Chapter 13 Dante
Alaska
“Are you sure you’re not mad at me for it?” I ask, my voice low and a little slurred, the alcohol softening the edges of everything. The half-empty glass of amber liquid sits on the table beside me, the taste of whiskey still clinging to my tongue.
I didn’t plan to get drunk, and I’m not truly.
Just a little tipsy. No matter how many glasses I drown, it’s never enough to silence the noise in my head.
I’ve always thought that was its own kind of curse—being unable to let go, even after chugging a whole bottle down.
I can’t relax naturally, can’t drink myself into oblivion.
All I ever manage is a muted blur of thoughts, tangled together like the paint-streaked chaos of a madman’s canvas.
Right now, I feel exactly that. I’m worn to the bone, adrift in the hazy quiet of this hotel room, my thoughts buzzing faintly in the background.
Estella’s laugh cuts through it, the sound sharp, bright, and alive.
My eyes focus on her, and for a moment, I just look, my mouth twitching into a faint smile.
She looks so effortlessly carefree, like the world never managed to stain her.
“Were you seriously thinking that?” she asks, flashing her white teeth. “That I’d be mad at you for killing Owen?”
A small laugh breaks from me, shaking loose from somewhere deep in my chest. Only now do I realize how absurd this all is—the conversation, the setting, the fact that we’re talking about murder like it’s gossip over drinks.
“Yes, actually,” I admit, letting my shoulders sink. “Maybe not for killing him… but for disobeying orders.”
Estella arches a brow, propping her elbow on the pillow. The dim light brushes her skin in gold as she leans closer, her fingers circling the nearly empty glass. Her gaze locks on mine, steady and sultry, and the air between us feels thick enough to taste.
“What orders?” she laughs, the sound slipping out soft and sharp all at once. Her tongue wets her lips, catching the glint of lamplight. “I haven’t given you any. We were sent to eliminate the target, and what or who gets hurt in the process isn’t our problem.”
A flicker of warmth rises through me, threading into my veins. It’s ridiculous, really, that a single line from her can make me feel like I’ve done something right. Like I’ve managed to create something that satisfies her.
She hums a random tune, low and careless, before lifting her glass and draining it.
The blend of strong whiskey and the warmth in this room has made us both restless.
We stripped down to whatever was left—me in a black T-shirt and the same worn pants; her in a black tank top with thin straps and matching leggings that cling to her perfectly.
My eyes drag across her, tracing the pale lines of scars that cut across her skin. I’d only noticed the one on her shoulder before, but now I see more—the faint marks beneath her collarbone, another near her stomach, barely visible unless the light hits just right.
I know I shouldn’t stare. She’d knock my teeth out if she caught me. But curiosity burns through restraint, slow and insistent.
The questions rise, but I bite them back.
Instead, I force my gaze away, scanning the room like I can distract myself with details.
The wood-paneled walls glow under the lamplight, their knots and grains twisting like captured fire.
Everything feels alive—the rug she moved from the center of the room to beneath the bed, the way her toes press into the plush surface, claiming it as if it belongs to her now.
And still, my mind circles back.
To her. Always to her.
Fuck.
She tastes like a slow-burning obsession, crawling beneath my skin, a current I cannot short-circuit. A vortex of danger and magnetic pull coils around me, tight and relentless. I told myself long ago that I had no weaknesses, that the world had been burned from me piece by piece.
But she is living proof that I was mistaken. She is my weakness, the woman I should approach with nothing but professional distance, yet every fiber of me rebels.
“So what did he tell you?” she asks at last, her words low and velvety, the kind of sound that curls in the air and lingers. It slices through my thoughts like smoke through light.
I shift in my place, my body tense, trying to ground myself against the sudden pull of her voice. Emphasis on trying.
Estella lifts her hand toward the bag of gummy bears we grabbed from the shop downstairs.
Her fingers sift through the colorful pieces, finally selecting a single red one.
She pops it into her mouth and chews deliberately, savoring the sweetness, before turning her gaze to me.
Her eyes are silent but insistent, holding a question without speaking, waiting for something.
I blink up at her, trying to dredge the memory of her question from the haze of my thoughts.
My throat is dry, my mind sluggish, weighed down by the lingering hum of alcohol still coursing faintly through my veins.
My fingers twist together almost unconsciously, and I squint at her as if sheer focus could extract the question directly from the depths of her gaze.
She laughs again, and for a heartbeat, I forget to draw air into my lungs.
The sound is light, melodic, almost human—but only almost. Estella inhabits a different plane.
Flesh and blood, yes, but empathy does not dwell in her.
She discovers beauty in destruction, and in the quiet aftermath of violence, she finds a laughter that is entirely her own.
I don’t know how we arrived at this point, how she became the single presence capable of stirring something real inside me. I have known emotion before, even believed I had been in love once, but this is not love.
This is something heavier, something that drags me toward her like gravity I cannot fight.
Perhaps it is the danger she carries, or the way her eyes slice through every carefully constructed layer I hide behind.
In her presence, the masks fall away, and for the first time, I feel as if I can finally stop pretending, as if all the lies I tell the world no longer have a place between us.
“Owen,” she repeats. “What did he tell you?” Her eyes glint with something teasing and dangerous. “I bet his mouth didn’t shut up all the way to the target.”
I exhale, finally catching up. “He talked plenty,” I admit. “Nothing worth remembering.”
She tilts her head, studying me. I can feel her gaze peeling away the lie, and I sigh, deciding to give in. “He told me you two were… involved.”
She leans forward, grabs another gummy bear, this time orange. “I figured. He’s still sore about it.”
My jaw tightens. The uninvited jealousy strikes fast, tingling in my voice before I can mask it. “What was it like?”
Her expression shifts, just barely. A small frown creases her brow as she shakes her head.
“Bad,” she says, simple and flat. “Very bad.” She leans back, her gaze drifting to the ceiling.
“He wanted to fix me. Thought I was something broken he could mend. I let him chase me for a while—it was amusing. But the worst part?” She pauses, eyes snapping to mine. “He didn’t know how to fuck.”
The words hang there, raw and unapologetic, crackling in the dim air between us like static.
I purse my lips, that unnameable emotion tightening in my chest. My hand curls into a fist before I even realize it. Maybe killing Owen so quickly was a mistake. He deserved to linger. To feel something.
For him, I would have gladly made an exception and indulged in all sorts of torture.
“Did he do the things you didn’t like?”
She sighs, shaking her head. “He was boring as fuck. Couldn’t read the room. I told him it was over, and when he realized he couldn’t pull me back in, he turned aggressive.”
The words spark something new in me—a thought that unfurls slowly and dangerously, like a flower blooming under a black sun. “Boring, you say?”
She turns her head toward me, a smirk ghosting across her lips. “Extremely. I’ve lived long enough to know what I like and what I don’t. He just kept missing.”
I pause, taken aback by the way her words slide into me, settling in places I hadn’t expected.
My thoughts wander to the corners of my own past—sparse, ragged memories that hold little worth, yet heavy with the same familiar frustration coiling in my chest now.
The echo strikes sharp, a quiet reminder of everything I have carried, everything I have endured, and the small, stubborn weight of recognition pressing against my ribs.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, curiosity curling around the edges of her voice.
“I think I get it,” I reply. “This’ll make me sound like a complete asshole, but I’ve always had… refined tastes when it comes to intimacy. Not many could understand them.” Her brows lift, a flicker of surprise crossing her face, and I gesture vaguely toward her. “See? I do sound like an asshole.”
“No, no,” she counters quickly, shifting her weight and moving closer. “I’m just trying to picture what you like.”
Heat surges through me before I have a chance to reign it in, a sharp, urgent pulse.
The room shrinks, wrapping around me in sudden warmth, each corner pressing closer.
Her gaze lingers, and the air itself seems to thicken further, coiling down toward the part of me that strains to remain composed—and fails.
My teeth clamp against my lower lip, a frantic, futile anchor in the rising storm of sensation.
“What if we’re the same?” she probes.
The words settle between us like a spark igniting dry grass, quick and dangerous.
She licks her lips, leaning closer, and the scent that follows twists through my senses, making my head reel.
She hovers near enough that I can track the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the way light glints across her skin, fragile and sharp all at once.
One more inch, and I could kiss her.
Taste her. Truly taste her.