Chapter 29
Emilia
T he admission hung heavy in the air between us, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. His words were raw, unpolished, and they hit me harder than I wanted to admit. I searched his face for any sign of mockery, any hint that he was playing some kind of game, but all I saw was frustration and something else—something deeper.
Before I could respond, Dante straightened, his expression hardening as he glanced toward the alley’s entrance. “Come on,” he said, his tone brisk. “I’ve got business to handle, and you’re coming with me.”
I frowned, my confusion cutting through the haze of emotions swirling in my chest. “What? No. Just take me home.”
“Not yet,” he said, already pulling his phone from his pocket. “Not until I’ve dealt with this.”
“Dealt with what?” I demanded, but he didn’t answer. He was already dialing, his voice low and sharp as he barked orders into the phone. I caught snippets of the conversation—something about a location, a meeting—but it only left me more confused.
When he hung up, he turned to me, his expression unreadable. “Get in the car.”
I hesitated, my instincts screaming at me to argue, to push back. But the look in his eyes—the cold, unyielding determination—left no room for debate. With a huff, I followed him to the sleek black car parked at the curb, sliding into the passenger seat as he started the engine.
The drive was tense and silent, the hum of the engine the only sound as the city blurred past the windows. I stole glances at Dante out of the corner of my eye, his jaw tight, his hands gripping the wheel with a white-knuckled intensity. Whatever he was planning, it wasn’t good.
"Where are we going?" I finally asked, my voice tentative, breaking the suffocating silence in the car.
Dante didn’t look at me, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. His jaw was set, the muscle there twitching with barely restrained anger. For a moment, I thought he might ignore me entirely, but then he exhaled sharply, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.
"To send a message," he said flatly.
The words sent a chill down my spine. "A message to who?"
He didn’t answer right away, his silence more telling than any explanation could have been. My stomach twisted as I pieced it together. The Bratva. Ryan—or Romanov, as Dante had called him. This wasn’t just about me sneaking out or being reckless. This was about territory, power, and the invisible lines I’d crossed without even realizing it.
"Dante," I said, my voice firmer now. "What are you going to do?"
He glanced at me then, just for a second, but it was enough to make my breath catch. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but there was something simmering beneath the surface—something dangerous and unrelenting. "What I have to."
I opened my mouth to argue, to demand more answers, but the words died on my tongue as the car slowed to a stop. We were in a part of the city I didn’t recognize, the streets narrower, the buildings older and more run-down. The kind of place where people didn’t ask questions and kept their curtains drawn tight.
Dante killed the engine and turned to me, his expression hard. "Stay in the car."
"What? No!" I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "You can’t just— "
"Stay. In. The. Car," he repeated, his voice low and commanding, each word dripping with finality. "This isn’t up for debate, Emilia."
I glared at him, my frustration bubbling over. "You can’t just drag me into this and then leave me here like some—some—"
"Like someone who doesn’t belong in this world?" he interrupted, his tone sharp. "Because you don’t, Emilia. And you should be grateful for that."
Grateful? Grateful for what? For being sidelined? For being treated like some fragile porcelain doll who couldn’t handle the weight of the world I was born into?
I gritted my teeth, my hands balling into fists in my lap. He might not see it, but I belonged in this world just as much as he did. I’d grown up surrounded by it, steeped in it, the same blood running through my veins as the men who made the rules. But no matter how many times I proved myself, no matter how many times I showed I could handle more than just pretty dresses and polite smiles, men like Dante always saw women the same way.
Arm candy. Wife material. Good for appearances and loyalty—but never for the dirty work. Never for the real decisions.
Fuck that.
I wasn’t about to sit here and play the role he thought I was born to play.
Before I could tell him exactly what I thought, Dante was already out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. I watched as he strode toward a dimly lit building, his movements purposeful and unhurried, like a predator stalking its prey.
My heart pounded, frustration and adrenaline mixing in my veins. Did he really think I’d just sit here? That I’d wait like some obedient little girl while he went off to face God knows what ?
Hell no.
I cracked the door open, slipping out as quietly as I could. The night air was cool against my skin, and I pulled my jacket tighter around me as I crept toward the building. The faint sound of voices reached my ears as I approached, low and tense, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Peering around the corner, I spotted Dante standing in the middle of a small, dimly lit room. Across from him was a man I recognized instantly—Mikhail Romanov. My stomach dropped. I’d seen him before, at one of my father’s parties. He was older, with a graying beard and a thick Russian accent, but he’d been charming enough, laughing and toasting with my father like they were old friends.
Now, he looked anything but friendly. His expression was tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he spoke to Dante in rapid, clipped Russian. I couldn’t understand the words, but the tension in the air was palpable, like a rubber band stretched too tight, ready to snap.
Dante, on the other hand, was calm. Unnervingly so. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but there was an edge to him, a quiet menace that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
The conversation escalated, the Russian’s voice growing louder, more agitated. And then, without warning, Dante moved. It was so fast I almost missed it—a blur of motion as he grabbed Mikhail by the collar and slammed him against the wall. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and jarring, and I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp.
"You don’t touch what’s mine," Dante growled, his voice low and deadly. "Do you understand me?"
Mikhail sputtered something in Russian, his hands clawing at Dante’s grip, but Dante didn’t let up. His face was inches from Mikhail’s, his dark eyes burning with a fury that sent a shiver down my spine. I’d never seen him like this—so raw, so unrestrained. It was terrifying and mesmerizing all at once .
“Do you understand me?” Dante repeated, his voice dropping even lower, every syllable dripping with menace. “You don’t touch her. You don’t even look at her.”
I pressed myself against the wall, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure they’d hear it. Her. He was talking about me.
Mikhail’s lips curled into a sneer despite the precarious position he was in. “Your little princess walks into our den, and you expect us to pretend she’s invisible?” His accent was thick, his words laced with mockery. “She’s a Ricci. She’s fair game.”
Dante’s fist collided with Mikhail’s jaw before the words had even fully left his mouth. The sound was sickening, a dull crack that echoed in the small room. Mikhail staggered, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but Dante didn’t release him. If anything, his grip tightened.
“She’s not fair game,” Dante growled, his voice like thunder. “She’s mine. And if you or anyone else so much as breathes near her again, I’ll make sure your family gets what’s left of you in pieces. Do you understand me now?”
Mikhail didn’t respond immediately, his head lolling slightly as he tried to regain his bearings. Dante slammed him against the wall again, eliciting a pained grunt. “Do. You. Understand?”
“Yes,” Mikhail rasped, his voice barely audible. “Yes, I understand.”
Dante held him there for a moment longer, as if debating whether to make good on his threat right then and there. Finally, he released him, letting him slump to the floor like a discarded rag doll. Mikhail groaned, one hand clutching his jaw as he glared up at Dante with a mix of fear and hatred.
“Good,” Dante said, straightening his jacket with a casualness that was almost chilling. “Now crawl back to whoever sent you and tell them the same thing. She’s untouchable.”
I stepped back instinctively as Dante turned toward the door, my heart hammering in my chest. I wanted to run, to disappear before he realized I’d disobeyed him and followed him inside. But I was frozen, rooted to the spot by the sheer force of what I’d just witnessed.
And then his eyes met mine.
For a moment, neither of us moved. His expression shifted, the hard edges softening ever so slightly as he registered my presence. But the anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, and I knew I was in trouble.
“Emilia,” he said, his voice low and steady, but there was an unmistakable warning in his tone. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I…” My voice faltered, my mind scrambling for an explanation that wouldn’t make things worse. “I didn’t want to stay in the car.”
His jaw tightened, and he closed the distance between us in two long strides. “I told you to stay put,” he said, his voice sharp but not raised. Somehow, that made it even more intimidating.
“I’m not a child, Dante,” I shot back, finding my voice despite the tremor in my hands. “You don’t get to order me around.”
His eyes darkened, and for a moment, I thought he might actually argue. But then he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t understand what you just walked into,” he said, his tone quieter now, though no less intense. “I keep telling you this isn’t a game, Emilia. These people—” He gestured toward the crumpled figure of Mikhail, who was still groaning on the floor. “—they don’t play by the same rules. If they’d recognized you before I got here…”
He trailed off, his expression hardening again. “You’re lucky I showed up when I did.”
“Lucky?” I repeated, my voice rising. “You think this is about luck? Maybe if you and my father didn’t keep me in the dark about everything, I wouldn’t have to sneak around just to feel like I have some control over my life!”
Dante’s eyes flashed, and he took another step closer, his presence overwhelming. “Control?” he echoed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You think flirting with a Bratva soldier in a dive bar is control? You think putting yourself in danger is some kind of rebellion?.”
My breath hitched as he closed the distance between us, his towering frame casting a shadow over me. His dark eyes burned with anger, but there was something else there too—something raw and unspoken that made my pulse quicken. I wanted to yell at him, to push him away, but my body betrayed me, rooted to the spot as his words sliced through me.
“I wasn’t trying to rebel,” I said, my voice trembling. “I just...I needed to get away.”
“Get away?” Dante repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. “From what? Your cushy life in your father’s estate? The guards who risk their lives to keep you safe? Do you have any idea what it’s like out here, Emilia? What people like him—” he jerked his head toward Mikhail, still slumped on the floor, “—would do to someone like you?”
I swallowed hard, my chest tightening under the weight of his words. “I’m not some fragile little girl, Dante. I can take care of myself.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Take care of yourself?” He stepped even closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “You don’t even carry a weapon. You walked into enemy territory without so much as a knife in your pocket, and you think you can take care of yourself?”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off, his voice rising. “Do you know how easy it would’ve been for Romanov to take you? To use you as leverage against your father? Do you even know how to throw a punch, Emilia? Or were you planning to charm your way out of a kidnapping?”
His words stung, each one hitting harder than the last. I hated how he made me feel—small, naive, like a liability. But more than that, I hated that he was right. I’d been reckless, and I’d put myself in danger without even realizing it.
“I didn’t know,” I said quietly, my voice barely audible. “I didn’t know who he was. ”
Dante sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “That’s the problem, Emilia. You don’t know. You don’t know the enemies your family has, the alliances we’ve made, the lines we can’t cross. And if you keep pulling stunts like this, you’re going to get yourself killed.”
The weight of his words settled over me, and for the first time that night, I felt the full gravity of what I’d done. I’d been so focused on escaping the suffocating confines of my life that I hadn’t stopped to think about the risks. About the consequences.
“I’m sorry,” I said, the words catching in my throat. “I didn’t mean to—”
Dante held up a hand, cutting me off. “Save it. Apologies won’t keep you alive.”
The silence between us stretched on for what felt like forever, the distant sounds of the city fading into the background. My gaze dropped to the ground, shame and frustration warring within me. I hated feeling like this—like I’d let him down, like I was a problem he had to fix.
But then his hand reached out, his fingers brushing against my chin as he tilted my face up to meet his gaze. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the anger that had radiated off him moments ago.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. “You can’t keep doing this, Emilia. You can’t keep running away, putting yourself in danger just to prove a point.”
“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I just...I feel trapped, Dante. Like I’m suffocating. And tonight, I just wanted to feel free. Just for a little while.”
His expression softened, the hard edges of his anger giving way to something more complicated. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his dark eyes searching mine like he was trying to understand something he couldn’t quite grasp.
“You want to feel free?” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “Then I’ll teach you how to survive. I’ll teach you how to fight, how to defend yourself. But this?” He gestured toward the bar, his jaw tightening again. “This isn’t freedom, Emilia. It’s suicide.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest. There was something in his tone, something in the way he looked at me, that made my breath catch. It wasn’t just anger or frustration—it was something deeper, something raw and unguarded. And for the first time, I saw the cracks in Dante’s carefully constructed armor.
“You’ll teach me?” I asked quietly, the words barely audible over the sound of my pulse thrumming in my ears.
“Yes,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “Because if you’re going to insist on sneaking out and playing these games, you damn well better know how to protect yourself.”
His hand was still on my chin, his touch warm and steady, and I hated the way it made me feel—like I was tethered to him, like he was the only thing keeping me grounded in that moment. I wanted to pull away, to tell him I didn’t need his help, but the truth was, I did. And we both knew it.
“Fine,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “But don’t think this means you get to boss me around.”
Dante’s lips curved into a faint smirk, the tension in his jaw easing slightly. “You’re adorable when you think you have the upper hand, princess.”
My breath hitched. Princess.
There was something in his tone, something quiet but firm, that made the word feel heavier than it ever had before. He’d called me that countless times, sometimes with a teasing lilt, sometimes with a sharp edge meant to remind me exactly who was in charge. But this? This felt different. It wasn’t a jab; it wasn’t a joke. It was almost...intimate.
The realization sent a jolt straight through me, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure how to respond. My chest tightened, my carefully constructed walls wobbling under the weight of something I couldn’t name.
But the lightness in his voice didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were still dark and stormy, like a sea just before it swallowed a ship whole.
Before I could say anything, he turned and strode back toward the car, his long strides purposeful and unyielding. I hesitated for a moment, my gaze flicking to the crumpled figure of Mikhail still slumped against the wall. He was watching us, his eyes glinting with a mix of pain and malice, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.
“Let’s go, Emilia,” Dante called over his shoulder, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I hurried after him, my heels clicking against the pavement as I climbed into the passenger seat. The car was silent as he started the engine, the hum of the motor filling the space between us like a barrier neither of us was willing to cross.
We drove in silence for a while, the city lights blurring past the windows in streaks of gold and white. I stole glances at Dante out of the corner of my eye, his profile sharp and unreadable in the dim light. His hands gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles white, and I could feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“What did he mean?” I asked, my voice cutting through the silence like a knife.
Dante didn’t respond right away. His jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “What did who mean?”
“Mikhail,” I said, my chest tightening as I thought back to the Russian’s sneer. “When he said I was ‘fair game.’ What did he mean by that?”
Dante’s grip on the wheel tightened even further, and I saw the muscle in his jaw twitch. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” I shot back, my frustration bubbling over. “I deserve to know.”
He exhaled sharply, his shoulders tense. “It means they see you as a weakness. A way to get to your father. To me.”
“To you?” I repeated, my brow furrowing. “Why would they care about you?”
Dante glanced at me then, his dark eyes locking onto mine for a brief, intense moment before returning to the road. “Because now I’m the one standing between them and what they want.”
The weight of his words settled over me like a heavy blanket, suffocating and inescapable. I’d always known my family’s world was dangerous, but I’d never fully understood the extent of it. Not until now.
“And what about your...arrangement?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.
Dante’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “What arrangement?”
“You know,” I said, my cheeks flushing. “The one with Isabella Romano. The one where you supposedly left her to die.”
He laughed then, a low, sharp sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “Is that what they’re saying?”
I frowned, my embarrassment giving way to confusion. “So it’s not true?”
“Of course not,” he said, his tone laced with disdain. “Isabella was never mine to protect. The only woman I've been engaged to is alive and well, living somewhere on the East Coast. Probably making some poor bastard’s life miserable.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the casualness of his response. Alive? Miserable? The conflicting emotions swirling in my chest—relief, confusion, and something I didn’t want to name—made it hard to think clearly.
“You’re serious?” I asked, my voice quieter now. “She’s not...dead?”
Dante glanced at me again, his smirk softening into something more like amusement. “No, Emilia. She’s not dead. She’s very much alive and probably drinking her way through a bottle of overpriced Chardonnay as we speak.”
“But…” I hesitated, my mind racing to untangle the mess of rumors and half-truths I’d heard over the years. “Why would pe ople say that? Why would they think you—”
“Left her to die?” he finished for me, his tone dry. “Because people love a good story. And in our world, the truth is never as interesting as the lies.”
I stared at him, trying to reconcile the man sitting beside me with the cold, ruthless figure the rumors had painted. It wasn’t easy. Dante was still an enigma, a puzzle with too many missing pieces, but there was something about the way he said it—so matter-of-fact, so unbothered—that made me believe him.
"They say you left her to die in a shoot out."
"No, Isabella's sister died in the shoot out because the Calabrese family does not care about their women. Contis? We care."
“And the other one?” I asked, not letting him know how much that line got to me.
Dante’s lips twitched, and for a moment, I thought he might actually laugh. “What about her?”
“You were engaged to her, right?” I pressed, leaning slightly toward him. “What happened there?”
He sighed, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “Valentina was...complicated.”
“Complicated how?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “Like, ‘she had a thing for Russians’ complicated?”
That got his attention. Dante’s head snapped toward me, his dark eyes narrowing. “Who told you that?”
“Adrianna,” I said quickly, raising my hands in mock surrender. “She mentioned something about your fiance preferring vodka, and I just assumed…”
Dante let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Vodka? That’s one way to put it.”
“So it’s true?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“Let’s just say Valentina had...connections,” he said carefully, his tone measured. “Connections that didn’t align with mine. Or my family’s.”
I frowned, trying to piece it together. “You’re saying she was working with the Russians?”
“Not exactly,” Dante said, his voice dropping. “But she wasn’t loyal to us, either. And that was a…problem.”
I sat back, the implication clear. There wasn’t room for divided loyalty, for half-measures. Valentina had made her choice, and Dante had made his.
“Is that why you broke it off?” I asked, my voice softer now.
Dante’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Let’s just say Valentina and I had...different priorities in a relationship.”
The way he said it—calm, detached—made my chest tighten. I wanted to ask more, to dig deeper, but something in his expression warned me not to push.
Instead, I leaned back in my seat, staring out the window as the city lights blurred past. “So, what’s she doing now? Running a vodka empire?”
Dante snorted, the sound surprisingly warm. “Hardly. Last I heard, she was shacked up with some hedge fund manager in New York. Probably driving him insane.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the image, the tension between us easing just slightly. “Sounds like she’s doing just fine.”
“Oh, I’m sure she is,” Dante said, his tone laced with amusement. “Valentina always lands on her feet. It’s one of her...many talents.”
The way he said it made me smile, but there was an undercurrent of something else in his voice—something darker, more complicated. I wanted to ask about it, to peel back the layers of his carefully constructed facade, but before I could, his phone buzzed in the cupholder.
Dante glanced at the infotainment screen, his brow furrowing slightly before he picked it up. “It’s Rafe,” he said, swiping to answer. “Don’t say anything stupid.”
I raised an eyebrow, watching as he put the phone on speaker.
“Brother!” Rafe's voice drawled through the car, laced with its usual mix of sarcasm and charm. “What are you doing this evening? The drinks are flowing at Marios”
“I need an update on Valentina,” Dante said bluntly, his tone all business.
There was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to make you wonder if the line had gone dead. Then Luca’s voice came back, dripping with mockery.
“Valentina? Really? You’re asking me about her? What, are you feeling nostalgic? Missing her perfume or the way she used to throw wine glasses at your head?”
Dante’s jaw tightened, and I could see the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Cut the crap, Rafe. Just tell me what she’s up to.”
Rafe let out a low whistle, clearly enjoying himself. “You know, for someone who claims to be over her, you sure do ask about her a lot. Should I send her flowers on your behalf? Maybe a nice bottle of vodka to rekindle the old flame?”
“Rafe,” Dante growled, his tone a warning.
“Alright, alright,” Rafe said, laughing. “Relax. Last I heard, she’s still playing house with that hedge fund guy. What’s his name? Charles? Chad? Something insufferably preppy. Anyway, they’re living it up in Manhattan. She’s probably spending his money faster than he can make it.”
Dante’s grip on the steering wheel loosened slightly, though his expression remained hard. “And the Russians?”
“Nothing new there,” He said, his tone turning more serious. “She’s keeping her distance. Smart move, considering how things ended. Why? Did she pop up on your radar again?”
“No,” Dante said quickly, his tone clipped. “Just making sure she stays off it.”
Rafe chuckled. “You’re so predictable, brother. Always cleaning up messes before they even happen. You know, one of these days, you’re going to have to let someone else handle the dirty work.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Dante said dryly. “Anything else? ”
“Yeah,” Rafe said, his tone shifting back to playful. “Tell Emilia I said hi.”
My eyes widened, and I shot Dante a panicked look. He didn’t even flinch, his expression unreadable as he ended the call without another word.
“Did he just—” I started, but Dante cut me off with a sharp glance.
“Don’t,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I bit my lip, holding back a laugh that threatened to escape. Rafe’s sass was unexpected, but it was also the first time I’d seen Dante even slightly off balance. It was...oddly satisfying.
“You know,” I said, unable to resist, “I think I like Rafe. He seems fun.”
Dante shot me a look that could’ve frozen water. “Rafe is a pain in the ass.”
“Maybe,” I said, grinning now. “But he’s your pain in the ass.”
Dante didn’t respond, but the flicker of annoyance in his eyes was too good to pass up. I leaned back in my seat, the grin still on my face. “Besides, not all pains in the ass are bad, you know. Some are…” I paused, letting the words hang in the air before delivering the punchline with a sly smile. “...entirely enjoyable. Like a good spanking.”
Dante’s jaw ticked, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed him. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close enough to make my chest tighten.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, the tension between us easing into something quieter, more contemplative. By the time we pulled up to my house, the weight of the night was starting to settle over me, exhaustion creeping in at the edges.
Dante killed the engine and turned to me, his dark eyes unreadable. “Stay out of trouble, Emilia.”
I rolled my eyes, unbuckling my seatbelt. “I’ll do my best.”
As I reached for the door handle, his hand snapped out grabbing my wrist, stopping me.
“And one more thing,” he said, his tone softer now, though no less serious. “If another man sees you in that lingerie I bought, I’ll rip his eyes out.”
I froze, my cheeks flaming as I turned to glare at him. “What?”
"I mean it, Emilia. Don’t test me.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words caught in my throat. There was something in his expression—something raw and unguarded—that made my pulse quicken. Instead, I huffed and pushed the door open, stepping out into the cool night air.
“Goodnight, Dante,” I said over my shoulder, my voice sharper than I intended.
“Goodnight, princess,” he replied, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.
I slammed the door shut and marched toward the house, my heart pounding in my chest. As I reached the front door, I couldn’t resist glancing back. Dante was still there, his car idling at the curb, his dark silhouette framed by the faint glow of the streetlights.
For a moment, I thought he might drive off. But then he nodded once, a silent acknowledgment, before pulling away and disappearing into the night.
I stood there for a long time, the cool breeze brushing against my skin, before finally stepping inside. The house was quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and watchful, like the walls themselves were waiting for me to explain where I’d been. I locked the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as I let out a shaky breath. The house was silent, but my thoughts were anything but.
His words haunted me, circling in my mind like a dark, unrelenting storm. “If another man sees you in that lingerie, I’ll rip his eyes out.”
Heat crept up my neck, and I pressed my palms against the cool surface of the door, trying to will away the flush rising in my cheeks. Who the hell did he think he was? The audacity of him—claiming me, threatening violence like it was just another casual promise.
But the worst part wasn’t the anger simmering in my chest. It was the way his words made me feel.
I hated that they lingered, low and possessive, in the back of my mind. I hated the way my pulse quickened, how my skin prickled at the memory of his voice, dark and unyielding.
Because for all of Dante’s arrogance, for all his infuriating dominance...a part of me wondered what it would be like to truly belong to someone like him.
And that terrified me.