21. Dante
21
DANTE
I stumble back through the woods, my mind reeling from what I’ve just witnessed. The image of Chiara and Pyotr kissing is seared into my brain, playing on repeat like some kind of twisted torture.
I didn’t stick around to see how long it lasted or where it might lead. I couldn’t bear to watch another second. The pain is too raw, too intense.
Fury begins to bubble up alongside the hurt. Where the hell were Don Marino’s men? How could they let Chiara be alone with Pyotr like that? It’s not supposed to happen. The whole point is to keep the Russian from getting too forward with her before the wedding.
But then again, Chiara didn’t seem to mind his forwardness, did she?
The thought sends a fresh wave of pain through me, quickly followed by a surge of jealousy and rage so strong it makes me want to punch something. I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I try to keep my emotions in check.
I trusted her. I believed her when she said she loved me, when she promised to find a way for us to be together. And now? Now I don’t know what the fuck to believe anymore.
I kick a branch in anger, letting it skitter across the mossy ground. But I don’t care. I’m a mess of conflicting emotions. Part of me wants to confront Chiara, to demand answers. Another part wants to hunt down Pyotr and beat him to a pulp. And yet another part, the part that loves Chiara more than anything, just wants to hold her and pretend none of this ever happened.
But I can’t do any of those things. I’m trapped here, in this limbo of anger and heartbreak, with no clear path forward.
I can’t reconcile the Chiara I know—the one who whispered promises of love in that closet, who fucked me so hard I was seeing stars—with the woman I saw kissing Pyotr. The betrayal cuts deep, leaving me raw and angry.
Hours pass as I pace, trying to burn off the rage and hurt coursing through me. By the time I make it back to the compound, the quiet of the night does little to soothe my turbulent thoughts. A twinge of guilt hits me as I remember snapping at Sal, but I push it aside. I’ll make it up to him tomorrow. I know his favorite brand of chew so I’ll get some for him tomorrow as an apology.
He’ll forgive me. He always does.
I drag myself to my room, exhaustion warring with the anger still simmering beneath the surface. But as I push open the door, I freeze.
Chiara is sitting on my bed in her nightgown, her eyes wide and guilty. For a moment, I’m struck dumb by her presence.
What the fuck is she doing here? How did she manage to sneak out? The last I heard from my father, Don Marino tightened security measures around the house when Chiara and I spent the night in the woods.
Then, like a dam breaking, all the pent-up hurt and anger I’ve been keeping in check since I first heard about her betrothal comes rushing out.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I snarl, slamming the door behind me. “Shouldn’t you be with your fiancé ?” I spit the word out like it’s venom.
Chiara flinches at my tone, but I’m beyond caring. The image of her kissing Pyotr is fresh in my mind, fueling my rage.
“Did you come to my room for another quick fuck, or did your fiancé take care of that too and you’re just here to bring me the news?” I ask scathingly.
Chiara freezes, her eyes wide with shock. She just stares at me, speechless. Her silence only fuels my anger. With uncharacteristic rage, I close the distance between us, my body trembling with fury.
“Were you still wet from me when you decided to kiss Pyotr?” I hiss, my voice low and dangerous. “Are you wet from kissing two men in one night?”
Her lips part, but no words come out. She looks at me with a mixture of hurt and confusion, and for a moment, I almost regret my words. But the image of her with him, touching him, kissing him—it’s too much. I can’t stand the thought of losing her, and I can’t bear the thought of sharing her.
Without thinking, I slide my hand up her nightgown and into her folds, feeling the lingering arousal. The slickness turns me on, igniting a primal urge within me. This arousal is because of me.
But I scoff, masking the resulting betrayal. Chiara blushes profusely and shoves my hand away.
“You asshole,” she spits out, her voice trembling with anger. “You have no right to speak to me that way, to touch me like that.”
I narrow my eyes at her, my rage boiling over. “Is that because you’re promised to another man? You didn’t seem to mind earlier when we were in the closet, letting me fuck you against the wall."
Chiara's cheeks redden as her temper flares, and she rises from the bed to get in my face. “I didn’t kiss Pyotr,” she snaps, her eyes blazing. “Pyotr kissed me . And if you were so busy watching, you should have seen that I pulled away from him as soon as I could.”
Her words sting, but I can’t back down now. “You pulled away?” I echo, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “It didn’t look that way to me. All I saw was you with him, letting him touch you, kiss you.”
She glares at me, her chest heaving with fury. “You don’t get to judge me, Dante. Not after everything we’ve been through. You know how much I love you. You know I would never betray you.”
“But you did,” I point out, feeling rage start to rise in me. “You allowed him to kiss you.”
“I didn’t know what he was going to do!” Chiara shouts before she freezes, glancing at the door fearfully. We wait a heartbeat, and I hear nothing from the other bedrooms.
“I didn’t know what he was going to do,” Chiara says in a lower voice. “And I froze , Dante! I didn’t want him to touch me! But since you seem to be as big a jackass as the rest of them, maybe that doesn’t matter to you. Maybe it only matters that you’re the only man who will ever get to touch me,” she says, her voice trembling.
Her outburst works like a bucket of ice water on my head, and suddenly, I’m not mad anymore—I’m horrified.
“Fuck this shit,” Chiara snarls in an uncharacteristic burst of anger. She normally doesn’t curse. She whirls on her heel, ready to storm out, but I catch her wrist and pull her back.
“What is that supposed to mean?" I ask, my voice desperate. "What do you mean by ‘the rest of them’?”
Chiara yanks her hand away, her eyes blazing. “My conversation with Pyotr on the balcony felt about as flattering as this conversation with you,” she snaps. “I came to you hoping to find some comfort, but instead, I’m just getting more of the same—a clear indication that men only want me as long as they’re the only one who’s been inside me.”
Stunned, I take a step back. “Did Pyotr actually say that?” I ask, my voice hollow. “Did he say he only wants you if you’re a virgin?”
Chiara's expression softens, but the pain is still there. “He implied it,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “Which isn’t surprising. I’m not supposed to have slept with anyone. But it doesn’t make me feel like any less of an object, nor did the way Pyotr kissed me—without my permission, stealing it like it was something I was secretly yearning for.”
Horrified, not just by the presumptuous way Pyotr treated Chiara but by the way I let my jealousy run rampant and treated her even worse, I pull her into my arms. She stiffens at first but then melts into my embrace.
“I’m so sorry, Chiara,” I whisper, my voice trembling with guilt. “I’m sorry for everything I said, for how I treated you. I was hurt and angry when I thought you might want another man to kiss you. I didn’t stop to read your body language. I should have.”
She looks up at me, her eyes still glistening with tears. “What could you possibly have done, Dante?”
“I would have pummeled that asshole within an inch of his life for kissing you when you didn’t want it,” I say, my voice fierce with protectiveness. “No one kisses you without your permission. No one .”
That makes her laugh, a soft, relieved sound that begins to melt the tension between us. “You’re such a brute,” she says, shaking her head, but there’s a smile playing on her lips.
I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs gently brushing away her tears. “Only because I love you so damn much. You’re everything to me, Chiara.”
She leans into my touch, the anger starting to defuse. “I know,” she murmurs. “And I love you too. But you have to trust me.”
“I do,” I promise, my voice earnest. “And my anger… it isn’t about wanting to be the only man who’s touched you. I’m honored to be the only man you’ve slept with, but I would have fallen for you regardless of your virginity. What hurts is thinking about you with another man now, when I’m so madly in love with you. It feels like a thousand daggers piercing my soul to imagine you might not want me too.”
Her eyes soften, and she steps closer, her hand resting on my chest. “Dante, I do want you. Only you. You have to believe that.”
“I want to,” I say, my voice breaking. "I’ll do better. I’ll be better. Just… don’t leave me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she says softly, her fingers tracing the lines of my face. “We’re in this together.”
I kiss her then, gently at first, savoring the sweetness of her lips. She responds with equal tenderness, and for a moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of us, bound by our love and our promise to each other.