24.
The burn still wept.
Wrapped in gauze, cradled against her shoulder blade, it throbbed in rhythm with her heartbeat proof that even her flesh had been claimed.
She no longer had a name. Only a brand. A vow carved into skin, sealed with her blood.
She sat curled in the corner of her room, rocking silently. Not in fear. Not in grief.
In nothing.
Her thoughts unraveled slowly. One by one. Words lost meaning.
Time fell apart. She couldn't tell if it had been hours or days since the ritual.
The mirror across the room reflected a version of her she no longer recognized.
Black velvet dress torn at the hem.
Eyes red, unfocused.
A collar of bruises blooming beneath the silk ribbon at her throat. No escape. No hope.
Only him.
Across the estate, Dante stood in his private study what the newspapers called The War Room.
The walls were obsidian stone, imported from Sicily, veined with raw silver.
A long mahogany table stretched across the room, surrounded by leather chairs.
Half a dozen men in tailored suits sat there now his lieutenants. Killers. Politicians. Ex-generals. Loyal only to him.
Dante stood at the head.
No tie. Shirt sleeves rolled, the scar from an old blade peeking beneath his forearm cuff.
He sipped black Turkish coffee from a crystal cup as one of the men-Gavriel-spoke.
"The Russians are pushing again. They want their shipping lane back. Two million on the table."
Dante shook his head once.
"They shot my contact in Odessa. Let them drown in their own desperation."
Another man spoke. "The French commissioner's daughter was seen at Club Veil last week. If we take her-"
"No," Dante cut in, eyes narrowing. "We don't touch children. We ruin legacies, not bloodlines."
The room went silent. Then Dante tossed a file onto the table.
Inside: photos of bodies.
Mutilated. Hung upside down. "Cartel tried to cross my border in Juárez. I sent them a message."
One of the men new, young-cleared his throat. "Sir, if I may... the media-"
Dante turned his head slowly."You are not here to discuss the media."
A pause.
The man nodded. "Understood."
Dante leaned back in his chair, voice smooth as silk and steel.
That night, he returned to Isolde. Not as the king of a blood empire.
As her tormentor. Her obsession. Her shadow.
He found her curled in the corner, unmoving.
He crouched before her, resting one hand gently on her knee.
"You're not broken yet," he said quietly. "But you're close."
Her eyes fluttered open. She didn't speak. Didn't fight.
He lifted her in his arms, slowly.
Carried her to the velvet-draped bed like she weighed nothing. Set her down.
Then-removed his coat. His shirt.
The weight of him filled the room like heat.
"You need to remember what it feels like," he whispered, "to belong. Not just in pain. But in pleasure too and not to forget it's my dove's first time..I will be very gentle if you allow me."
Her lips trembled.
He climbed onto the bed, straddling her gently, hands pressed flat to the mattress on either side of her head.
"You hate me," he said.
She blinked slowly. "Yes."
He smiled. "Good."
His mouth descended on hers not gently, not violently, but with a slow-burning hunger that made her skin ignite.
His hands didn't ask. They commanded-tracing her ribs, her throat, her inner thigh through the torn silk of her dress.
"Say it," he whispered between kisses. "Say you're mine."
She turned her head away.
He grabbed her jaw-not hard, not bruising. Just enough to remind her.
"Say it."
"You branded me," she whispered.
"I marked you," he corrected. "Because you ran. Because you made me."
He pushed the strap of her dress down, exposing her bruised collarbone.
Then lowered his mouth to the wound he'd carved.
And kissed it. Softly. Worshipfully.
She gasped.
Tears slid down her cheeks. "Why do you keep doing this to me?"
He whispered into her skin. "Because you were made for me. Because no one will ever love you like I will-obsessively. Dangerously. Forever."
And then he took her consuming, twisted, passionate.
It wasn't sweet.
It wasn't sane. It was a ritual in flesh.
After, she lay trembling beside him. His hand rested possessively on her stomach.
"You'll never leave," he said.
She stared at the ceiling.
And didn't argue. Because she couldn't tell if she wanted to.