Chapter 18
Eighteen
T he next morning, the hospital’s day shift was busy with activity. Isobel, still groggy but aware, sat up in her bed, her family gathered around her. Brad coordinated with Tristan to ensure her discharge went smoothly. She figured that was because of Brad’s family relation. He wasn’t his usual put-together self. His hair was messy, and he hadn’t shaved. She could see the tension running down his back.
"Belle," Brad said softly, approaching her. "I need you to follow my directions. Don’t talk to anyone. Trust me, I’ve got you.” His voice was extra deep. She wondered if it was his Dom voice.
Isobel nodded slowly, her eyes meeting his. "I will," she whispered. She watched her sister Olivia slip on a hospital gown over her clothes, and as soon as Isobel climbed from the bed, Olivia slipped in and pulled the covers up to her chin, her similar hair covering her face. Jackson, Olivia’s fiancé, and his best friend, Turk, wearing fire department uniforms, helped Isobel onto a stretcher and covered her with a special bonnet covering. She realized she was on a morgue stretcher.
“Belle, by the time you count to two hundred, we will be in my car.” Brad reached below the canopy. “No worries.”
“Okay,” she sniffled.
Alex and Ethan made sure her transfer to Brad’s car was discreet, keeping an eye out for any activity around the stretcher or the loading dock, where they helped her into the second seat of a black Suburban.
“You’re okay.” Brad pulled her against him. Alex and Ethan took the driver’s seat and passenger seat.
A few minutes out of town, Alex pulled off the road where Brad’s car sat waiting. Ethan watched their backs as Brad buckled Isobel into the front seat and ran around to the driver’s side. Ethan climbed back into the Suburban and drove on. Brad hit the gas and took off toward his home.
Isobel stayed quiet. Brad told her it was safe to talk, but she seemed afraid to. As they drove to Whispering Hills, he couldn’t shake the feeling of impending danger. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror, his senses on high alert.
At their arrival, Brad showed Isobel around the house, pointing out the security features and ensuring she felt comfortable. "You’ll be safe here, Belle. I promise."
Isobel looked around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. "I trust you, Brad."
He nodded, appreciating the subtle shift in her demeanor, the trust she was extending to him in this moment. That trust came with responsibility—one he carried gladly. She had been through so much, and he could see the exhaustion in her eyes, even when she tried to mask it.
“How about some lunch?” he asked, his voice gentle but firm.
Isobel sighed, brushing a hand through her hair. “I’m not that hungry,” she said quietly, her gaze shifting around the room as if trying to distract herself from everything that had happened.
“Belle, you need to eat,” Brad insisted. His tone was still soft, but there was no mistaking the firmness. He knew how easily she could neglect herself when her mind was racing, and right now, she needed something grounding, something simple.
She hesitated for a moment, then relented. “What do you have?” she asked, as if surrendering to the mundane task might offer her a brief escape. She wandered into his living room, her fingers lightly trailing along the back of the leather couch as she took in the space.
Brad watched her for a moment, feeling a sense of warmth rise in his chest. He designed the living room to be a place of comfort—welcoming but not extravagant. The space was masculine but not overly so. The leather couch was a rich chocolate brown, worn in just the right spots from years of use. It sat in front of a large stone fireplace that dominated one wall, giving the room a rustic, almost cabin-like feel. Above the mantel was a large television.
The hardwood floors were warm beneath their feet, a dark oak that gleamed subtly in the soft light filtering through the wide windows. To the right, there was a bookshelf filled with books—mostly history, psychology, and a few well-worn thrillers, along with a collection of vinyl records and a vintage turntable. The coffee table was simple and wooden, with a few magazines scattered across it, and a half-burned candle that still carried the faint scent of sandalwood.
It was a lived-in space, practical but comfortable, the kind of room that invited you to sink into the couch and lose yourself in a TV show, movie, or conversation. A large armchair sat near the windows, a soft throw blanket draped across its back, where Brad often sat and read in the late afternoon sunlight.
Isobel wandered over to the bookshelf, her fingers brushing the spines of the books, her eyes trailing over the titles. There was a quiet curiosity about her movements, as if she was momentarily lost in the simplicity of exploring his space. She stopped at the window, her reflection faint in the glass. The sky was overcast, the garden outside relenting to the soft browns of early fall under a slight drizzle.
Brad moved to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. “I’ve got some roast chicken I picked up last night that I can warm up with some veggies, or we could do chicken salad sandwiches if that’s more your speed.”
Isobel turned from the window, folding her arms across her chest. “Chicken salad sounds good,” she said, her voice a little lighter now. “I’ll take anything as long as it’s not hospital food.”
Brad smiled at that, a small but welcome sign of normalcy returning. He set to work quickly, putting together plates with chicken salad, a few slices of fresh bread, and a side of crisp green apples. He placed everything on the kitchen island and motioned for her to join him.
She wandered over, sitting on one of the barstools. Her movements were more relaxed now, though she was still anxious.
“Eat.” He placed the plate in front of her.
Isobel picked up a fork, arranging some chicken salad on a slice of bread. As she took a tentative bite, her lips curved into the faintest smile. “Not bad.”
Brad sat across from her, watching as she ate. There was something soothing about the quiet between them, the simplicity of a meal shared in the calm of his home.
After lunch, he led her up the stairs to the second floor of his house, the soft creak of the hardwood underfoot breaking the comfortable silence between them. His hand rested on the railing as he glanced back to make sure she was following.
At the top of the stairs, he guided her to the guest room, pushing the door open gently. The room was cozy, simple but inviting. A queen-sized bed sat against one wall, its plush comforter neatly folded at the foot, and large windows bathed the space in soft, natural light. A chest of drawers stood beside the bed, along with a small armchair in the corner. The walls were a muted blue, giving the room a sense of calm.
Brad stood near the doorway as Isobel stepped inside. “Do you want to take a nap or set up your things?”
Isobel turned to him, brow raised slightly. "Set up my things?" she asked, a teasing note in her voice. “I didn’t realize you weren’t the type to carefully fold laundry, Brad.”
Brad grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, about that…” He gestured toward the black garbage bags sitting in the corner of the room. “I had Turk and Jackson grab your things from your place after the attack. We had to make it look like trash, so no one would know it was for you. I’m sorry everything is wrinkled.”
Isobel arched an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Trash bags? That’s sneaky.”
Brad’s grin widened as he stepped closer, his voice lowering just enough to let the innuendo hang between them. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
The heat of his words lingered in the air for a moment, the unspoken desires thickening. Isobel, clearly catching the undertone, gave him a sidelong glance before chuckling softly and turning toward the bags. “I think I’ll set up my stuff for now,” she said, her voice a little lighter.
Brad nodded and left her to it, heading back down the hall.
When he went to check on her, he found her fast asleep on the bed, one of the garbage bags half open beside her. Her breathing was soft and even, her face finally relaxed. He covered her with the comforter.
He stood in the doorway for a moment watching her, feeling a protective warmth stir in his chest. Quietly, he closed the door and made his way downstairs to his office.
The office was a stark contrast to the warmth of the rest of the house. It was functional, lined with dark wood bookshelves stacked with files, books, and binders. A large mahogany desk dominated the room, cluttered with notes, reports, and his laptop, which sat open at the center. The soft hum of the computer filled the air as Brad sat down, running his hands over his face before pulling up the file from Larson.
The file outlined the grisly pattern of murders: nine forensic psychologists dead, each one killed in ways that seemed to echo their own cases. The killer was meticulous, mirroring details that only someone with an intimate understanding of criminal psychology could replicate. Investigators knew the suspect pool had to be limited to those with privileged access, yet identifying him risked implicating trusted members of law enforcement or psychological networks. That slowed the process, as agencies were hesitant to fully cooperate for fear of exposing internal vulnerabilities.
The collateral murders were likely deliberate distractions. Each one took time to investigate, spreading resources thin across different jurisdictions and delaying a focused investigation into the primary killer.
Larson’s notes were thorough, laying out everything they knew about the connections between the victims and the murders surrounding them. Brad worked to piece together the timeline, trying to find the thread that connected the psychologists.
His focus was interrupted when he heard a faint sound—a voice calling out softly. He paused, listening. It was Isobel.
Brad stood quickly and made his way back into the living room, where he found her standing near the fireplace, still looking a little drowsy. "Hey. Did you have a good nap?"
Isobel rubbed her eyes and nodded. “I think so. But… what happened last night? I keep trying to remember, but it’s all blurry. I woke up, and you were gone.”
Brad moved closer, pulling her gently onto the couch and into his lap. His arms circled her as she leaned into his chest, seeking comfort. He summarized the events of the night before—the increasing threat from the killer. He told her about the woman’s murder, though he didn’t want to overwhelm her with too many details. She looked so frail and vulnerable, he changed his mind and kept the note to himself. All it would do was frighten her more.
As he spoke, he held her tighter, letting her feel the steady beat of his heart, grounding her in the moment. He could feel she was trying to stay strong. To soothe her, Brad grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV, scrolling through the channels until he found a nature documentary, the sounds of birds and wind filling the room.
They sat like that for a while. As the evening settled in, they moved to the kitchen, working together in silence to prepare dinner. It was a simple but comforting meal—cooking side by side, exchanging small smiles and glances as they chopped vegetables and stirred pans.
Dinner was quiet, filled with unspoken concerns, but there were also fleeting moments of normalcy—brief smiles, the warmth of connection in their shared silence.
The remnants of their dessert sat on the coffee table—plates pushed aside, glasses half-full with wine, the warm scent of the meal still lingering in the air. Brad leaned back on the couch, his arm stretched along the top of the cushion, a relaxed smile tugging at his lips. Isobel sat cross-legged, her eyes bright and alive in a way he hadn’t seen in weeks, a playful grin lighting up her face as she recounted one of her old college stories.
“And then,” she said, laughing, “the professor walked in, saw the entire whiteboard covered in, I don’t know, Shakespearean insults, and just shook his head. He didn’t even say a word, just turned around and left. I’ve never seen a room of students sober up so fast.”
Brad chuckled, shaking his head. “You? Writing Shakespearean insults? Somehow, I’m not surprised.”
“Oh, come on,” she shot back, her tone mock-defensive. “It was creative! And, technically, educational.”
“Technically,” he said, teasing. “Though I’m pretty sure the Bard didn’t intend for his work to be used as… what was it again? ‘Thou rank onion-eyed miscreant’?”
She dissolved into laughter, her hand lightly slapping his knee as she shook her head. “No, no—it was ‘thou gleeking, boil-brained canker-blossom.’ Much more poetic.”
Brad couldn’t help but laugh with her, the sound filling the room and softening the edges of the night. It felt easy, this moment between them. Natural. As though they had slipped into an unspoken rhythm, their laughter and words creating a melody that erased the tension of the past few weeks.
When the laughter finally subsided, Isobel leaned back against the arm of the couch, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve missed this,” she said softly, her smile lingering but gentler now. “Just… feeling normal. For a little while.”
Brad looked at her, his amusement fading into something warmer, deeper. “Me too,” he admitted. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a night like this. Actually, during our Chinese meal.”
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them, the world outside fading into irrelevance. The warmth between them was palpable, a steady hum that neither could ignore. Isobel’s gaze flickered to his hand still resting on the cushion beside her, and she hesitated before speaking again.
“Do you ever think things… will be normal again?” she asked quietly.
Brad’s expression softened, his smile tinged with nostalgia. “Yeah, I do.”
Her lips curved slightly, but there was a trace of sadness in her eyes. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”
“We will figure things out. And you need to give yourself time to heal. But it will get better.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “You think so?”
Brad leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “I do. You’re still you, Belle. Still brilliant, still passionate, still…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Still the person who makes everyone around her better.”
A soft laugh escaped her, and she looked down, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “You’re too good at this, you know? Saying the right thing.”
“I’m just being honest,” he said simply.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was charged, filled with the unspoken things neither of them was ready to say aloud. Brad glanced at her again, his expression turning serious.
“I’m glad you agreed to come home with me,” he said after a moment.
Her gaze lifted to his, and her smile returned, warmer now, tinged with something she couldn’t quite name. “Me too.”
Neither of them moved, the space between them seeming to shrink without either of them noticing.
Then Isobel exhaled softly, breaking the spell. “It’s getting late,” she murmured, though there was no urgency in her tone.
Brad nodded, standing slowly and offering a hand to help her up. Her fingers lingered against his as she rose to her feet. As he walked her to her room, their easy banter resumed, the heaviness of the moment giving way to something lighter.
Isobel smiled. “I feel safe here. And I really appreciate you going out of your way to make me comfortable.”
"Good night, Belle. Sleep well."
“Good night, Brad. Thank you again.”
But even as she closed the bedroom door, the warmth lingered, a reminder of everything they had shared—and everything that still remained unspoken.
Later that night, after cleaning up the remnants of their meal, Brad double-checked the security system, ensuring that every door and window was locked, and the cameras were functioning properly. He stood for a moment, watching the live feed on his phone, scanning the perimeter of the house for anything unusual. The danger wasn’t over, but with Isobel close, under his protection, he felt more in control.
Satisfied everything was secure, he made his way to his bedroom. It was a simple room, similar to the guest room but larger, with a king-sized bed and dark wood furniture. The faint scent of the fresh sheets filled the air as he kicked off his shoes and lay down, his body sinking into the mattress.
He closed his eyes, but his mind was still racing, thinking of Isobel just down the hall, of the threat that lingered, and of what the next days might bring.
With a deep breath, he forced himself to relax, hoping that tonight would bring a little bit of peace for both of them.
Isobel snuggled under the silky covers, feeling a bit more like herself for the first time in days. The hydrocortisone cream had soothed the stings on the parts of her body she could reach. She felt weird asking Brad to put some on the stings on her back. Tomorrow, she’d ask one of her sisters to stop by and apply more cream to the places she couldn’t reach. She was also able to lower the dosage of the antihistamines that made her sleepy. Unfortunately, that had cleared her mind.
She glanced around the room, noting how cozy it felt with her belongings unpacked and neatly arranged. Olivia’s touch was evident in the thoughtful items packed: in addition to some of her favorite outfits and pajamas were the novel she was reading, her hair products, makeup, toothbrush, and feminine hygiene products.
She settled into bed with her novel, reading for a while until her eyelids grew heavy. She drifted off to sleep, feeling a sense of peace she hadn’t felt in days.
The peace didn’t last long. Isobel tossed and turned, trapped in the throes of a nightmare. Her mind replayed the terror of the bee attack, the suffocating feeling of being unable to breathe. She woke up with a scream, drenched in sweat.
Brad ran to her room, throwing open her bedroom door, panting. "Belle, what's wrong?"
Isobel, mortified by the vivid nightmare, couldn't find the words. Brad quickly moved to her side, wrapping his arms around her, trying to comfort her. "Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe."
Isobel’s sobs quieted as Brad held her close. She pressed her lips to his in a soft kiss he clearly meant for her cheek. Her lips parted, but before she could say anything, he leaned in. His kiss was slow, deliberate, a question and an answer all at once. She melted into it, her hands instinctively gripping his arms, the strength beneath his skin grounding her. The kiss wasn’t hurried or desperate—it was filled with everything unsaid, every moment they had danced around this.
Brad pulled back abruptly, his breathing ragged. "Belle, we shouldn’t...”
Isobel sat on the edge of her bed, her chest still heaving from the nightmare that had woken her. She looked up at Brad, who moved to stand near the door, his face shadowed with worry. His presence was grounding, yet her emotions still churned wildly. Her wide hazel eyes locked onto his, and the words spilled out before she could stop them.
"Brad… please," she whispered, her voice trembling. “The nightmare—it wasn’t just about what happened. It was about everything. My God, the only relationships I’ve had were horrible. I didn’t realize until tonight how much I’ve been running from it all.”
Brad moved closer, his brows knitting as he took in her words. “Belle, you don’t have to explain right now,” he said, his tone careful, reassuring. “You’ve been through hell?—”
“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head. Her hands clenched the blanket draped over her lap. “You don’t understand. When I felt myself dying—God, Brad, I was so afraid. But one of my last thoughts was that I never told you how I feel.”
He stiffened at her words. His hand rubbed at a spot on his chest as though to ease the pressure. His eyes fixed on hers.
“It started as a crush,” she admitted, her voice tinged with a nervous edge. “When you used to come over to see Liv. But then… then it wasn’t just that anymore. I started having real feelings for you.”
“Belle,” he rasped, “you don’t have to?—”
“I need to,” she cut him off again, her eyes glistening. “Because I’ve spent so long pretending I don’t feel this way. I’m tired of pretending.”
He closed and opened his eyes but didn’t move, didn’t speak. His gaze softened, searching hers for something—permission maybe, or understanding. He saw the mixture of fear and hope swirling in her eyes.
As the air between them seemed to shift, Isobel’s eyes dropped for a brief moment, skimming over his bare chest where his hand still rested. Heat flared between them, a spark that had always been there but now felt undeniable.
This wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t just about the warmth pooling between them or the way their breaths seemed to sync. It was the years of unspoken connection, the trust they had built, and the feelings that had grown quietly in the spaces between their lives.
Brad stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, and her breath caught. “Belle,” he murmured, his voice deep and steady. “You don’t have to be afraid. Not with me.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his hand lingering against her temple. “You’re not dying, Belle,” he said softly. “Not on my watch. And you’ll never have to run from this again.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but this time they weren’t from fear. She nodded, her voice catching as she whispered, “I don’t want to.”
Brad moved to the window, his back to Isobel, wrestling with the words he knew he had to say. He’d already given himself a dozen excuses—about the case, the stress, his responsibilities—but none of them were the real reason he’d pulled back. She deserved the truth, and he was finally ready to give it to her.
He turned to face her, his eyes softening as they locked onto hers. “Belle, you need time to think about what you really want. About us .”
Isobel shifted in her seat, confusion creasing her brow. “Think about what?”
Brad crossed the room and took her hands, feeling his resolve waver as he looked into her tear-filled eyes. “You’re making it hard for me to say no. But there are things I need you to think about carefully.”
He took a deep breath. “In my life, in my relationships—especially in my bed, I like control. I don’t mean just being in charge. We talked about it a little before, but I mean being a Dominant.”
Brad’s lips quirked up in a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sweetheart, it’s about trust—deep, unshakable trust that I’ll protect you, guide you, even push you when you need it. It’s about letting go because you know I’ll be there to catch you. And in return, I need to know you trust me enough to let me lead.”
His fingers gently grazed hers. “It’s not just about what happens in the bedroom, Belle. It’s about life. It’s about feeling safe enough to let me take care of you. It’s about you surrendering control, but not your strength. I know you’re strong; you’ve always been strong. But this is different. It’s about balance.”
He needed to make sure she understood. “I have feelings for you, Belle,” he admitted, his words raw with honesty. “But I need you to understand I’m not the kind of guy who does casual. I don’t have indiscriminate sex. And in my life, in my bed... it’s more than liking control. I need control.”
Isobel blinked, her brow furrowing. “Need?”
Brad nodded, his gaze steady. “As a Dominant, I need structure, trust, and, most importantly, mutual consent. You’d have to trust me, Belle, with everything—your mind, your body, your emotions. And I’d take care of you, protect you, give you what you need, even when you don’t realize you need it.”
He watched her closely, his gaze never wavering. “I’m not asking you to answer now. I just want you to think about it. Really think about what this means. And whether you can handle that.”
He squeezed her hands gently, pulling her attention back to him. “This is who I am. You need to know, if you don’t want to follow that path, I still will protect you with all I am.” He leaned in, brushing his lips gently against hers before pulling back. “You need to sleep on it,” he said softly. “Emotions are high right now, and I want you to think before we go any further. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
He kissed her again, lingering for a moment before standing and walking to the door. As he turned the handle, he glanced back, his expression tender but firm. “Just think about it, Belle. I’m not going anywhere.”
The door clicked softly behind him as he left, leaving Isobel lying in bed, her mind whirling with everything he’d said. The warmth of his kiss still lingered on her lips, but it was his words that settled deep in her chest. Could she trust him like that? Could she surrender to him, knowing he would take care of her, guide her in ways she’d never experienced before?
She closed her eyes, letting sleep finally claim her, but her last thought before drifting off was of Brad—his strength, his honesty, and the undeniable pull she felt toward him.
Brad lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts about the conversation he’d had with Isobel. Offering to be her Dom—it was something he hoped to discuss after she settled in and healed. But she had to know his truth before they could move forward. He was glad it worked out this way.
The way she’d looked at him, those wide, tear-filled eyes—God, she was beautiful. And vulnerable. So vulnerable. He wasn’t sure if tonight’s conversation was driven by emotions, by the near-death experience she’d gone through, or if her feelings for him had truly grown that deep over the years. Either way, he knew one thing: if they made love, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from wanting more. She wouldn’t just be a one-time thing to him. He’d want her, need her, in every way.
But there was something else nagging at him. Isobel had only been with one other man, and that was years ago. She was practically a virgin. Did she even know what she wanted? Maybe she deserved the chance to explore her options, to date other men before committing to a relationship like the one he was offering.
The thought of her with someone else made his stomach twist in anger, his protective instincts flaring. No. She didn’t need to be with anyone else. He’d teach her, keep her safe, give her everything she needed.
Still, the fear lingered. What if she didn’t accept his offer? What if this was too much for her? If she walked away, if she decided she couldn’t handle the dynamic he needed, what then? Could he let her go? The thought of her rejecting him, of choosing someone else, filled him with dread. He wasn’t sure he could bear it. Oh my God, he was becoming what Jesse called a pansy Dom.
But he did know he’d protect her with his life no matter what.
And then there was Olivia, Molly, Ruth and Sophie. What would they think when they found out he was pursuing a D/s relationship with their sister? Would they accuse him of taking advantage of Isobel while she was vulnerable? The last thing he wanted was for her family to think he was manipulating her or pushing her into something she wasn’t ready for. He needed to be sure she made this decision for herself, without pressure.
He sighed again, rolling onto his side, the empty space next to him feeling larger than it ever had before. As his eyes grew heavy, sleep pulling at him, Brad’s thoughts lingered on Isobel.