---- Chapter 8 Isabella's POV "Isabella?!" Vincent appeared in the exotic banquet hall in Marrakech, with an unfamiliar woman on his arm. The moment he saw me, his pupils constricted. Achoked, guttural sound escaped him. "You're alive?!" Vincent instinctively moved to grab me. Ahard, cold ebony cane whipped out and struck his outstretched wrist. A figure moved to my side. Damien. One hand came to rest proprietorially on the small of my back.
He was wearing a dark, embroidered suit that ---- matched mine, his face still holding its sickly pallor. But his eyes were imperious, and he radiated a cold aura that warned everyone to stay away. "vincent Santoro," Damien's voice was low but cut through the noise. "Keep your filthy hands to yourself. She's with me now." Claire bit her lip and timidly tugged on Vincent's arm, writing in his palm: "Vincent, don't... We were wrong to her...
I'm so sorry..." She bowed slightly, her pregnant belly prominent. I caught the flicker of annoyance in Vincent's eyes, and his indifference to Claire's gesture. Something was wrong. "It's in the past," I replied coolly, turning to leave. My feet suddenly left the floor. Damien had swept me up into his arms. "Damien! Put me down!" I struggled. ---- He looked down at me. The backlighting gilded his sharp features, but his eyes held their usual mocking glint.
"Don't bea fool," he murmured, his breath ghosting over my ear. "You were this close to dying before." He carried me away, ignoring Vincent's murderous glare. Damien's bedroom was more like a cold command center. Aservant brought a selection of new clothes from my favorite high-end, dark-style brands. "You investigated me?" I watched coldly as he took off his jacket, revealing a lean torso covered in a thin layer of muscle.
"Did you think the title of 'Damien Cross's woman' could be held by just anyone?" I didn't understand what he meant, but I changed my clothes. At dinner that evening. ---- The patriarch of the Cross family, Marcus Cross, sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding. Vincent, suppressing his rage, raised his glass. "Mr. Cross, your castle is magnificent. A toast to you." He downed the drink. Marcus didn't even lift his eyes. Instead, he turned to me, his voice unusually gentle.
"Tsabella, thank you for putting up with this little rascal. He's a wild one. I hope you'll be patient with him." This godfather, who controlled nearly a third of the world's arms and energy, was personally toasting me. The entire room was stunned. I steadied myself. "You're too kind, Mr. Cross." Marcus scanned the room, his voice low but carrying a weight that crushed the air from your lungs. "Tam also here to make an announcement. Isabella Romano is to be the next Mrs. Cross. As for the