Chapter 15
HANNAH
I've been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing through an endless loop of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Dante's face when I finally tell him about the baby.
Sometimes he's furious, sometimes cold, sometimes so possessive it makes my skin crawl.
None of the scenarios end well.
At two in the morning, I give up on sleep entirely and slip out of bed, pulling on a silk robe and the fluffy slippers someone thought to buy for me. The house is different at night—quieter but somehow more alive. Like the shadows hold secrets, the daylight forces into hiding.
I walk down the hallway and avoid looking at the portraits. Their painted eyes seem to follow me as I make my way to the main staircase, judging me for falling for their descendant despite everything rational in my brain screaming at me to run.
The kitchen is my destination—maybe some chamomile tea will help settle my nerves.
Instead of the kitchen, I'm drawn to the living room where Mila and I spent the afternoon drawing fairy tale kingdoms. Her artwork is still scattered across the coffee table, bright crayon drawings of princesses and unicorns and happy endings.
I sink onto the couch, pulling my legs up under me, and study her pictures in the dim moonlight filtering through the tall windows. There's something achingly innocent about them. I love the way she sees the world as a place where good always wins and love conquers all.
I wonder if my baby will inherit that optimism, or if growing up in Dante's world will teach them that power comes from fear and trust is just another word for weakness.
"Can't sleep?"
The voice comes from the doorway. I don't turn around—I'd recognize Dante's presence anywhere now, the way he changes the energy in a room just by existing in it. If I’m honest, I sensed him coming long before he ever said a word.
"Something like that," I say, my fingers tracing the edge of one of Mila's drawings.
He moves into the room with that predatory grace I've come to associate with him, settling into the chair across from me. He looks tired, I realize, studying his face in the moonlight. There are lines around his eyes that I don’t think I’ve really noticed before.
His usually perfect hair is mussed like he's been running his hands through it.
"Rough day?" I ask.
"You could say that." He leans back in the chair, his blue eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. "What about you? You look..."
"Terrible?"
"Raw," he finishes. "Like you've been thinking too hard about things you can't control."
The observation is uncomfortably accurate. "Isn't that what prisoners do? Sit around thinking about their situation?"
"You're not a prisoner."
"Right, I forgot. I'm collateral," I make air quotes with my fingers. "My mistake."
A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Red."
"Neither does captivity, but here we are."
We fall into silence, but it's not comfortable. There's something electric in the air between us, a tension that's been building for days.
Since the day in his study.
I can feel it in the way he looks at me, in the careful distance he maintains even when we're in the same room.
We've been dancing around each other since that afternoon, both of us pretending that what happened was just physical release.
But we both know it was more than that, even if neither of us was going to say it.
"Why are you really awake?" he asks quietly.
The question catches me off guard with its gentleness. "Bad dreams."
"About?"
About you finding out I'm pregnant and deciding I'm too much of a liability to keep alive. About my baby growing up without a father, or worse, with one who sees them as just another asset to be managed. About falling in love with a man who built his empire on blood and violence.
"About things I can't change," I say instead.
He nods like he understands, and maybe he does. "I know something about those kinds of dreams."
"Do you?" I turn to face him fully, tucking one leg under me. "What keeps the great Dante Sokolov awake at night?"
For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then he says, "Ghosts."
The single word hangs between us, heavy with meaning.
I think about what he told me about Mila's mother, about the car bomb meant for him that killed the woman he loved instead.
"Katya," I say softly.
Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe, that I remember her name. "Among others."
"Must be crowded in here," I tap my temple, "with all those ghosts."
"Gets louder at night."
The admission is so quiet I almost miss it. This man who projects such perfect control, such absolute confidence, is haunted by the people he's lost. The knowledge makes him seem more human somehow, more real than the dangerous figure I've built up in my mind.
"Is that why you were in the bar that night?" I ask. "Running from ghosts?"
"Maybe." His eyes meet mine across the darkened room. "What about you? What were you running from?"
"Boredom," I lie.
He laughs, a low rumble that does things to my insides I'm not prepared for. "Boredom led you to a stranger's hotel room?"
"Bad decision-making led me to a stranger's hotel room."
"Regret it?"
The question should be easy to answer. I should regret that night. I should wish I had never swiped right on that dating app.
Instead, I find myself standing up, crossing the room to where he sits. "Ask me again tomorrow."
Before he can respond and I can lose my nerve, I lean down and kiss him.
It starts soft, almost tentative, like I'm asking permission. But the moment his lips move against mine, something ignites between us that's been smoldering for days.
His hands come up to frame my face, fingers threading through my hair as he deepens the kiss. I can taste whiskey on his tongue, can smell that expensive cologne that haunts my dreams. But it’s the barely controlled power in the way he touches me that really gets me.
"Hannah," he breathes against my mouth.
My name sounds like a prayer and a curse rolled into one.
"Don't think," I whisper, echoing the words he said to me in the library. "Just feel."
I drop to my knees in front of him. He’s wearing a pair of sweats that does nothing to hide his erection.
I pull at them. He gets what I want and lifts his ass so I can pull them down. I’m face to face with the cock that brings me so much pleasure.
I want to do the same for him.
I wrap my fingers around his base, marveling at the weight and heat of him in my palm. He's already hard, straining toward me like his body knows what I'm planning before his mind catches up.
"You don't have to—" he starts, but I silence him with a look.
"I want to," I say, and mean it completely.
I lean forward and press a soft kiss to his tip, tasting the salt of his arousal. His sharp intake of breath sends heat pooling low in my belly. Something about being with Dante strips away all my usual inhibitions.
I take him into my mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him on my tongue.
His hands tangle in my hair, not directing but just touching, like he needs the connection as much as I do.
I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, using my tongue to trace patterns along his length that make him groan low in his throat.
"Christ, Hannah," he breathes, his accent thicker with desire. "Your mouth..."
The praise sends warmth flooding through me. I establish a rhythm, using my hand to work what I can't take, my mouth moving up and down his shaft with increasing confidence. Every sound he makes, every tremor that runs through his powerful body, tells me exactly what he likes.
His breathing becomes ragged as I work him with my mouth, alternating between long, slow strokes and quick flicks of my tongue across his sensitive head. I can feel him fighting for control, his muscles tense beneath my free hand where it rests on his thigh.
"I'm close," he warns, his voice strained.
Instead of pulling away, I take him deeper, showing him without words that I want all of him. When he comes with my name on his lips, I swallow everything he gives me, the intimate act feeling like claiming and being claimed all at once.
I sit back on my heels, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. Dante looks completely undone, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his blue eyes dark with satisfaction and something deeper I don't want to name.
"Come here," he says, his voice rough.
I rise and let him pull me onto his lap, straddling him in the chair. His hands settle on my waist, thumbs tracing small circles through the silk of my robe.
"What are we doing?" I ask quietly.
"I don't know," he admits, and the honesty in his voice makes my chest tight. "But I can't seem to stop."
"Neither can I."
"Upstairs," he says, his voice rough with need.
"Here," I counter, surprising myself with my boldness.
His eyes darken. "Anyone could walk in."
"Let them."
The recklessness in my voice seems to break something in him. His mouth finds mine again with desperate hunger.
He pulls off my robe. My sleep shirt is gone in an instant. His mouth clamps over one nipple. His low groan vibrates through me. I wonder if he's thinking about ghosts. Is he still in love with the woman he lost to his dangerous world.
"Look at me," I whisper when he seems to drift away into dark thoughts.
His blue eyes focus on mine. I see something vulnerable there, something that looks almost like fear.
"I'm here," I tell him. "I'm right here."
The words seem to ground him, and he responds with a tenderness that breaks my heart. When he finally takes me, it's with a reverence that makes tears sting my eyes.
We move together in the moonlight, two broken people finding solace in each other's bodies, pretending that the world outside this room doesn't exist.
Afterward, we lie tangled together on the thick carpet, my head on his chest, his arms wrapped around me like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"Tell me something true," he says quietly.
I'm carrying your child. I'm falling in love with you. I'm terrified of what that means for both of us.
"I used to be afraid of heights," I say instead. "When I was little, I couldn't even climb playground equipment without having a panic attack."
"Used to be?"
"Real estate cured me of it. Hard to sell penthouses when you can't look out the windows."
His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. "Practical."
"That's me. Practical Hannah, solving problems one neurosis at a time."
"Is that what I am? A neurosis to be solved?"
The question catches me off guard with its honesty. I lift my head to look at him.
"I don't know what you are," I admit.
"Neither do I."
We lapse into silence again, but this time it feels heavier, weighted with all the things we're not saying. The secret I'm carrying feels like a physical presence between us, growing larger with each passing moment.
Literally.
I should tell him. Right now, in this moment of intimacy, when his guard is down and his arms are around me. I should be honest about the life growing inside me.
"Hannah," he says, his voice careful. "Is there something you need to tell me?"
My heart stops. Does he know? Has he figured it out somehow?
"Like what?" I manage to say.
"You've been different lately. Distracted. Like you're carrying something heavy."
I am carrying something heavy. Your child.
"It's just... all of this," I gesture vaguely at the room, at our situation. "It's a lot to process."
He studies my face for a long moment, and I'm sure he can see right through my lie. But then he nods and pulls me closer.
“Have you spoken to your father?” He asks the question several minutes later.
“You know I haven’t. You have me locked down.”
He sighs and slowly pushes me away.
“I need to get to bed. You need sleep. Tomorrow will bring enough problems of its own."
If only he knew.