Chapter 22 Pay The Price
She stormed to the door, yanking it open—only to feel resistance. It wouldn’t budge. Her brows furrowed, and she twisted the handle again, harder this time. Still jammed.
“What happened? Can’t bear to part from me?” Dante’s voice drawled behind her. She turned, and there he was—leaning casually against the edge of the table, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. A smug smile tugged at his lips, like he was watching something mildly entertaining.
Her eyes flared with fury. “What did you do to the door?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Why won’t it open?!”
He gave a careless shrug, his tone deliberately infuriating. “I locked it. In front of your eyes. What do you want me to do now? Break it open?”
“You—” She cut herself off with a hiss of frustration, whirling away from him and marching toward her bag. She dug through it quickly, pulling out her phone and pressing the power button.
Still dead.
She turned, her voice clipped. “Give me your pho—” Her words trailed off as her eyes dropped to the shattered mess on the floor—his phone, broken into useless pieces.
Dante tilted his head slightly, watching her with that infuriating smirk. “I think you did it on purpose,” he said, his voice low, amused. “If you wanted to be alone with me, you could’ve just told me. We’d be much more comfortable in a hotel suite. I know a few good ones.”
“You’re disgusting,” she spat, not even bothering to glare anymore. She turned away from him, walking quickly to the corner of the room, yanking open a cabinet—nothing inside. She scanned the walls, then banged her fist against the wooden door with mounting desperation.
No sound from outside. No footsteps. No echo of anyone nearby. Just silence and him.
She shoved against the door again, harder this time, her body weight behind it. Still nothing. Trapped.
Behind her, she could feel him watching.
“I swear, Dante, if you don’t open this damn door in the next five seconds—”
“What?” he cut in lazily. “You’ll scream for help? Go ahead. The whole floor was cleared for the auction’s private bidders. No one’s here but us. Scream your heart out.”
She didn’t reply. Her breath came in frustrated huffs as she walked to the corner of the room, eyes scanning for something—anything—that could help her escape. She yanked open drawers, checked under the small table, then stormed back to the door and began banging on it again with both fists.
“Open up! Somebody—open the damn door!” Her voice echoed in the locked silence, but there was no answer, no movement from outside.
Finally, breathless and exhausted, she slumped slightly, resting her hand against the doorframe.
And then—
Her eyes widened in horror.
Something small and black skittered across the ground, its antenna twitching.
“Ah!” she shrieked, leaping away so fast her heels nearly slipped. Without thinking, she launched herself straight at Dante—arms flying around his neck, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist like he was the only safe ground in a burning building.
“Cockroach! There are cockroaches in here!” she cried, her face buried in his shoulder, trembling.
He caught her with ease, one arm under her thighs, the other locked securely around her waist. Her heart was thundering against his chest, her breath ragged.
And then—without a word—his lips met hers.
It was sudden, greedy, and deep.
She jerked back instantly, her eyes wide with shock and fire. “What the hell are you doing?!” she snapped, fury flaring in her gaze.
But he didn’t flinch. His body remained close, his breath warm against her skin as his lips brushed the curve of her neck.
“You’re the one who jumped on me,” he murmured, his voice low, teasing—yet there was a heat behind it.
Her fists pounded weakly against his chest. “Don’t do that,” she hissed. “Don’t take advantage of—”
But before she could finish, her eyes darted past his shoulder.
“Ahhh! Another cockroach!” Anya’s scream cracked like glass, her voice trembling as she clung to him with desperate fingers, nails digging into his skin. Her entire body shook—part fear, part something deeper, more frantic. “What’s going on?! Why are there so many?!”
The cockroaches skittered relentlessly across the cold tiles, shadows darting beneath the dim, flickering light. Her heart pounded, and her breath hitched against his chest, but she refused to let go.
He pressed closer, his warmth engulfing her, the sharp scent of his cologne mingling with the damp, musty air. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, voice low, thick with something raw and possessive. “Then hold on to me tightly if you don’t want me to drop you.”
Her teeth clenched fiercely. “Don’t you dare—”
“Don’t drop your legs,” he murmured, voice dipping deeper.
Without warning, his body shifted, hips thrusting forward with brutal precision. Anya’s breath caught, a sharp gasp torn from her throat as she froze, wide-eyed and breathless. “You—”
Before she could finish, his hand was on her dress, fingers gripping the delicate fabric and yanking it up in one swift, ruthless motion. The cool air slammed against her heated skin, making her shiver, but it was nothing compared to the next assault of sensation—his fingers sliding under the thin lace of her panties, pressing firmly against the slick heat already pooling between her legs.
Two fingers moved slowly, circling, teasing, sending shivers crawling down her spine, arching her back against him despite herself.
“Stop it,” she snapped, voice sharp but unsteady, hands pushing against his chest with weak protest. “I said stop.”
He froze, his arms loosening just enough for her body to slump against his.
Panic flared in her eyes as they flicked down to the floor, her breath trembling. “Don’t—don’t let me go!”
The cockroaches still crawled, ugly and revolting, and the thought of her bare feet touching that floor made her cling tighter, nails biting into his shoulders as if he were the only solid thing left.
A cruel smirk curved his lips, dark and teasing as he dipped his head, lips brushing the shell of her ear again, his breath hot, dangerous. “Then pay the price if you want me to hold you.”
Her breath hitched, trembling on the edge of a plea. “What?”
“You heard me,” he whispered, voice low and slow, wrapping around her like smoke in a dark room. “I don’t do charity, sweetheart.”
Her glare was fierce, lips quivering with a mix of frustration and something unspoken.
He watched her like a predator, eyes locked on every twitch, every flicker of hesitation in her gaze. Her breath trembled, chest rising and falling in uneven waves, and still, he waited—until her lashes fluttered, just once. That was all the permission he needed.
His fingers moved again, slower this time. More soft. They pressed and circled with dark intent, dragging against that sensitive spot that made her jaw clench and her breath stutter into silence. She bit her lip hard, trying to smother the sound building in her throat, but he saw it. The silent giveaway—the way her grip tightened on his shoulders, the tremble in her thighs.
He leaned in, eyes burning into hers.
Then he moved.
In a flash, she found herself pinned against the wall. Her wrists were caught above her head, locked in one of his hands. The cold surface at her back sent a jolt through her spine, but the heat pressing against her front was hard. His other hand slid under the waistband of her panties, fingers curving downward with no patience left between them.
She gasped, body jerking as his fingers plunged into her—deep and slow, then rough, every movement rough and punishing. Her thighs clamped around his waist, involuntary, instinctive, trying to pull him closer, ground herself somehow, but there was no safety here. Only him. Only this.
Her head fell back against the wall with a soft thud. Her breath came in shallow pants. She hated him—God, she hated him—but her body betrayed her, welcoming his touch like it had been aching for it.
His mouth brushed along her jaw, then down to her throat, lips hot and barely touching. His voice was a sinful whisper against her skin. “Say stop,” he murmured, low and dark. “Say it… and I’ll let go.”
But she couldn’t speak. Not with his fingers curling inside her, filling her, stroking her in that maddening rhythm that stole every thought she had. Her skin burned beneath his touch, her hips moved against him on their own, and still he didn’t stop—his grip tightening around her wrists, holding her there like she was his to ruin.
He pressed her harder into the wall, claiming more of her space, her air, her sanity. One hand shifted to her waist, gripping tightly, while the other tugged her panties aside completely, baring her to the cold air—and to him.
He pushed two fingers into her again, harder this time. Each stroke was a demand, relentless and punishing, and every thrust made her shudder, her legs clenching around his waist in surrender and desperation. Her body burned, her mind screamed, but no words came.
Only the sound of her breath. Only the slick, wet rhythm of his fingers moving inside her. Only him.
And still—he didn’t let go.
She struggled to steady her breathing, chest heaving as heat coiled tightly inside her, threatening to break loose. Her fingers fisted his shirt, nails digging into the fabric—and into him—as if she could anchor herself to something, anything, before she unraveled completely.
“You’re so close,” he murmured against the side of her neck, lips brushing hot over her skin. His voice was a low, dangerous growl, heavy with promise. “Can’t you feel it? Just let go.”
She shook her head, barely. It was weak, trembling, full of denial—but her body was saying everything her mouth couldn’t. Her thighs trembled. Her breath hitched. Her hips pushed forward instinctively, chasing the pressure, chasing him.
Still, she said nothing. Couldn’t. Words were lost—burned out by the slow, aching fire building inside her. She hated how easily he read her, how completely her body gave in when he touched her like this. How the need twisted deep inside her until it drowned out everything else.
With deliberate slowness, he slid her panties down her thighs, dragging the damp fabric past her thighs. The cool air brushed against her now-exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat between them.
His grip on her waist tightened, possessive, claiming. With his other hand, he reached for the zipper of his pants.
The sound was sharp in the thick silence—metal teeth sliding down with slow finality. Then the soft hiss of fabric, the heavy pause as he freed himself, the slight tension in his muscles as he adjusted her against the wall.
He aligned himself with her entrance, the head of his rod nudging her slick folds—and then, with a hard, deep thrust, he drove into her.
She cried out, head snapping back against the wall as her body arched around him, the sudden fullness stealing the air from her lungs. He didn’t give her time to adjust. He filled her completely—hot, thick, pulsing—and it was too much, too perfect, too fast.
Her legs locked tighter around his waist, hips lifting to meet him, grounding herself in the only thing solid—him. Her hands gripped his shoulders now, desperate and trembling, nails scraping skin.
He didn’t hold back.
His hips moved with brutal precision, driving into her over and over again, each thrust slamming her back against the cold wall. The rhythm was fierce, relentless, dragging sounds from her lips she couldn’t control, couldn’t hide. A cry. A gasp. She wasn’t sure anymore.
Every movement was a demand. A punishment. A claim.
He growled low in his throat, lips finding hers in a rough, consuming kiss, swallowing her moans as he pounded into her, faster now. Harder.
Her breath hitched. Ragged, uneven. As if the air itself had turned too thick to swallow. Every nerve in her body screamed with sensation, her skin oversensitive to the slightest movement, her mind drowning in the raw, molten chaos he had dragged her into.
The world shrank. Nothing existed beyond the heat of his body pressed against hers, the rough cadence of their breaths tangled in the air, and the fire still flickering in her core, even as her body trembled from release.
His mouth moved along her neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses that left her skin flushed and marked. He sucked gently just below her jaw, making her twitch in his hold as if he hadn’t already shattered her.
His grip remained firm—one hand wrapped around her wrists, still pinned above her head, the other steady on her hip, grounding her as the aftershocks of pleasure rippled through her limbs.
She was shaking. Every inch of her. Not from fear, but from the raw aftermath of everything he had just done to her body. Her thighs were weak, her knees nearly giving out, but he held her there, watching her unravel.
And then he whispered, voice rough and dangerous against her ear, “I’m not done with you.”
Before she could even catch her breath, before her heart had the chance to slow down, he adjusted his grip on her hip. Tighter now. And without warning, he thrust into her again.
Hard.
A strangled cry escaped her lips, her body jerking in his grasp as he drove deep, filling her in one brutal stroke. Her back arched instinctively, but his hold was merciless, keeping her pinned to the wall with no room to run, no way to shield herself from the intensity of him.
“Too much?” he rasped, teeth grazing the shell of her ear. “Then say it.”
But she couldn’t. Her voice was gone—drowned in the moan that tore from her throat as he pulled back and slammed into her again, setting a rhythm that was nothing short of punishing.
He kept her wrists locked tight above her head, fingers curled around them like shackles, while his hips snapped forward with raw power, each thrust harder than the last. Her body jolted with every movement, the wall cold against her front, the heat of him burning into her from behind.
“You feel that?” he growled, his breath ragged now, matching hers. “The way you tighten around me? Like your body’s begging even when you won’t.”
She whimpered in the helpless need building all over again. She couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the flush that crept up her chest and neck. Her legs gave out, but he didn’t let her fall, he only pressed in deeper, harder, keeping her pinned between him and the wall.
His pace grew rougher, relentless. Skin slapping skin. Her gasps turning to broken moans. Her body completely wrecked, taken, trembling.
“Say my name,” he hissed against her neck, dragging his mouth down her throat, biting at the skin hard enough to make her cry out. “Say it while I ruin you.”
She tried. She really tried. But the only thing that left her lips was a shattered moan that barely resembled language.
Her release hit again, violent and overwhelming, stealing the strength from her limbs and the air from her lungs. Her hands flexed in his grip, and she cried out his name, breathless and desperate.
That was all it took.
He cursed under his breath and drove into her one last time, burying himself deep as he came with a sharp groan against her neck, his entire body trembling with hers.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sounds were their gasps, heavy and uneven, and the faint thud of her heartbeat echoing in her ears.
Then, slowly, he released her wrists. Her arms dropped like dead weight, too weak to support themselves, and he caught her before she could slide down the wall. His hands were gentler now, though his touch still burned. He pressed a kiss to her neck, as if trying to steady the storm he had just created. His hips still moved, slow, tingling strokes that drove her wild.
She clenched her eyes shut, a helpless moan tearing from her throat as he drove her higher, faster, rougher—until nothing else existed but him.
Just as the tension snapped in her belly and she shattered once more in his arms, the knock came again.
A louder one.
And a voice, sharper this time. “Hey! We heard something—do you need help? Is there someone inside?”
Anya's eyes flew open.
Panic hit like ice.
Anya immediately pushed at his chest, roughly falling out of his arms. She immediately adjusted her clothes, and rushed toward the door even as her legs trembled.
Behind her, he took a frustrated breath, and zipped up his pants, his hand clenching into a fist, and jaw clenching hard.
Anya rushed forward instantly, grabbing the doorknob and shouting, “Yes! Yes, please open it!”
He stilled for a split second, breath ragged, before he slowly pulled back, not gently, not carefully—like a man who didn’t regret a damn thing.
She sagged against the wall, barely catching herself. Her hands fumbled with her clothes as he stood behind her, zipping up like nothing happened, his eyes still burning into her.
With a click and a slight groan of the hinges, the door finally opened—and she found herself staring at a slightly confused security guard.
“How did you both get locked inside?” he asked, furrowing his brows as his eyes darted between the two of them.
“That’s what I should be asking you!” she snapped, voice sharp with irritation. “Isn’t it your job to check before locking people inside?!”
The guard scratched his head awkwardly and let out a nervous chuckle. “Maybe the guy on the last shift was in a bit of a hurry to go home… Sorry about that.”
And with that, he turned and walked off like it was no big deal—leaving them alone again.
Dante stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. His voice dropped low, sincere. “Anya, let’s make up, alright? I messed up. I’m sorry. Let’s just talk properly, without fighting this time.”
But she stiffened in his hold. Her heart was still racing, but not from what he wanted to believe. Not from longing. Not from love. From fury.
She pushed his hands away with force and turned to face him, her voice shaking with restraint. “I told you already, didn’t I? I’m not interested. Not in your apologies, not in this talk, and definitely not in being with you anymore. But you—” she could barely breathe through the anger and frustration burning in her chest, “you just don’t stop. You push and push, like my decisions mean nothing.”
Dante’s jaw tensed. That softness in his eyes, the vulnerability, vanished in an instant. His gaze turned cold, sharp. “Anya, don’t behave like this,” he said through clenched teeth. “Is this because of the marriage thing? Fine. Let’s go right now. You and I—let’s get married today. Right now. Come with me.”
His hand reached for hers again, almost desperate.
But she stepped back firmly, jerking her arm away as though his touch burned. “You think this is about a proposal? About timing? You think just because you’re ready now, I should forget everything you did?"
He stiffened. “Anya—”
“I will not marry you,” she said again, slower this time, each word a dagger.
And without another glance, she turned on her heel and stormed out, her heels clicking hard against the floor as if every step was slamming the door on him.