63
The ocean was black glass under the moonlight.
Each wave that slammed into the cliffs below the estate seemed louder than the last, carrying its weight into the marrow of the house.
The beach house was quiet, too quiet.
She had tried to distract herself. She had tried cooking, but the loaf of bread burned on the edges, the smell lingering like failure.
She had tried reading Dante’s imported books, but after a few pages the words blurred, and her mind filled instead with questions she had no answers for.
Where was he?
What had he done?
Is he safe?
Her sketchbook lay open on the coffee table, every page a confession his face in profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth when he smirked, his cold eyes drawn over and over in graphite.
The longer she sketched him, the more she hated herself for it.
He wasn’t here, and she was still filling pages with him like a child obsessed with a phantom.
By midnight she had wrapped herself in a blanket on the couch, knees tucked under her chin, hair spilling around her shoulders in loose waves.
Her nightgown silk clung softly to her skin. He had bought it for her.
He always bought things for her. Sometimes she wondered if the gifts were generosity or shackles.
The clock ticked past one a.m. Her chest ached with the wait.
Then she heard it.
Engines. Deep, rumbling, approaching up the long driveway.
Isolde’s body reacted before her mind did. The blanket slid from her shoulders as she shot to her feet, barefoot on the marble floor.
She ran for the front door, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
She pulled it open and the night spilled in, cool air biting her skin.
The convoy rolled into the circular drive—black SUVs, headlights cutting through the dark. Doors opened. Boots hit gravel.
Guards. Too many of them, all silent.
And then he appeared.
Dante.
He stepped out of the first car like a shadow made flesh, tall and broad in his black suit.
The floodlights caught the slick glint of blood on his white cuffs, spattered up his forearm. His knuckles were split raw.
The faint scent of smoke carried on the wind, following him like a second aura.
For a moment, she froze. Relief and terror collided inside her chest until she couldn’t breathe. He was alive.
He was here. But he looked like death itself had worn his skin.
Her body moved before her brain caught up. She ran to him, her nightgown catching on her legs, hair streaming behind her.
She threw herself against him, arms around his waist.
He didn’t stumble. He absorbed her like stone absorbs rain. His hand came down, heavy, firm, gripping the back of her head and holding her to his chest.
“You came back, I was so worried ” she whispered, voice raw with relief.
“Of course.” His voice was calm, low. Not comforting. Certain.
The scent hit her then, sharp and metallic. She pulled back, eyes dropping to his shirt. Blood. Not his. It couldn’t be his.
The stains spread across his cuffs, dark against the white fabric.
Her stomach lurched, but her eyes refused to look away.
He tilted her chin up with one bloodstained hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were black and cold, bottomless.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“I…” She swallowed hard, her voice small. “You’re covered in blood.”
A cruel smirk curved his mouth. “Observant.”
Her chest tightened. She should have run. She should have screamed.
Instead she stood rooted, trembling, her heart hammering, her body betraying her with the way it leaned closer to him despite the horror.
Dante noticed. He always noticed.
He stepped forward, forcing her back against the doorframe.
His body caged hers in, broad shoulders blocking the night, his presence suffocating.
He pressed close enough that the blood on his cuffs brushed against her skin.
“You don’t know whether to kiss me or run, do you?” His voice was soft, intimate. Dangerous.
Tears burned her eyes. “I’m scared of you.”
His smile widened, sharp as a blade. “Good.” He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. “Fear means you understand me.”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “And yet I…” Her voice broke. “I can’t stop loving you.”
Dante’s eyes darkened, satisfaction flickering there like fire. “Say it again.”
Her lips trembled. “I love you.”
He chuckled, low and cruel, his hand gripping her jaw tight enough to bruise. “Pathetic little thing. You love the man who came home with blood on his hands.”
Her tears slipped free, hot trails down her cheeks. “I can’t help it.”
He kissed her then, brutal and punishing, tasting of smoke and copper.
Her cry was swallowed against his mouth as his hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back.
His lips dragged across her skin, leaving smears of blood on her cheek, her neck.
When he pulled back, her face was marked in red. His eyes glinted with twisted pride. “Now you look like mine.”
Her knees buckled, but he held her upright, fingers digging into her waist. His touch wasn’t tenderness. It was possession, bruising, a reminder she belonged to him even in her terror.
“Do you think you’re more than a possession to me?” he asked softly.
Her breath hitched. “I… I don’t know.”
His hand clamped harder on her waist, drawing a gasp. “Wrong answer.”
He dragged her inside, the doors slamming behind them, his boots echoing against marble as he pulled her toward the living room.
He threw her down onto the couch, standing over her like a shadow ready to consume.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Her wide eyes lifted, shimmering with tears.
“I killed a man tonight,” Dante said, voice even, casual, like stating the weather. “He begged. He screamed. He burned. And I didn’t blink.”
He leaned down, his face inches from hers. “Do you think I’d blink if it were you?”
Her chest seized, but the answer tore from her anyway. “No.”
A cold smile curved his mouth. “And yet, you stay.”
Her lips trembled. “Because I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
The silence after was suffocating. Then Dante’s laughter rolled through the room, low, dark, terrifying.
He sat beside her, one arm draping across the back of the couch, body loose but aura sharp.
“You’re mine,” he said simply. “Even if you hate it. Especially if you hate it.”
Her tears blurred her vision, but her body leaned toward him anyway, traitorous.
Her fear and her obsession warred until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
He caught her chin again, forcing her gaze upward.
His thumb smeared the blood still streaked across her face. “Remember this. Love isn’t gentle here. It’s chains and blood. It’s mine or nothing.”
Her whisper broke between sobs. “I know.”
Dante leaned back, satisfied, exhaling slow. His voice dropped, darker than before. “The Bratva isn’t finished.
Ivanov wants me broken. He’ll come through you. You’re my crown, my weakness, and he thinks he can cut me down by taking you.”
Her heart stuttered. “What… what will you do?”
Dante’s eyes were unreadable as he lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his bloodstained knuckles.
He inhaled, smoke curling around him like a second skin.
“What I always do,” he said coldly. “I’ll burn him. I’ll burn everything.”
The words slithered into her chest like poison and honey all at once.
She should have been terrified. She was terrified.
But she was also obsessed, consumed, bound to him in ways she could no longer unravel.
Dante’s gaze cut to her again, sharp and final. “You’ll never leave my sight again.”
Her lips trembled. And still, she whispered, “Good.”
He smiled then slow, cruel, victorious.