Chapter 6 - Dante
Chap-ter 6 - Dante
The whiskey burns as it slides down my throat, but it doesn’t numb the thoughts spin-ning in-side my head.
I should have killed An-to-nio the mo-ment he opened his mouth.
"Adopted sis-ter."
A care-less slip? Or some-thing more?
An-to-nio isn’t the type to make mis-takes. He knew ex-actly what he was say-ing—ex-actly which but-tons to press. And now, the words won’t leave me. They gnaw at the back of my mind, twist-ing my gut in a way I don’t fuck-ing like.
I slam the glass down on my desk, grip-ping the edge hard enough to crack the wood.
Elena.
Ever since that night at the church, she’s been dif-fer-ent. Bolder. More reck-less. Like she knows some-thing she isn’t telling me.
I’ve spent my life con-trol-ling ev-ery vari-able, elim-i-nat-ing ev-ery threat be-fore it gets too close. But her—she’s the one thing I can’t seem to con-trol.
And I fuck-ing hate it.
I pull out my phone and dial Luca’s num-ber.
“Find the man who asked for ‘the Ro-mano girl’ at the bak-ery. Now.”
Luca hes-i-tates for a sec-ond be-fore re-spond-ing, his voice sharper than usual. “Got it.”
I end the call and toss the phone onto the desk. My fin-gers rake through my hair as I ex-hale, try-ing to steady my-self.
But then—
The door to my of-fice creaks open.
And there she is.
Elena steps in-side, her move-ments quick, de-lib-er-ate.
She doesn’t hes-i-tate, doesn’t wa-ver. There’s a fire in her hazel eyes, some-thing raw and un-yield-ing, some-thing I al-ready know is go-ing to make me lose my fuck-ing mind.
"Talk," she de-mands.
I stare at her, un-mov-ing. “Ex-cuse me?”
“You’ve been keep-ing me in the dark long enough.”
She strides for-ward, each step filled with pur-pose, with de-fi-ance. Then she plants her hands flat on my desk like she owns the damn place. Like she owns me.
“No more lies. No more half-truths. I want to know ev-ery-thing.”
My si-lence stretches be-tween us, thick, heavy.
She’s breath-ing hard, her body taut with frus-tra-tion, her fin-gers press-ing into the pol-ished wood of my desk. Her hair is a mess from sleep, wild and tan-gled, and that over-sized T-shirt—the one she stole from my closet—barely cov-ers her thighs.
And fuck me, but I shouldn’t be notic-ing that.
I drag my gaze up-ward, forc-ing my-self to fo-cus. To ig-nore the way her lips are parted, the flush creep-ing up her throat, the way her pulse ham-mers be-neath her skin.
“You have no idea what you’re ask-ing,” I say, my voice tight.
Elena leans in, the space be-tween us shrink-ing. “Then make me un-der-stand.”
I clench my jaw.
She doesn’t re-al-ize how close she is to the edge.
To my edge.
I ex-hale slowly, forc-ing my-self to lean back in my chair, to put dis-tance be-tween us be-fore I do some-thing I can’t take back. “Go back to bed, princess.”
Her eyes nar-row. Sharp. Cut-ting. “Stop call-ing me that.”
I smirk, know-ing it’ll piss her off. Know-ing she’ll push harder. “What? Princess?”
She glares at me, her fists clench-ing at her sides. She’s seething now, her whole body trem-bling with the force of her rage. “I am not some frag-ile lit-tle thing you can keep locked away, Dante.”
I watch her, un-blink-ing. Let-ting her words hang in the air, wait-ing un-til the si-lence be-tween us is un-bear-able.
Then, I lean for-ward.
Slowly. De-lib-er-ately.
I let the mo-ment stretch, let the ten-sion coil tight around us.
“Aren’t you?”
Her lips part on a sharp in-hale. Her chest rises just a lit-tle too fast.
She’s play-ing with fire.
And she doesn’t even know it.
Some-thing shifts.
It’s sub-tle—just a flicker in her eyes, a tremor in her breath—but I see it. I feel it.
She blinks fast, try-ing to hide it, but she can’t.
And sud-denly, ev-ery-thing—the dan-ger, the se-crets, the fuck-ing walls be-tween us—crashes down.
She shoves away from the desk, turn-ing her back to me. Her arms wrap around her-self, fin-gers dig-ging into her skin like she’s try-ing to hold her-self to-gether, try-ing to keep from un-rav-el-ing right in front of me.
Her shoul-ders rise and fall with each un-even breath, her head tilt-ing slightly down-ward. But it’s her voice—so quiet, so bro-ken—that slams into me like a wreck-ing ball.
"I don’t know who I am any-more."
A pause. A breath.
"I don’t know if I was ever real."
The words cut deeper than they should. They slice through the air, raw and jagged, lodg-ing them-selves some-where deep in my chest.
I stand be-fore I can stop my-self.
Two steps, and I’m be-hind her.
One more, and I’m too close.
Close enough to feel the warmth ra-di-at-ing from her body. Close enough to in-hale the scent of vanilla and sugar and some-thing un-de-ni-ably her.
I don’t think. I don’t fuck-ing think.
I grab her wrist and spin her to face me.
She gasps, her lips part-ing, her eyes wide and wild.
And then—
I kiss her.
It’s not gen-tle.
It’s not care-ful.
It’s a col-li-sion.
Our mouths crash to-gether, rough and des-per-ate, all teeth and heat and barely con-tained hunger. My hands tan-gle in her hair, fin-gers curl-ing tight as I yank her closer, hold-ing her against me like I can brand my-self into her skin.
She doesn’t hes-i-tate.
She claws at me, her nails dig-ging into my chest, grip-ping my shirt, pulling, de-mand-ing more.
A growl rum-bles deep in my throat, the sound vi-brat-ing against her lips as I push for-ward, walk-ing her back-ward un-til the desk col-lides with her spine.
She gasps at the im-pact, but she doesn’t pull away.
If any-thing, she presses closer.
Her hands slide be-neath my shirt, nails rak-ing up my ab-domen, and fuck—I feel ev-ery scratch, ev-ery brush of her fin-gers like a live wire spark-ing un-der my skin. My mus-cles clench be-neath her touch, my breath hitch-ing as she drags her hands higher, over my ribs, my chest.
I’m hard.
Painfully, achingly hard.
And I need her to feel it.
I shift, press-ing my knee be-tween her thighs, spread-ing them just enough for her to feel the thick, throb-bing proof of ex-actly what she does to me.
She shud-ders.
Her body re-acts.
A sharp in-hale. A soft, des-per-ate whim-per against my lips.
And that—that sound—is my un-do-ing.
I bite at her lower lip, teas-ing, pun-ish-ing, swal-low-ing the gasp she lets out.
She arches into me, her body rolling in-stinc-tively against mine, and I swear to God, I nearly lose it right then and there.
Be-cause this isn’t one-sided.
It never was.
She wants this just as much as I do.
And now?
Now, I don’t think I can fuck-ing stop.
I lift her onto the desk in one swift move-ment, my hands grip-ping her hips, fin-gers dig-ging in like I’m an-chor-ing my-self to her.
She gasps, sharp and breath-less, her legs wrap-ping around my waist on in-stinct.
Her body molds against mine, heat meet-ing heat, the fric-tion un-bear-able.
“Elena,” I groan against her throat, my lips find-ing the del-i-cate skin there, trail-ing lower, tast-ing, claim-ing.
She tilts her head back, sur-ren-der-ing. Ex-pos-ing more of her-self to me.
And fuck—she’s so soft.
Too soft.
Too per-fect.
And I need more.
I slide a hand be-neath her T-shirt, my palm glid-ing up the smooth, heated skin of her thigh.
She shud-ders, her breath stut-ter-ing, her nails bit-ing into my shoul-ders.
I swear she’s try-ing to kill me.
My fin-gers slip higher, trac-ing the lace at the edge of her un-der-wear.
A teas-ing touch. A whis-pered prom-ise.
She shifts against me, rest-less, her breath catch-ing.
“Dante….”
The way she says my name—fuck.
It’s not fair.
Noth-ing about her is fuck-ing fair.
I nip at her jaw, my voice low, rough, wrecked.
“Is this what you wanted, princess?”
She shiv-ers.
Her hips roll against mine, the fric-tion spark-ing some-thing dan-ger-ous in my blood.
I barely bite back a curse.
I grip her chin, forc-ing her to look at me.
“Tell me,” I de-mand.
Her pupils are blown wide, her lips swollen, her breath-ing un-even.
“Yes,” she whis-pers.
And I snap.
I crash my mouth against hers, kiss-ing her hard, deep, de-vour-ing her.
She meets me stroke for stroke, her hands tan-gling in my hair, tug-ging, pulling me closer like she can’t get enough.
Like she needs this as much as I do.
I slide my hand be-neath her panties, fin-gers teas-ing, ex-plor-ing, tak-ing.
She gasps, her head drop-ping back, her body arch-ing into me, chas-ing my touch.
And fuck, I want to ruin her.
I want to make her beg.
I want to hear her fall apart in my hands, on my name, in me.
But just as I push fur-ther—just as I feel her com-pletely un-rav-el-ing be-neath me—
I freeze.
A sharp in-hale.
A mo-ment of clar-ity that shouldn’t be there.
My breath-ing is ragged. My pulse pounds in my ears.
What the fuck am I do-ing?
I yank my hand away like I’ve been burned.
Elena blinks up at me, dazed, con-fused, her lips parted like she’s about to ask why I stopped.
And I can’t fuck-ing ex-plain it.
I step back.
The loss of her heat is in-stant, bru-tal, wrong.
“This was a mis-take,” I grit out, my voice hoarse, barely con-trolled.
She flinches.
And fuck, I hate it.
I hate the way her ex-pres-sion flick-ers with some-thing raw, some-thing that looks too much like hurt.
I hate my-self.
But I can’t stop.
I turn away, storm-ing to-ward the door.
Be-cause if I don’t put dis-tance be-tween us now—
I’ll take ev-ery-thing.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop.