. Making sure the people who work for me understand that failure has consequences. It's ugly. It's brutal. But it's necessary in my world."
"Your world is terrifying."
"Yes." He reached past her—she stopped breathing—and grabbed his keys from the counter. "Which is why you follow the rules. Why you stay in this house where it's safe. Why you don't ask questions about things you're better off not knowing."
He headed for the door.
Stopped.
Looked back.
"The body comment bothered you," he observed.
"Of course it bothered me!"
"Good. Let it bother you. Let it remind you exactly who you married and what I'm capable of." His ice-blue eyes held hers. "And the next time you think about challenging my rules or pushing my boundaries, remember that I'm not playing house here, Isla. I'm running an empire. And empires are built on violence."
He left.
The front door closed with a quiet click.
And Isla stood alone in the pristine kitchen with a cooling mug of coffee, staring at the space where her husband had just stood, casually discussing bodies like he was ordering groceries.
She'd married a monster.
She'd known he was dangerous. He'd told her himself—I've killed people.
But hearing it stated so plainly, so coldly, while he adjusted his tie and checked his phone like this was just another Tuesday morning, made it real in a way nothing else had.
This wasn't a romance.
This wasn't a fairy tale.
This was a girl trapped in a fortress with a beautiful, terrifying man who disposed of bodies before breakfast and wrote rules like commandments and expected absolute obedience.
Isla's hands finally stopped shaking.
Not because she wasn't scared anymore.
But because she realized something that made everything click into place.
Killian had married her for appearances. For the image of stability, of being settled, of having a wife who made him look human.
But he was keeping her locked away in this fortress, isolated and controlled, because he didn't want her to see too much.
Didn't want her to know too much.
Didn't trust her with the truth about what he really was.
The rules weren't about protection.
They were about control.
And the consequences he'd threatened weren't about punishment.
They were about fear.
He wanted her scared. Compliant. Too terrified to push back or ask questions or do anything except play her role and stay out of his way.
Well.
She'd spent her entire life being compliant.
Being the good girl who did what she was told and didn't make waves.
And look where it had gotten her.
Maybe it was time to stop being scared.
Maybe it was time to start pushing back.
To test those boundaries he was so desperate to maintain.
To see exactly what happened when Killian Archer's perfect control cracked.
Isla set down her coffee mug.
And looked at that crumpled list of rules.
Don't test me.
Too late.
She was already planning which rule to break first.