Didn’t she know by now that he wasn’t giving her up without a fight?

WAITING.

Isabelle waited for death to come. Every tick of the grandfather clock in the living room brought it closer.

She rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. She’d had about three hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, but dream time still eluded her. Though sleep was a thing she needed direly. She needed to be ready for Boyle. She curled her fingers around the syringe she’d plucked from the prison floor. With her other hand, she touched her knife in its wrist sheath.

They hadn’t found Stefan inside Gribben. Adam had called to tell her. There was no sign—of course—of Boyle, either. Her chance to save herself had ended disastrously and now she was almost out of chances. She had one left and the odds were against her.

She pulled the comforter closer and inhaled the lingering scent of her sister’s sweet perfume. The fear she’d felt before was almost gone. She would fight as hard as she could for as long as she could. She would protect as best she could those she loved. The rest lay in the hands of the Lord and the Lady.

Eventually, she dozed a little despite the ticking of the grandfather clock and the fact she’d left all the lights on. Pounding on the door brought her awake not long after, however. Bleary-eyed, she glanced up at the clock and saw she’d slept about a half an hour. Great. When the demon came she’d be in top physical condition.

She pushed off the couch and went to the door. At least she knew it wasn’t Boyle. Demons didn’t knock.

Isabelle checked the peephole, sighed, and rested her head against the wall. She’d wondered if he’d come. Of course it had been silly to think he wouldn’t. Thomas Monahan wasn’t a man to be put off easily. Yet she thought maybe she’d driven a hard enough wedge between them that he might stay away.

She had to get him out of here fast, but it was going to be hard to lie to Thomas. All her heart wanted was him—his presence, the scent of him, the circle of his strong arms, his husky voice in her ear. All her head wanted was to get him as far from her as possible.

Steeling herself, she unlocked the door and opened it.

He wore a pair of black pants and a white linen shirt. His hair hung long and loose over his shoulders and his dark eyes were hooded, but didn’t look lazy; they snapped with fire. The normally sensual curve of his lips was set in a firm line. She recognized the body language; he was pissed.

Lady, he was sexy when he was pissed.