Chapter 14 - Ana
Two in the morning, ten days married, and I can’t breathe from wanting what I shouldn’t want.
The silk sheets tangle around my legs as I throw them off, giving up on sleep.
After a few blissful hours of rest, the evening turned into the same old torture: Dante in that leather chair, me in this bed, the space between us charged with something I refuse to name.
My nightgown clings to sweat-damp skin, and I know he notices.
He notices everything. The way I shift restlessly, the catch in my breath when he adjusts his position, how my fingers clutch the sheets when his presence becomes too much.
Ten days of this careful dance. Ten days of him watching me pretend to sleep while I burn.
I need air. Space. Distance from this room that smells like him, cigarettes and sandalwood, a scent that makes my thighs clench with unwanted heat.
The hallway stretches dark and silent. My bare feet make no sound on the cold marble as I wander.
I tell myself I'm looking for the kitchen, for water, for anything but him.
But my traitorous feet know exactly where they're going: toward the sound of controlled violence that's been calling to me for ten nights.
The rhythmic impacts, controlled breathing.
The gym door stands slightly open, light spilling into the hallway.
I should turn back. Instead, I push the door wider.
Dante stands shirtless at the heavy bag, muscles rippling with each precise strike.
The gym air is thick with his sweat and exertion, the leather of the heavy bag still swaying from his strikes.
I breathe him in: violence and control and male heat that makes my head swim.
Sweat gleams on his skin, highlighting every scar.
The ruined tissue at his throat, the knife marks across his ribs, the bullet wound near his shoulder.
A roadmap of violence that should repulse me.
My nipples tighten against the thin nightgown, and I hate my traitorous body for responding to the sight of him.
He pauses mid-strike, head turning slightly. Of course he knows I'm here. He always knows.
"Can't sleep?" I ask, my voice rough with exhaustion and something else.
He turns fully, and my breath catches. The gym lights cast shadows across his abs, the V of muscle disappearing into low-slung sweatpants. His dark eyes find mine, and that almost-smile plays at his lips as he signs: "Neither can you."
"This is ridiculous," I say, stepping into the gym. The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Ten days of this… arrangement. You sleeping in a chair like some kind of guardian angel. Me pretending I don't notice you watching."
His hands still on the bag, body going alert. Waiting.
"This marriage, this arrangement…" I continue, switching to signing because the English fails me when I'm emotional. "After what happened in your study, after you showed me… why do you still keep that distance? The chair, always the chair. Are you torturing us both on purpose?"
Every muscle in his body tenses. His hands move with violent precision: "You know why."
The memory of our confrontation days ago burns through me. His body pressed against mine, the evidence of his want, his confession that the piano was to keep from touching me. But knowing and understanding are different things.
"But it's getting worse," I sign, the truth spilling out. "The distance. The watching. After feeling you against me, knowing you want… It's torture."
"Yes," he signs simply. "It is."
"Then why continue it? You said the music was to keep from touching me. But the music isn't working anymore, is it?"
His laugh catches me off guard. Shoulders shaking with silent mirth that's more bitter than amused.
He moves toward me with that predator grace, and my body responds immediately, remembering our last confrontation. "You want me to break my promise? Touch you without permission?"
"I want to understand why you're so determined to suffer. We both felt it. In your study, when you pressed against me. This isn't one-sided."
He backs me against the gym wall, not quite touching but close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his skin. His hand plants beside my head as he signs with the other: "Because once I start, I won't stop."
"Maybe I don't want you to stop."
The admission hangs between us, shocking in its honesty. His eyes darken, pupils dilating as he processes my words.
"You don't know what you're saying," he signs.
"Don't I? You showed me in your study how much you want this. How much control you're exercising. But what if… what if I'm tired of your control?"
My hand flies up to touch his chest, palm flat against his scarred skin. He catches my wrist instantly, reflexes faster than thought, but doesn't push me away. Just holds me there, my hand trapped against his racing heartbeat.
"Don't," he signs with his free hand.
"Why? Because you'll finally break?"
"Because you'll hate yourself tomorrow."
The truth of it stings. "I already hate myself for wanting you."
"Exactly." His grip on my wrist tightens slightly. "So we suffer separately instead of suffering together."
I try to pull my hand free, but he uses the momentum to spin me, pressing my back fully against the wall.
Both my wrists are suddenly in his grip, pinned above my head with one of his hands.
The casual display of strength, the way he controls me so easily, makes my knees weak.
The same hands that broke Giuseppe's arm for threatening me now hold me captive, but instead of fear, I feel…
safe? Protected? Madonna, what is happening to me?
He cocks his head, staring at me intently, and I know what he's asking without him even needing to sign. This what you want? To test my control until it breaks?
"Yes," I breathe, even as my body betrays me, arching toward him.
He leans closer, still not quite touching except where his hand circles my wrists. His thumb brushes over my wedding ring, the one I threw at him days ago, now back on my finger like a brand. "You're playing with fire."
"Then burn me."
I try to knee him, more from instinct than real aggression, but he blocks with his thigh, stepping between my legs to prevent another attempt.
The position brings our bodies flush together, and we both freeze.
I can feel every inch of him pressed against me.
Solid muscle, controlled power, and Madonna mia, his arousal hard against my stomach, just like in his study but somehow more intense now.
"Still determined to test me?" he signs with his free hand, his grip on my pinned wrists tightening slightly.
The evidence of his desire makes wetness flood between my thighs. Ten days of careful distance, but his want hasn't diminished. If anything, it's stronger. Dio mio, I think as his body presses against mine. Sono persa. I'm lost.
We're pressed together, his body caging mine against the wall.
Every breath pushes my breasts against his bare chest, my nipples so hard they ache.
His cock throbs against my stomach through his sweatpants, and the knowledge that I still affect him this way, that the days apart have only intensified his need, makes my head spin.
The casual display of strength, how easily he controls me, makes me wetter.
In my world, helplessness means death. But with him… God help me, with him it makes me wet.
His eyes drop to my lips, hunger naked in his gaze.
The air between us thickens, charged with ten days of suppressed want building on what we've already tasted.
My body moves without permission, rising on tiptoes.
No, what am I doing? But I can't stop, drawn by some force stronger than hatred, closing the distance between our mouths until we're sharing breath.
His hand tightens on my wrists, control fraying at the edges. I can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back, his whole body taut with restraint. We're suspended in this moment, lips almost touching, the space between us measured in heartbeats.
"Dante," I whisper against his mouth.
His whole body shudders at his name on my lips. For one perfect moment, I think he'll break, close that last inch between us. His head lowers slightly, breath ghosting across my mouth…
Then he steps back, releasing my wrists. The loss of contact makes me whimper before I can stop myself.
He backs away, putting distance between us that feels wrong after that pressed heat. His hands shake as he signs: "Not like this. Not when you're conflicted."
"Dante—"
But he's already walking away, leaving me against the wall with my pulse racing and my body aching for something I shouldn't want. The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like finality.
My legs give out, and I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the gym floor, trembling from what almost happened. What I almost let happen. What I wanted to happen.
My wrists still burn from his grip, my stomach still feels the imprint of his arousal. Every nerve in my body screams for me to follow him, to demand he finish what we started. Instead, I sit here like a coward, trying to remember why kissing my enemy would be wrong.
Because he killed Papa, my mind supplies weakly. But my body doesn't care about revenge anymore. My body wants his hands back on me, wants to know what that almost-kiss would have become.
I force myself to stand, legs shaking like a newborn colt's. The walk back to our suite feels endless, each step reminding me of the ache between my thighs, the wetness he caused without even kissing me.
The suite is empty, his leather chair abandoned. For a moment, I wonder if he's coming back at all. Maybe I pushed too far. Maybe he'll sleep somewhere else tonight, away from my obvious wanting.
Then I hear it. Piano music, drifting up from the music room below.
But this isn't like his usual midnight compositions. This is violent, passionate, desperate. The notes crash and collide, a musical confession of frustration. He's playing out what we didn't do, transforming denial into sound.
I press against the floor, then move to the door, needing to be closer to his musical revelation. The melody builds, dark and hungry, and I recognize the emotion in it because I feel it too. Want. Raw, undeniable want that ten days of proximity has only intensified.
My hand presses against the door as if I could touch him through wood and distance. The music speaks what his signs couldn't: he wants me with the same desperation that's eating me alive. Every note confesses what that pressed moment against the wall meant. He's barely holding on to his control.
I pull back from the door, my hand moving to the knife pendant at my throat. When did touching it become comfort instead of threat?
"I'm in trouble," I sign to the empty room, the truth finally breaking free.
Because I don't want to hate him anymore. I want something else entirely. Want his hands on me without the excuse of training. Want his mouth on mine without anger as justification. Want to know what sounds he'd make if I touched his scars, if I traced the damage at his throat with my tongue.
The music below builds to a crescendo, dark and desperate, and my body responds to each note like he's touching me through sound. My hand hovers at the hem of my nightgown, trembling. I've done this before, touched myself to his music, but tonight feels different. More desperate. More necessary.
I move to the bed instead, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle any sounds as my fingers find the wetness between my thighs.
The memory of his body pressed against mine drives me toward release.
Not the first time I've sought this outlet, but somehow more intense after feeling him against me again.
Each note of the music seems to vibrate through me, as if he's playing my body from a distance.
My other hand grips the sheets for support as I work myself faster, the music's intensity matching my own desperate need.
I imagine those scarred hands replacing mine, his fingers inside me while he watches with those dark eyes that see everything.
This fantasy has haunted me since that day in his study, but now it's sharper, more real after feeling his need pressed against me moments ago.
When I come, I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, choking back his name. My body shudders with the intensity of it, legs trembling as wetness coats my fingers. The music below shifts, softer now but no less hungry, as if he felt my release through the floorboards.
But even as I tremble through the aftershocks, I know it's not enough. Not nearly enough. My body craves more than my own touch. Craves him. Each time I give in to this need, it only grows stronger.