He shouldn’t care what she was getting up to, or who she was hurting, but he wanted to.

Keeping to the shadows, he watched as she attacked a punching bag. She’d removed her dress and was now in a long pair of tight shorts and a sports bra.

He needed to get himself under control.

As he watched her, he saw her power. There was too much space between them, and he wanted to get closer.

She yelled, attacking the bag again, screaming her agony. He reached out to touch her and she spun around, landing a kick to his stomach and sending him back.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to admire your technique,” he said, getting to his feet.

She stood, hands clenched into fists, panting. Perspiration dotted her brow and her eyes were red, but there was no sign of tears. Isabella was the epitome of control.

“You don’t belong here. This is my house.”

“You see, your father believed you needed someone like me to help you out.”

“I don’t need you. I don’t need any man.”

He removed his jacket, rolling up his sleeves.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m getting ready. It’s fine hitting a punching bag, but how about someone who will fight back?”

“I’m not fighting you.” She turned her back on him and resumed hitting the bag.

He rolled his eyes and this time, she didn’t fight him as he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up. He pressed her to the ground, grabbed her hands, and locked them above her head.

“But I want to fight you.”

“Get off me.”

He tutted. “Your father told me he taught you better than that.”

“You don’t know the first thing about my father. Get off me.”

“No.” He kept her trapped with one hand. With the other, he stroked a finger down her cheek. “I’m a little disappointed.”

She somehow managed to wriggle her legs out, and she slammed her foot against his thigh. It was enough to get her free. This time, she wrapped her fingers around his neck, pushing him to the mat, straddling his waist.

He had no problem with her pussy being directly over his dick. Grabbing her hips, he held her still.

“Stop it.”

“No. Be careful with the men you play with, Isabella.” He pushed against her so she’d know exactly what she was doing to him.

She slapped him around the face and pulled away. He let her go.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“Tomorrow morning, meet me at a café.” He gave her the name of a private place.

“And why would I come to see you?”

“So we can talk about our wedding and dealing with everything that has been handed to you today.”

“I’m not marrying you.” She put her hands on her hips and stared at him, almost defiantly.

“You think they’re going to let you run things? Even if you were to take a place at the meetings, you’re a woman. I imagine they’d plot your death within a matter of days.”

“I can do this,” she said. “It’s what I’ve been trained to do.”

“I know everything, Isabella, you can trust me.”

“I trust no man.”

“Yet, you trust your bastard outcast bodyguard upstairs and he let me come down here. I’m not the enemy. Don’t treat me like one or you’re going to get yourself killed. A lot of people will want you dead.”

“You really expect me to believe you’re not like the other men? You don’t want me out of the way?”

Damon smiled. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m not like other men. Meet me, Isabella. You won’t regret it.”