Chapter 10
Dahlia
T he terrace is quiet, the night air thick with warmth, toxic smog rising from street level and the scent of rain that never came.
I pick at my food—something obscenely expensive, hand-delivered by one of Dante’s faceless minions. Truffle-dusted steak, saffron potatoes, and some kind of air-whipped mousse I couldn’t pronounce if I tried.
Personally, I prefer black-market ramen with hot-sauce packets and a stolen view of the skyline. But I don’t say that. Not tonight.
I feel a crescendo coming.
Because he’s watching me.
Dante O’Driscoll—barefoot, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, charcoal-gray eyes unreadable—leans against the stone railing like a god surveying his kingdom. Hair rumpled. Sleeves rolled. Whiskey untouched.
He’s not eating much either and for the first time, he’s a little disheveled.
It could be curious if it wasn’t so fucking unfair that he looks even hotter than normal.
I swirl my wine, disgruntled. Restless. So fucking horny. Deciding if I’ll turn full brat if he decides to send me to bed without the fucking he’s been promising for days now.
“So. You gonna tell me why you really need me for this heist, or are we still pretending I’m just here for your entertainment?”
A slow smile. But there’s something behind it this time—tension pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“I told you. You’re good,” he says, then adds, “And it amuses me to have you close. It’s only been a handful of days. You have way more begging to do.”
I roll my eyes, holding the warm compliment at bay. “You’ve got a hundred hackers on payroll who can do what I do. Hell, half of them trained at the same black-ops ghost school you probably fund under three shell companies.”
He doesn’t respond. For a minute, the only sound is the low hum of the city below, the occasional long blare of a horn.
Then he says, almost too softly, “I told you. They’re not you. And they didn’t steal from me.”
Something shifts. His posture stays relaxed, but the edges fray. His fingers twitch against the glass, like he’s remembering something he doesn’t want to.
I set my fork down. “What happened to you?” It’s bald and bold but fuck it.
That flicker. His jaw tightens. A vein pulses near his temple. “Don’t,” he warns.
“Don’t what?” I press, my voice barely a whisper. “Ask why a man who bathes in blood and money and happily exploits the weak suddenly wants justice over his comrade assholes? Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?” I probe.
The way he seems rabid about this thing succeeding has plagued me for days. Dante isn’t doing this just to get one over an enemy. This feels… personal. Intensely .
His jaw tightens. For a second, I think he’s going to snap at me—say something cruel, something cold, something to remind me exactly who the fuck he is. But he doesn’t.
He just stares.
The city lights flicker in his eyes, and I realize he’s not looking at me anymore.
He’s somewhere else.
“My reasons don’t concern you,” he says finally, but the edge in his voice is dulled, like he’s tired of lying—maybe even to himself.
I tilt my head, watching him. “Everything about me is on your screen. My name. My history. My limits. You even know what toys I’ve clicked on in that app.
You’ve seen every mask I wear. But you… I thought I knew everything about you.
” I take a breath. “But here you are, presenting me with a shiny black box of secrets.”
Dante shifts, gaze flicking to the skyline, then back to me. “And you should leave it alone. There are things you don’t want to know, Specter.”
He uses the name like armor. Like a shield.
I smile. But it’s not real. And that warmth? It’s receding. “You mean things you don’t want me to know.”
He doesn’t deny it. And that’s when I see it. Another flicker. A deeper shadow. A crack in the diamond-cut mask he wears like skin.
It passes through him like a storm cloud—quick, but enough to darken everything. His eyes go flat. Not emotionless. Worse. Haunted .
His mouth opens. “She—” he begins. Then stops. Swallows it.
“Who?” I ask, softer now, almost scared to breathe in case it disturbs the trickle-flow of his giving.
His fingers drum once on the edge of the table, restless. “Someone who thought she could make the world better.”
He looks at me—really looks—and for a second, I see it flash behind his eyes: Pain. Loss. Rage . A name, maybe. A memory. Something carved deep and ugly into him. “She died for it.” There’s a pause long enough to bleed. “You of all people should know how that feels.”
The reference to my mother is meant to distract, possibly wound. A digital vigilante who died for her cause.
I hate that it achieves both.
He stands abruptly and downs the whiskey in one practiced tilt. “And that’s all you get.” He straightens, voice smooth as ever. “Finish your wine, Specter. I’m not done with you yet.”
He turns to go.
But before he reaches the terrace door, I say, “If you want my cooperation, don’t treat me like I’m your enemy, Dante.” Even though you’re mine .
He stops, his shoulders tense. Then, over his shoulder, he says in a voice stripped raw, “Everyone’s my enemy eventually.”
And he leaves me there—still, burning, and full of questions.
Yes, the moment has vanished. But it was there. I saw it.
Whatever Dante’s hiding... it matters.
And I plan to find out.
The playroom waits for me like it always does—dim and humming with anticipation. Walls of cool steel and shadow. Black leather restraints coiled like snakes. The faintest scent of cedar and sweat and unfulfilled sex lingers in the air.
I step inside barefoot half an hour after dinner, feeling every brush of the cool floor against my warm soles. My dress slips off easily. I left my shame somewhere between the second night and the third orgasm I never got to finish.
But this feels different.
He’s already there, dressed in all black, leaning against the padded bench like he owns gravity.
Dante’s hot black eyes drag down my body slowly—my small, curvy frame, the flare of my hips, the swell of my breasts. He pauses on my thighs, then moves lower. “You followed the plug instructions.” The ones he texted me before dinner.
I nod. The larger stretch is still new, tight and pulsing.
Dante pushes off the bench and circles me like I’m prey. “And the rest?”
I lower my eyes. “Yes, Sir.”
Of all the minute things he’s let slip, his immediate, electric reaction to that title is the most evident.
It tastes like surrender. Mine . Like sin. Ours . Like something I don’t want to need—but I do.
With the barest flare of his nostrils, he comes closer, tilts my chin up with one finger. “More words, Specter.”
I swallow. Wish he would call me Dahlia but I don’t vocalize that. “I strip on command. I ask before touching myself. I follow the rules.”
His eyes narrow. “Except when you don’t.”
I tense.
“I know you just tried to hack the tablet again ten minutes ago.”
My stomach flips. The collar around my neck seems to pulse with heat. “I just wanted to see?—”
He shuts me up with a kiss.
Not gentle. Not violent. Just… total .
His mouth takes mine like it has every right to. Like it’s been waiting for this moment. Tongue sliding deep, slow, possessive. His hands grip my waist, fingers sinking into my skin like he’s memorizing my curves, inch by inch.
I moan before I can stop it.
And he grins against my lips. “Still think you’re not fucking mine? That you can do what you please?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Because he’s behind me in the next breath, hands firm on my hips, his voice a whisper at my ear. “On the bench. Knees apart. Show me where it hurts.”
I obey.
The leather’s cool under my skin. I spread my legs, face flushed, my heart hammering as he kneels behind me. His fingers trail down my spine, then dip between my thighs. He strokes lightly, nowhere near enough. One stroke, glancing my clit, my hole.
“You’re wet,” he murmurs. “Already? From just a kiss? Or from something else? Something that feels like rebellion but tastes like your impending surrender?”
I shudder. Hate how true it is.
But then his hand stills. “Answer me, Dahlia,” he says quietly, “Or you don’t get fucked.”
“No,” I whisper, not even sure whether I’m begging him not to deny me or I’m denying him a proper response. Five days of edging have me out of my fucking mind.
He waits.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “From everything,” I eventually sigh. “You’ve kept me waiting for so long. I don’t… I can’t…”
His large, warm hand glides down my back. Almost soothing but not quite. “I’m going to fuck you tonight. You’ve earned it.”
Oh God. Please. “Yes, Sir.”
He unzips his pants, and I hear the soft jingle of metal.
Then I feel it. Something heavy. Pressing. Hot.
I glance back—and see it.
Holy shit.
His cock is long, heavy, thick, veined and pierced . Curved toward his navel. A barbell glints at the head, gleaming with anticipation. Five more decorate his jaw-dropping length. One on top of his corona.
My breath catches. “You didn’t tell me?—”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I… I’ve never?—”
“Shhh. Let me teach you.”
He crouches in front of me, cups my jaw and kisses me again—slower this time. Gentler. But it only makes the burn inside me worse. Push and pull at full strength.
“You remember your safe word?”
I nod.
He waits. “Say it, so I know.”
“Killswitch,” I whisper.
He smiles. “Good girl.”
He kisses me again, and God, the way Dante uses his tongue and teeth and lips wrecks me. I never thought I’d crave the decadent sounds of our mouths melding like I do now. And for a man who is a master of control and stillness, I love how his hands don’t stop moving over my body.
A rumble builds in his chest as his fingers glide down my throat, lingering on the collar for several beats before exploring my collarbones. Testing my strength.
Then my nipples are caught. Pinched. Tugged. Pain upon pain exploding into pleasure. My wince and cry make his eyes gleam. Those eyes that never close chasing my every reaction.