Chapter 12
Dahlia
“ W e’re going out.”
It’s purely psychological, I know, but the collar turns anvil-heavy the second Dante says those three words.
It’s not just the snug fit of the gold against my throat, or the subtle heat of the tech embedded inside. It’s the weight of what it means in the absence of distractions.
Obedience. Ownership. Submission.
Inside the penthouse, it’s been a game—a twisted, scorching, beautiful game where the rules are brutal but clear. But out there? In the real world?
Wearing this thing outside feels like surrendering and exposing something I’m not sure I can ever reclaim.
I sit on the edge of the bed, towel wrapped around me, staring at my reflection in the dark glass window. My skin is still damp from the shower. My lips swollen. My thighs aching from last night. From him.
And inside, everything’s chaos.
Because I heard what he said. Or more accurately, what he didn’t say.
Last night on the terrace, when I pressed him about why a man like him—filthy rich, corrupt, colder than sin—wanted to pull off a heist that smells suspiciously like justice… he cracked.
Just for a second. Enough for me to see it. Pain. Rage. Grief?
Ironveil. Wraith. She died for it …
Who died?
Those were puzzle pieces he didn’t mean to drop. But they’re floating in my brain now, clicking into place whether he likes it or not. And maybe that’s why he clings so tightly to control.
Maybe his darkness isn’t just dominance. Maybe it’s defense .
A fortress built around a wound he’s never let heal.
Still, when he lays the clothes out for me—black silk mini dress, no bra, leather heels, delicate gold anklet that matches the damn collar—I stiffen.
“You expect me to wear this out there?” I ask, standing, fists clenched around the towel.
Dante doesn’t even look up from where he’s adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. Dark gray, perfectly tailored. Sharp enough to slice through steel.
“We settled this. You’ll wear what I choose,” he says evenly. “You knew that the moment you signed your limits list.”
I remember that damn list. I remember ticking “Public Play” with my heart racing and my hand shaking.
I didn’t expect to want it. Not like this.
Not after last night. Not after he kissed me like I wasn’t a thief. Like I was his . Not after this morning when he called me addictive like he was alarmed and exhilarated. Not after he came down my throat like he was delivering benediction.
“I didn’t think you’d actually…” I trail off, heat creeping up my neck. “People are going to see.”
He finally looks up.
His eyes are unreadable. Cold. Until they soften, just for a heartbeat.
“Indeed. They’ll see what I want them to see,” he murmurs. “That you belong to me.”
The words lance through me. I should hate that. I should scream at him, spit in his face, slam the door and walk out barefoot just to prove I still can.
But I don’t.
Because the truth is, my body likes belonging to him. The same body that used to flinch at every demand now aches when he walks away. The same mind that was once so sure of its own independence now finds a strange safety in the structure of his control.
And maybe that terrifies me most of all.
Still, I lift my chin. “I wear this dress, this collar… it doesn’t mean I’ve submitted.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “But it means you’re choosing not to fight me. At least not today.”
And that is fucking that. Because he’s right. Again.
He helps me dress. No words. Just fingers zipping silk, smoothing fabric, adjusting my hair so the collar is clearly visible. Every brush of his touch is a quiet reminder: I’m watching. I see you.
When I finally meet my reflection again, I don’t see a thief.
I see something darker. Something bolder.
Someone who might be falling.
He offers his hand. “Shall we, little thief?”
I hesitate. Terrified. Because that sounds less of an accusation and more of a caress. A fond endearment.
Then I slip my fingers into his.
Dante
She walks one step behind me.
Just like I told her to. Just like she agreed to, with a flash of defiance and a husky “Yes, Sir.”
The collar is gold against her throat, glittering in the late morning sun like a promise. Or a warning. The silk dress I picked clings to her curves in all the right places, swaying with each hesitant step. She’s trying to look casual, to keep her eyes up, shoulders straight.
But I can see it.
The flush on her cheeks. The tension in her neck. The way her thighs brush together like she’s hyper-aware of what’s not beneath the dress.
No bra. No panties.
Just my rules. My cum still lingering in her mouth from the shower. Her cum still lingering inside her from her surrender.
Mine .
We stroll into the glass-and-steel lobby of a private art gallery I own under a shell company. It’s closed for the weekend, save for the two security guards I instructed to disappear before we arrived.
I like my toys like I live my life. Private.
But I want her seen. Her fire is too beautiful to hide under the bushel of my sins.
She walks beside me now, eyes scanning the walls, drinking in the paintings, the sculptures, the obscene wealth it all represents.
I built this place as a front, but also a distraction. A curated illusion of taste and control.
Today, she is the only masterpiece I care about.
“I can feel you watching me,” she murmurs, not quite meeting my gaze. ?I smile. Stunned when my face doesn’t crack into a thousand pieces. “Good. Because I am.”
Her dark blue eyes flick toward me, a challenge beneath the nerves. Her lips are still kiss-swollen. Her scent—clean skin, arousal, something I’m starting to crave like fucking oxygen—lingers in the air between us.
Her arm rises, fingers brushing the collar. “People could’ve seen,” she says, but there’s no fire of protest. Hell, there might even be a little wonder in there.
“They still might.”
Her breath catches. I hear it. The way she hates how much that idea turns her on.
Good. Let her squirm. Let her know I own more than her time and her body. I’m owning her mind now, too.
We pause in front of a painting. Something abstract, blood-red and smeared with the anguish of a man who’s lost everything. I wonder if she sees it.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks softly.
The question curls between us. A fucking landmine. I keep my expression blank. “Define ‘this.’”
“You know what I mean. This whole heist. The plan. The war you’re starting. And don’t tell me to mind my business again. I’m going to keep asking.”
I could lie.
I could tell her it’s about power. Money. Revenge.
But then I look at her— really look—and that soft fucking voice in my head whispers her name, not her codenames, past or present.
Dahlia .
She’s not the girl I kidnapped. Well, not entirely. She’s something else now. Something I’m not sure I’ll be able to give up.
Even if I have to.
I look away first. Because if I don’t, I might tell her the truth.
That I’ve spent five years plotting every way to destroy them and the systems that protect them. Only to hit a wall. That my enemy’s last bastion is proving… impenetrable.
That I need Dahlia to help me do it.
Because she’s the only hacker alive with the skill set I need… and the only person I can’t seem to think straight around anymore.
“I’m doing it,” I say at last, “because someone has to.”
“Then at the very least tell me who I’m dealing with. Test runs lose their value eventually.”
Before she can push again, my phone vibrates.
Encrypted signal. Vesper server. I unlock it with my thumbprint. Then I go very still.
Vesper Syndicate has located Subject S-7.
The message is followed by a low-res surveillance photo.
It’s fucking Dahlia.
Taken from across the building across the street.
Timestamp: last night.
While we were on the terrace. While I was cracking myself open on the strength of a single question from her. Because I couldn’t help myself.
My blood runs cold.
They know what she is. Who she is. Which means they know she’s helping me.
Fuck. For one insane second, I want to smash the phone into the nearest painting and lock her back in the penthouse and never let her step into sunlight again.
But I don’t.
I exhale slowly, slide the phone back into my jacket. Allow the single tremor to have its day moving through me before I shut that shit down.
She notices. Her body tenses, sharp and instinctive. “Problem?” she asks.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I lie.
Because if she truly knows the Vespers are close, who they are , she’ll run. Or worse. She’ll fight . She’s her mother’s daughter, after all. Flying blind and fearless into battle.
And I’m not ready to let her go.
Not yet.
Not when I still need her.
Not when I’m starting to want her.
And especially not when it feels like every day I don’t fuck her senseless and break this need wide open is a day I lose another part of my deranged soul.
Dahlia
The gallery is beautiful, in that high-end, sharp-cornered way that screams curated wealth. The kind of place Dante fits into too perfectly. The kind of place that makes me feel like the performance version of myself.
He walks beside me, a looming presence. Possessive. Not gentle. Just... there. Reminding me.
We move from painting to painting—rich oils, tortured brushstrokes, abstract chaos for people who pretend they see meaning in madness.
I pretend too. But I’m not thinking about art. I’m thinking about him.
That “nothing you need to worry about” was clearly bullshit.
And he hasn’t touched me since. It’s stupid because that was less than five minutes ago, but my body seems to be counting the milliseconds. Counting and missing him.
I sneak a glance up at him as we pause in front of a painting called Ascension . White oil streaked with red. Too much red.
His eyes are focused, but not on the art. He’s somewhere else entirely. “You like it?” I ask softly.
His gaze slides back to mine. “It’s messy. But honest.”
“Like me?” I tease, because I need to pull him back.
His lips curve faintly, but humor doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re not messy. You’re dangerous.”
“And you like dangerous.”
His hand trails down my spine, subtle and slow. “I like control.”
I feel my pulse stutter, soar, elated because he’s touching me again. “Is that why we’re doing this today? Because you think you’re losing it?”
That gets me a flicker of something. Not quite amusement. Not quite warning. “I’m never out of control.”
Bullshit . I don’t believe him. Because this moment—it doesn’t feel like before. The edges have changed. I glance at the pocket he slid his phone into. Deliberately.
His eyes turn colder, giving me the answer I need.
I’m not even surprised when he abandons the grand tour or whatever this is. An exhibit?
“Come.”
He leads me toward one of the gallery’s private side alcoves. Less flashy. No cameras.
I follow. Not because I have to. Because I need to see what this version of this riled Dante wants.
Halfway down the hallway, he presses me up against the cool concrete wall. My dress hikes with no preamble. Thighs gripped and splayed. His cock is already out, thick and hard, no warm-up or dirty talk.
Just a push.
A thrust.
A claim.
The best delicious stretch in the world.
My breath hitches, but the fire burns. “This is what we’re doing, is it? Reclaiming your control, Sir?”
Thrust . Still. “Shut the fuck up, little thief.”
I gasp—but not because of the force or the insult. Because of the emptiness in his eyes.
“Dant—”
His fingers close around my throat. Eyes a dark vortex.
He fucks me efficiently. Deep and hard and precise. His breathing remains steady, controlled. Too controlled.
It’s clinical. Like I’m part of a ritual, not a woman.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, grip tight, digging nails into muscle—but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.
This isn’t sex. This is distraction.
For him. And maybe for me, too.
He comes with a low grunt, not even kissing me. I clench around him anyway out of sheer need, but my orgasm detonates all the same, unravels me, even while it chases something that isn’t here anymore.
When he pulls out, I feel colder than the wall.
He adjusts himself. Straightens my dress. Kisses my temple like a caretaker, not a Dom.
“We should get back,” he murmurs.
I nod.
But the silence stretches between us like something shattered and swept under a rug.
And for the first time, I don’t want to go back to the penthouse.
I want to know what the hell he’s hiding.