Chapter 11 Estella #2
I take the cigarette from his mouth and raise it to my own, keeping my eyes on his the entire time, echoing the gesture he made only moments earlier and letting the silence stretch between us like a held breath.
“Inhale,” he says softly, his voice dropping to a low timbre that carries something I cannot name. “Slowly.”
The command does something to me, gathering everything inside into a tight knot and forcing heat to bloom low in my stomach, gliding outward in a rush that feels almost electric.
I follow his instruction, lowering my lashes as I draw in a breath, the first drag striking through my chest with a sharp, unfamiliar intensity.
“Good,” he murmurs.
That’s when it hits me—the menthol burn arriving with more force than I expected.
It catches at the back of my throat, raw and biting, then drags itself downward until the heat settles deep in my chest like a small, unwelcome fire.
The taste turns bitter and acrid, almost metallic on my tongue.
I flinch before I can stop myself, my eyes squeezing shut as the sting spreads and a slow ache unfurls through my stomach.
“Slow. Don’t rush it.” His voice moves through me in a way that feels almost physical, like a touch I cannot quite place. It spreads through my mind, breaking into a thousand fragments of warmth and sound that settle beneath my skin.
When he speaks again, his tone has softened, the edges gentler, as if he is offering something rather than guiding me. “There you go,” he says, and the words feel less like instruction and more like permission, quiet and intimate in the cold morning air.
I shift slightly, my body humming with too much sensation—the cold air, the burn in my chest, the dizzy pulse in my veins.
I breathe in again, then out, watching the smoke spill from my lips and rise between us.
It curls in thin ribbons, twisting around our faces, blurring the world to ash and amber.
When I finally open my eyes, the sun catches him.
Golden light cuts through the haze, scattering across his skin and catching in his hair. The smoke moves around him like something alive, and for a heartbeat, he doesn’t look real at all—just a figure carved from light and shadow, standing still while the world burns softly around us.
One step closer, and we’ll touch. Just one. I can already see it—his hand sliding to my chin, my tongue nudging the cigarette from my lips, its ember dying as his mouth claims mine in that rough, unspoken promise I’ve been imagining.
But the vision fractures like glass when, instead of moving closer, Dante reaches back and takes the cigarette from between my lips.
His fingers brush my chin on the way out, a light, unhurried touch that sends a subtle spark through my skin.
He brings the cigarette back to his mouth, unfazed by the faint smear of my pink gloss on the filter.
He draws in a long breath, eyes drifting shut as he inhales, lashes trembling as though he is wrestling with something deeper than smoke, something drawn from a place he does not dare name.
I take a slow step back, waiting to see if he’ll follow. He doesn’t. He stays wrapped in his cloud, a figure half-consumed by haze and light, watching me through the thinning curls of smoke.
The strike of rejection is cold and quick, like ice in my gut, splintering outward. My chest tightens, heavier than the first drag I took. I watch him finish the cigarette in silence until he drops it and crushes the glowing ember under his boot.
The world seems to tilt back to its usual rhythm, heavy and dull as I stand here, so close yet so far away, the flicker of pride inside me flashing to life.
I know he feels the same way. He just enjoys the push and pull. A part of me wants to say fuck it and kiss him myself.
But before the thought can fully crystallize, the sound of an engine tears through the stillness.
A van barrels up the narrow mountain road, too fast to reach us in time.
The brakes screech, fuel slicing through the air as it jerks to a stop just a few meters away.
Whatever fragile, complicated thing hung between us dissolves instantly.
The door slams open, metal striking metal. A man steps out, his heavy boots crunching over frost as he approaches.
I recognize that gait, that posture, every line of tension in his body. Fury ignites behind my ribs, a white-hot flare that sears through me, consuming every trace of the soft warmth Dante left in its wake.
He stops in front of us, tilting his head with a sneer meant to intimidate, but it only grates.
“What are you supposed to be?” he spits. “Bert and Ernie lost on a mission?” He narrows his gaze, sizing us up the way someone judges a joke.
My lips twitch in barely contained rage as we remain silent.
His eyes flick between us, roving like a bored guard taking inventory.
Dante stands rigid in the plaid fleece we found him—practical, pilled at the collar—while I wear the same pattern in a harsher palette: reds and burnt-orange that catch the light and make the cold look warmer.
Our pants match in tone, an accidental uniform against the mountain’s white.
Dante truly predicted it. On our last shopping spree, he picked out clothes that are perfect for this exact mission.
“What are you supposed to be?” I toss back, my voice lacquered with contempt. “A parody of a secret agent?”
He’s wrapped in a turtleneck and jeans so tight they look painted on—the wrong clothes for a mountain, the wrong clothes for a man trying to look dangerous.
The whole ensemble is a crime against practicality and taste; pulled together, it reads like theatre-costume bravado.
He tries to be menacing and ends up looking ridiculous.
He chuckles dryly. “Very funny.”
“You’re late,” Dante cuts in. The rumble in his voice lands like a fist, and Owen takes a barely perceptible step back, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.
Then he closes the distance between them, eyes flattening into slits in a bad, cheap imitation of menace.
His irises are a washed-out color, the kind that suggests someone tried to harden himself and only hollowed out in the process.
Watching him is like watching a child play at being a villain: loud gestures, too much breath, no real danger.
We have history with him—a time I’d rather forget, but one that seems unwilling to leave my skull.
“Well, things happen,” Owen snarls, eyeing Dante from head to toe. “You got a problem with that?”
“I thought there was supposed to be more of you. Did they jump out of the van on the way here because you couldn’t shut your mouth?” I ask.
He throws his head back, and a forced laugh rips from him.
There’s always that problem with people in this line: they’re either so solemn that they make you want to vomit, or they try so hard they become caricatures.
The latter seem raised on spy movies and recycled one-liners, rehearsing menace until it sounds practiced and brittle.
Owen falls into this category.
“You see,” he begins, stepping closer until the cold air between us feels thinner, “they put me in charge. They said you don’t matter.
That I can do whatever the fuck I want with both of you.
” He punctuates the sentence by dragging a finger through the air between us in a small, arrogant slash, meant to claim space.
I lift my brows, chewing the corner of my mouth like it’s some private amusement. “Did they also tell you to wear skinny jeans and a turtleneck so we’d kill ourselves laughing before the mission even starts?”
Dante chuckles, sharp and quick, almost cutting into a cough. Owen’s face stiffens instantly, the twitch at the corner of his eye betraying him. “Keep joking, Iris, and see where that fucking mouth gets you.”
Heat crashes into my gut like a spark igniting dry tinder.
His words drag something old and dangerous to the surface, and for a heartbeat, my hands clench, aching for the shape of his throat.
I bite down on my tongue, the metallic tang of blood burning sharp against my teeth—a private proof that I am more animal than human in this moment.
Hearing that name should mean nothing. Two syllables shouldn’t slip beneath my armor and rattle me.
Yet the bones beneath still remember. They echo. They tremble when someone dares to speak the language of the past.
I had believed in absolute control. Now I see that control is more fragile than I ever cared to admit.
My pulse spikes, my heart hammering against my ribs like a wild animal trapped with no way out, every beat urgent and desperate. I feel the flare of each breath, my nostrils widening, the restless tension in my muscles begging to move.
I force myself to remain still, folding the heat inward, compressing it into a narrow, dangerous quiet.
My face remains indifferent, bored, practiced.
Control is a garment I wear better than most, but it is still a garment, fragile and synthetic, and today the wind wants nothing more than to rip it away.
I feel Dante’s presence shift closer, subtle but grounding. Turning my head, I see him beside me, his arm brushing against my shoulder. The familiar scent of smoke and musk coils around me, anchoring me to the moment as I exhale, watching the vapor curl into the cold air like a fragile ghost.
Owen mutters something under his breath, but I block him out completely, ignoring the way he turns and strides back to the van, slamming the door behind him. He settles into the driver’s seat, expecting us to follow, oblivious to the storm of calm fury simmering in me.
I tilt my head back for one last look at the sky, squinting as the sun hides behind ragged pockets of clouds, casting the rugged landscape in a deep, melancholic gold. Shadows stretch long across the frozen ground, and the mountains loom like silent witnesses to what’s about to unfold.
Gathering every ounce of strength, I tighten my shoulders and, with measured, deliberate steps, stride toward the van, each footfall a promise to myself.
Whatever comes next, I will meet it head-on. This is going to be one of the hardest fucking missions of my life, but I’m ready.
At least, I think I am.