50.

Morning came slow.

Isolde stirred beneath velvet sheets, her lashes fluttering as sunlight poured through the slats of the heavy drapes.

Her body was warm. Too warm.

The scent of fire, velvet, and Dante clung to the linen like the memory of his hands.

She blinked.

The first thing she noticed was her bare shoulder.

The second—her aching hips.

And then it came back.

The party.

The music.

The spinning.

The men.

The gunshots.

Her breath hitched. A small sound escaped her throat. Her hand flew to her mouth.

He had killed them. For her. Because she’d danced, smiled, drunk and silly, in a room full of wolves.

And Dante had torn their eyes from their skulls with bullets. Just like that.

Her stomach twisted.

Not from fear.

From something worse.

Guilt.

She sat up slowly, the sheet sliding down her chest. Her legs ached.

Her skin bore faint marks—his fingerprints mapped like constellations across her hips.

She should feel violated.

She didn’t.

She felt... claimed.

And that scared her more than his gun ever could.

Sliding from the bed, she padded softly across the bedroom floor.

Her hair was a tangle down her back.

She wrapped the robe from the foot of the bed around herself like armor and stepped into the en suite bathroom.

It smelled like him. Everything did.

The mirror was fogged slightly. She didn’t bother wiping it.

She stepped into the shower. The water came down hot, heavy.

She stood there.

Still.

Letting the heat burn her shoulders, her back.

Her face tilted up as if she could wash the guilt from her skin, erase the way his hands had burned her into existence.

Last night, she had danced.

Last night, she had laughed.

And men had died.

Because she was his.

She pressed her hands to her stomach, forehead against the cool marble wall.

Tears slipped down, mingling with the water.

She didn’t know how long she stood there.

Eventually, the water began to cool.

She turned the dial and stepped out, wrapping a thick white towel around herself.

She walked into the bedroom, half-dazed.

And froze.

Dante was leaning against the doorframe.

Shirtless.

His pants still dark, his feet bare on the marble.

His eyes locked on her.

No words.

Just heat.

Her breath caught. The towel suddenly felt too thin. Too transparent.

He pushed off the door.

She backed up a step.

He didn’t stop until he was in front of her.

He reached out, slowly, fingers brushing a wet strand of hair from her cheek.

“You were beautiful last night,” he said, voice like silk strangling steel.

She swallowed.

“You killed them.”

He nodded. “I did.”

“Why?” she asked softly.

His fingers slid to her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting.

“Because they looked at you like you were some piece of meat.”

Her eyes shimmered. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“They wanted to touch what is mine. That is wrong enough.”

She trembled.

But not from fear.

He leaned in. His mouth brushed her temple.

“Do you feel guilty?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

He kissed her ear.

“Then you’re still good. But you won’t stay that way forever.”

She turned to look at him, eyes wide.

“What do you mean?”

He smiled.

“Every time I touch you, every time you let me—this world soaks into your skin. You think I took your body, little dove, but I’m taking your soul. Inch by inch.”

Her lips parted. Her knees weakened.

He caught her waist.

Pulled her forward.

“You can hate me for it,” he whispered, “but you won’t stop me.”

And then he kissed her.

Hot.

Desperate.

She gasped into his mouth. Her arms curled around his neck.

The towel loosened, sliding an inch. He grabbed it, tugged it down just enough to bare her shoulder, then her collarbone.

His mouth followed the line, worshipping the skin he exposed.

She moaned, head tilting back.

He carried her to the edge of the bed.

Laid her down like she was priceless.

And kissed the guilt away.

The sheets still smelled of him.

Isolde lay curled in Dante’s bed, her body flushed and bare beneath the soft weight of the covers.

Her skin tingled in the aftershock of his touch.

Her lips were still swollen from his kiss, her thighs marked with the weight of his obsession.

For a moment, she felt... warm. Anchored. Like the storm inside her had finally quieted.

But the silence didn’t last.

He stood by the windows now, bare-chested, back turned to her.

The morning light spilled across his spine, outlining every sculpted muscle, every scar, like a sculpture carved in vengeance.

He was still. Too still.

She sat up slowly, wrapping the sheet around her.

“Dante?”

He didn’t turn. His hands were behind his back, fingers locked like he was holding something in.

“I’ve made a decision,” he said quietly.

A pause.

Her stomach twisted. “About what?”

He finally faced her.

His expression was unreadable. Calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came before a knife.

“You’re leaving this place.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re not safe here,” he said, stepping closer, each stride measured like he was walking toward something he meant to destroy. “This world—my world—is killing you by inches. I see it every day. The guilt. The fear. The trembling in your hands when you think I’m not watching.”

Her breath caught. “Dante... I’m not trembling because I’m afraid of you.”

“No,” he said darkly. “You’re afraid of what I make you feel.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand reaching to brush a curl from her cheek. His touch was soft. Too soft.

“I bought you a house,” he said. “Far away. On the coast. Private beach. No guns. Just... sea and silence.”

Her heart started to race. “Why are you doing this?”

He smiled faintly. But there was no warmth in it.

“Because I love you.”

Her eyes glistened. “That’s not love. That’s exile.”

He tilted his head. "You will like it."

“Aren’t you coming with me?” she asked, voice cracking.

“No.”

The word dropped like ice between them.

“You’re... sending me away?” she whispered.

He stood again.

“I’m removing temptation,” he said. “You make me violent. You make me lose control. When men look at you, I want to burn cities. When you cry, I want to cut out the throats of ghosts. I don’t trust myself around you anymore.”

She rose from the bed, the sheet wrapped tight around her trembling form.

“Then why make me love you if you were going to leave?”

His eyes flickered. For a split second, something broke through.

Then he masked it.

She stood trembling before him, her bare feet pressing into the cold marble floor.

The sheet she held wrapped tightly around her body felt heavier with every second.

Like it bore the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

Her voice broke. “You said I was yours. You said I was safe with you.”

Dante’s expression didn’t waver.

But his fingers twitched, betraying something raw beneath his composed exterior.

“You are mine,” he said, stepping close enough for her to feel the heat of him. “And that’s exactly why you need to go.”

Her lashes fluttered with disbelief, tears slipping down her cheeks.

She gripped his forearm—desperate, pleading.

“I don’t want silence. I don’t want peace,” she whispered. “I want you. I want your voice. Your presence. Even your cruelty… just not your absence.”

He stared at her.

A breath passed between them—so fragile it almost shattered the air.

“You don’t mean that,” he said hoarsely.

“I do,” she said. “Even when you scare me… I need you near. If you leave, I’ll lose more than you. I’ll lose myself.”

His jaw clenched, eyes dark and storming with conflict.

But it was brief.

He stepped back. His tone sharpened like a blade. “Pack your things.”

“Dante—”

“Now,” he said, more softly. “The car will be ready in two hours.”

She stood frozen.

Her knuckles whitened where they clutched the sheet. “How am I supposed to breathe without you?” she asked, not as a weapon—but as a wound.

His eyes closed for a second. “You’ll learn,” he said. “And when you forget how to miss me… I’ll come back.”

He turned before she could reply, walking out the door without a backward glance.

It shut behind him like a sentence passed.

Isolde stood alone in the room, her tears silent.

Her obsession wasn’t wild or dangerous like his—but soft, crushing, and helpless.

And as she stared at the space where he’d been, her body still aching with the memory of his touch, she whispered the only truth left to her. “You already broke me. What’s left to protect?”

And then she sank to the floor.

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