Guardian Devil
Chapter 46
Guardian Devil
Isabella
After last night I went to my bedroom, and he went to his. We ate, stared each other down for a while, and called it a night after I devoured all the noodles he made me.
The thought of food echoes in my stomach. I look at my phone, it’s already 1 p.m. I immediately jumped out of bed; how did I sleep that long?
I put on a bathrobe and as I make my way downstairs, the aroma of pancakes wafts through the air, drawing me to the kitchen like a magnet. My stomach rumbles in anticipation as I enter the room, my eyes falling on the table where a plate of pancakes sits accompanied by a note, from him .
I pick up the note, my fingers trembling slightly as I unfold it and read the words written in his unmistakable handwriting. It’s a sweet message. This side of him is messing with my mind, especially because I know what he means by ‘ business ’.
‘Good morning, Isabella,’ the note reads. ‘I hope you slept well. I had to leave early for some business, but I didn’t want you to go hungry. Text me if you need me, there’s a spare keycard in the hallway…’
A smile creeps its way up on my lips as I read on, ‘…as well as a car key. Feel free to explore the city. However, bring your phone, do not ever forget it. - Aslanov
Aslanov
The meeting had been tense, the air thick with anticipation and anxiety as I discussed the details of the drug shipment. Everything had been meticulously planned, but somehow, something had gone wrong. The shipment had been intercepted, and now I was left to deal with the consequences.
As I stand face to face with the man responsible for the mishap, his fear is apparent, his eyes wide with terror as he stammers out excuses and apologies. But I have little patience for his cowardice, little sympathy for his plight.
“You dare to come here and tell me that it was a mistake?” I growled, my voice low and dangerous. “You know what the consequences are for failure.”
The man trembles before me, his words faltering as he struggles to find the right ones to appease me. But I’ve already made up my mind. There would be no mercy.
Looking down at my neat black suit and white blouse, I figure that today I won’t do the dirty work myself. I have to look clean when coming home to her.
With a swift motion, I signal to my men, and they move in to take the man away, his cries echoing in the empty room as he is dragged off to face his fate, death.
As the commotion dies down, I reach for my phone, the screen lighting up with notifications. Among them is a message from Isabella on her phone, her location indicating that she is close by in the city. She decided to explore.
I instruct one of my most trusted men to accompany Isabella, discreetly keeping an eye on her from a distance. She won’t even notice it. I made sure to convey the importance of her safety to my subordinate, emphasizing that she was under my protection and that any harm coming to her would be met with severe consequences.
Isabella
As I finish reading Aslanov’s note, a warmth fills my chest at his thoughtfulness. With a grateful sigh, I seat myself at the table and dig into the pancakes, savoring each bite. The sweetness of the gesture lingers in my mind as I enjoy the meal.
After breakfast, I head back upstairs to get dressed for the day. As I rummage through my wardrobe, I realize I didn’t pack a jacket. With a slight frown, I glance around the room, searching for a solution. Nothing there. After applying a small layer of makeup, I head down.
I look for another chance at a jacket. Suddenly, my gaze falls upon one hanging on the back of a chair. It’s one of Aslanov’s—undoubtedly too large for me—but it’ll have to do.
I slip into the oversized jacket, relishing in its warmth and the faint scent of his cologne that lingers on the fabric. Despite its size, it feels oddly comforting, like a protective shield around me.
With my phone in hand, as instructed, I make my way downstairs and out to the garage. As I approach, my eyes widen in surprise at the sight of a sleek red sports car waiting for me. Its polished exterior gleams, and I can’t help but feel a surge of excitement at the prospect of exploring the city. The guards outside don’t pay any attention to me, and as the door opens, I start the engine.
Aslanov
As I lead my entourage through the desolate streets of Moscow, a sense of grim purpose settles over me. The dilapidated building looms ahead, its decaying facade a stark reminder of the brutality that defines my world.
Entering the building, the musty scent of decay assaults my senses, mingling with the distant sounds of the city outside. The flickering light reveals the grim interior, casting long shadows that seem to dance with malice.
In the corner of the room, a tiny cage holds my eye—in it, a man who has dared to challenge my authority. Blood stains his clothes, and his eyes bear the haunted look of someone who has faced horrors.
As I approach the cage, my gaze meets his with a cold, unyielding stare. Despite his pleas for mercy, I feel no pity for him. When it comes down to business, my heart stays the same.
As I stand before the cage, the man’s eyes meet mine with a mixture of defiance and desperation. I regard him with a cold detachment.
“You’ve made a grave mistake,” he spits, his voice laced with bitterness.
I merely raise an eyebrow in response, my expression betraying nothing. “And yet here we are,” I reply calmly. “You find yourself at my mercy.”
He scoffs, his gaze never wavering. “You think you can intimidate me? You may have the power now, but it won’t last.”
I chuckle darkly at his bravado. “You underestimate me,” I speak, my voice like steel. “I am not one to be trifled with.” I lean closer to the cage, “Do you even know who I am?”
His eyes flash towards my face.
“Perhaps you have heard of the name Aslanov Ivanov Karamazov ?”
His expression changes, and immediate fear rides across his features. He stutters on his next words that never leave his lips. I regard him with a smirk, unmoved by his fear.
“Enjoy your stay,” I state cryptically, turning to leave.
As I turn to leave, his desperate voice cuts through the air.
“Wait! I’m so sorry! You can’t just leave me here!”
I pause, casting a cold glance over my shoulder. “And why not?” I ask, my tone dripping with disdain.
His eyes widened with desperation. “Because I have information,” he pleads. “Information that could be valuable to you.”
I consider his words for a moment, weighing the potential risks and rewards. I check my watch—I still have some time left until Isabella gets home. With a nod to my enforcer, he steps forward, unlocking the cage and dragging him out onto the grimy floor. I watch impassively as my enforcer restrains him; his struggles are futile against the iron grip of my men.
“What information do you have?” I demand, my voice icy and controlled. His gaze darts around the room, his expression conflicted.
“I know who’s behind the recent attacks on your supplies,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. A flicker of interest sparks within me at his words.
“And who might that be?” I press, my patience wearing thin. He hesitates for a moment, weighing his options.
But the fear in his eyes betrays his resolve, and he finally relents, “It’s Mikhail Petrov,” he confesses, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breaths.
A sense of satisfaction washes over me as I absorb his revelation.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” I state coolly, nodding to my enforcer. With the nod, my men drag him back to the cage and load it into a truck. His eerie screams fill my ears until I’m out of the building.
Time to go home.
Isabella
In the heart of Moscow, the city pulses with a unique energy, blending history with modernity in a mesmerizing dance. I navigate the bustling streets, my senses alive with the sights and sounds of this vibrant metropolis.
As I drive through the iconic landmarks—the majestic Red Square, the colorful domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral, and the grandeur of the Kremlin—I feel a profound sense of awe. Each corner I turn reveals a new facet of the city’s rich tapestry, a testament to its storied past and dynamic present.
The rhythm of the city envelops me, drawing me deeper into its embrace with each passing moment.
Finding a parking spot has been a challenge and since it’s my first time here I’m okay with staying in the luxurious car.
As dusk falls, Moscow transforms into a dazzling spectacle of lights, its streets alive with the buzz of activity. When I finally spot a parking spot, I park the car and stare at the lights that light up the city. Suddenly my phone lights up.
Aslanov:
Dinner’s in an hour.
I stare at the screen, not sure if I want to go back yet.
I’m not that hungry yet and I’m still kind of busy.
It doesn’t take long before my phone lights up again.
It wasn’t a question, dinner’s in an hour. Get here, it’s getting dark outside.
I roll my eyes at his dominant response
Can’t I decide that for myself?
For this month, you’re mine , and I’m not comfortable with you alone in an unfamiliar city when the sun sets.
I stare at the text. As the message from him lingers on my screen, I can’t shake off the feeling of frustration mixed with a tinge of apprehension. The insistence in his tone is suffocating, reminding me of the boundaries I have inadvertently agreed to when I signed up for this arrangement. He’s concerned.
Glancing at the clock, I realize it’s already quite late. The thought of defying his order crosses my mind, a small act of rebellion in a situation where my autonomy feels increasingly compromised. Yet, the unfamiliarity of the city streets at night weighs heavily on my mind. And the punishments of disobedience.
I’m on my way.
I put my phone back into my pocket and took one last look at the skyline of lights. The city lights capture my vision one more time before heading around the corner, back toward the landscape behind them. Back to him.
Aslanov
She’s back. The garage door opens, and I hear the car engine sputter. I finish setting the table and pour two glasses of wine. The kitchen is filled with scents of different spices. My cooking skills have been tested a lot more recently. I gave Sasha the week off, so I’m cooking for her, and taking care of her myself. Besides, I want the house empty.
Her heels click against the floor as she moves up the stairs. As soon as she turns the doorknob her face peeks through the doorway, meeting mine. The first thing I notice is the jacket she’s wearing—my jacket.
“Good evening Mr. Karamazov,” she smiles ever so playfully as she closes the door behind her.
I finish stirring the pan as I greet her with a smirk. “Good evening, Miss Brown,” I respond with a hint of amusement, arching an eyebrow in mock seriousness. “I see you’ve taken a liking to my jacket.”
Her small giggle fills the room, a melody that warms my heart as she takes her seat at the table. “It’s quite comfortable, actually,” she admits, giving the jacket a playful tug before reaching for her glass of wine. She takes off the jacket and puts it back onto the chair where she found it.
I return my attention to the stove, giving the vegetables and chicken a final stir before turning off the heat. With a practiced hand, I plate the food, the aroma of spices filling the room as I set her plate in front of her. She inhales the scent of the food before digging her fork into it like she has starved all day. She tends to do that often. “Hungry?”
She nods, mumbling a “yes” with a mouth full of food. I set my plate down and take a seat opposite her. The fire in the fireplace warms my back, and for a moment this place feels like a home, a feeling I haven’t experienced in over 15 years.
Before I can ask her about her little trip in the city, she sits up on her knees and excitedly speaks up:
“I saw so many architectural monuments today! It was so much fun, and the car was so fast! I’ve never driven such a cool car. And I knew the way back without even using any navigation!”
I laugh at her excitement. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
She hums at my statement.
“Are you always that hungry?”
She slowly puts the fork down while her mouth is still stuffed. Some color drains from her face and I feel like I’ve asked the wrong question. She nods with a little shame before she swallows the food.
“That’s okay,” I assure her. “What’s the matter?”
She itches her nose before hesitantly answering. “You know,” she begins, uncertainty in her voice, “Sometimes, when I was younger, they forgot to feed me.”
I stop the fork midway towards my mouth.
“I would be hungry most nights,” she mumbles, her voice laced with sadness.
Her words hang heavy in the air, the weight of her confession settling over us like a dark cloud. I feel a surge of anger rising within me at the thought of anyone neglecting her, of allowing her to go hungry. “I’m sorry, Isabella,” I say. “No one should ever have to experience that.”
She offers me a small, sad smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.
“No, it’s not. You’ll never get hungry again, I’ll make sure of it.”
I’m going to starve him before torturing him.
Isabella
I love his voice. My eyes widen a little at his words. But as I take in the sincerity in his gaze, a small smile tugs at the corners of my lips—a glimmer of hope.
“You know,” I pause, staring at him as he takes a bite of the food. “I don’t even know that much about you.”
He doesn’t respond. And after a minute he puts the fork down.
“What’s the story behind you, behind the police reports?” I take a bite of my food, Aslanov takes a sip of his wine. He drinks it ever so slowly like he’s dreading the question. “You said you’d open up,” I argue while taking another bite.
The conversation seems impossible as he doesn’t answer for a while.
“Well, once upon a time, there was a little boy named Aslanov…” he pauses, and I snort a little laugh at how he starts this story.
“Who got abused by his father until the day he died.”
I choke on my carrot.
“Growing up in a household filled with violence and fear, I learned to survive by keeping my head down and staying out of sight as much as possible. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape my fate. I didn’t have any other choice than becoming this .” Nausea fills me and I’m not hungry anymore. “At the age of eighteen, I was an orphan, and the boss of a cruel organization.”
He puts the wine glass down on the table with a loud thud. “That’s it. There is nothing good about me and I don’t have positive memories, apart from my sister and mother. But they’re dead.” The image of a young boy, haunted by the specter of abuse and violence, paints a stark contrast to the man seated before me.
As I sit in stunned silence, grappling with the magnitude of his story, I can’t help but feel empathy for the man who had borne the scars of his past with stoic resolve. Behind the facade of power and control lay a vulnerability that speaks volumes, a silent plea for understanding in a world where darkness lurked at every turn, at him. He’s never known any different.
“I’m so sorry, it must have been awful,” I mumble while not knowing how to comfort a man like Aslanov.
He’s staring at the window while twisting the ring on his finger. He never usually avoids my gaze. But this is a rare moment where I’m trying to unfold the man in front of me and he’s giving me answers.
I broach the subject that has lingered at the forefront of my thoughts since our encounter began. “What happened to your father?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper as I brace myself for his response.
For a moment, Aslanov’s expression darkens, a storm brewing behind his steely gaze. “He died,” he replies curtly, his tone laced with bitterness as he averts his gaze.
Sensing the weight of his words, I hesitate before pressing further, acutely aware of the delicate balance between curiosity and respect. Yet, the lingering curiosity gnaws at my insides.
“Did you…?” I trail off, unable to articulate the question that hangs heavy in the air between us. Aslanov’s gaze darkens even further, a flicker of something primal flashing across his features before he nods, a silent answer.
“I did,” he mutters, his voice barely audible above the din of the dinner. “Indirectly. I found him coughing on his blood. I could have gotten help; it wouldn’t have been too late.” I hold my breath. “Instead, I watched him suffer until he choked on it.”
Oh god. Aslanov’s confession hangs heavy in the air, his words echoing in the silence that stretches between us. My heart pounds in my chest, the weight of his revelation settling over me like a shroud of darkness.
I struggle to process the magnitude of his confession, the sheer brutality of his actions sending a shiver down my spine. Yet, even as I recoil from the truth of his words, a part of me can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the boy he once was—a boy who had known nothing but pain and suffering, who had been forced to become a man far too soon.
“You don’t have to tell me anymore if you don’t want to,” I murmur, my voice soft with empathy. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”
Aslanov’s gaze meets mine, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, it feels as though the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders, the burden of his past threatening to consume him whole. But then, with a sigh, he shakes his head, as if to dispel the darkness that lingers within him. “No,” he says, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging within. “You deserve to know the truth. I promised you I would open up.”
I nod, hesitantly. “Thank you for opening up.”
He fills his glass again and I’m sure it’s because he needs it. Deciding this has been enough of a deep opening I try to shift the conversation into something different.
“Maybe something simple, like—what’s your favorite color?”
The words make him laugh. It rumbles off the walls. “Black, death, dark things.”
I stare at him. “Really Aslanov?”
He sighs in frustration while rubbing his hand against his stubble. “Nobody has even asked me my favorite color, Izabella.” The Russian hint on my name fills me with heat.
“Well, I am.” His eyes meet mine as he turns towards me at the table.
“Whatever your favorite color is,” he shrugs.
There it is, the warmth. Flooding through me like a river. A stupid simple answer and yet it does that to my stomach.
After our conversation, I offered to help Aslanov clean up the kitchen. Together, we wash dishes, wipe down countertops, and put away leftovers. Despite the darkness of his past, there’s a sense of lightness between us, a shared understanding that transcends words.
Once the kitchen is spotless, Aslanov retreats to his office to attend to his business affairs, leaving me to my own devices. He turns to me. “If you need me, I’m in my office.”
I nod while he takes another glass of wine with him upstairs.
I make my way over to my room and get inside the bathroom. The warm water of the shower soothes my tired muscles as I let the events of the day wash over me. Despite the heaviness of our conversation, there’s a sense of peace that settles over me, a feeling of understanding that I’ve rarely felt before.
After drying off and slipping into my pajamas, I make my way to the bedroom and crawl into bed. The soft sheets envelop me like a cocoon, and for a moment, I feel safe and secure in the darkness of the room.
But as I drift off to sleep, a sense of unease creeps into my mind, a lingering fear that refuses to be silenced. And then, without warning, the darkness descends, engulfing me in a whirlwind of terror and despair.
I run and run through a forest, gasping for air as sweat beads on my forehead as I struggle to shake off the lingering sense of dread, my heart racing in my chest. He’s coming for me. I reach out to Aslanov, seeking solace in his presence. But as my hand grasps at empty air, a sense of loneliness washes over me, a reminder of the darkness that lurks within me. And right as I fall to the ground in the dark forest and the voice comes closer, I wake up.
I gasp for air as I sit up straight. Sweat on my forehead, hitched breath. The room is dimly lit now, the light in the corner turned on and Aslanov’s concerned gaze comes into view.
“You’re okay,” he assures me. “You’re safe,” he states while pressing my head in his chest. “Breathe, Isabella.” After a few minutes, my breathing slows down, and tears begin to spill from my eyes. The same nightmare, every night. The same terror.
“Such a good girl,” he mumbles under his breath absentmindedly as he slowly rocks me back and forth in his arms. The sheets cover me like a warm blanket.
Aslanov
Once she calms down and starts to lightly snore, I tucked her back in. I cover her in the sheets and leave the light on. But just as I turn on my heels to leave, her voice stops me.
“Can—can you stay with me?”
I turn around, closing the door. She’s holding the pillow and bloodshot eyes meet mine. She looks exhausted and drained. I need to compose myself, anger filling my veins. He’s going to meet a malevolent fate. Starvation and torture aren’t enough. I have cases to finish tonight and yet my feet move away from the door.
Without thinking, I bend down and gently scoop her up into my arms. She feels so light, and fragile—if I hold her too tight, she might break. I pull her against me, resting my chin on the top of her head, feeling her small body trembling slightly in my arms.
I wrap myself around her, tightening my hold, as if I could somehow protect her from the nightmares that haunt her. She presses her face into my chest, her fingers gripping my shirt. I can feel her breath, still uneven, warm against my skin. Slowly, I begin to rock her back and forth, as if it will soothe her into forgetting the darkness she’s running from. I will soothe into mine instead.
My thumb grazes her cheek, tracing the softness of her skin. She stares at my chest, eyes half-lidded, lost somewhere between exhaustion and the remnants of fear. My hand moves to her lips, brushing gently over them, feeling her breath hitch as I touch her.
As I hold her, rocking her gently, she lifts her head from my chest and looks up at me. Her wide eyes, still glazed with sleep, meet mine, and for a moment, everything stills. The air between us shifts, thickening with an unspoken tension. Her gaze lingers, searching my face, perhaps for answers or maybe for something deeper. I don’t look away.
Her eyes grow tired, and her breathing slows down.
“ Thank you .” Her whisper is ever so soft, but I heard her—loud and clear. I’m not her savior, she is mine.
I press her against my chest, placing my lips on her forehead—kissing the skin ever so gently. She falls asleep, her trust placed in me, and the weight of it settles in my chest. My fingers trace her skin, gently but possessively.
“Sleep, solnyshko,” my thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ll keep the darkness away.”