Lark
She stared at the crystal tumbler in his other hand as if it might somehow explain how a father could speak about his own child as if she were another shipment of weapons.
He told everyone that whoever ended up with her would have “direct access to my organization” as though that made her a prize.
Maybe to someone there, she would be a prize, but the thought of anyone using her to gain leverage against her family made her sick.
The words echoed through her skull, making bile rise to her mouth as she tried to choke back her fear.
Conversations carried on around the room as though her father hadn’t just offered to sell her off to the highest bidder.
No one questioned the fact that she was standing there while men negotiated her future.
No one except Dante. She didn't dare look at him immediately, but she could feel him.
His anger filled the room like a thunderstorm waiting to break, but her father didn't notice.
He never noticed anything that didn't directly affect him.
"You'll excuse me,” she breathed. Every head turned toward her, and her father's expression darkened.
"What did you say?" her father growled.
Lark forced herself to lift her chin. "I said—" She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Will you excuse me?"
"You weren't dismissed,” he demanded.
"No,” she breathed, “I wasn’t.” She met his eyes for the first time all evening as silence settled over the room. The businessmen shifted uncomfortably, and one of them suddenly found the label on his whiskey fascinating. Even they knew she was walking a razor's edge.
"You embarrass me," Rafael Santos said quietly.
"I embarrass you?" she said under her breath.
A bitter laugh escaped before she could stop it.
"I'm not the one trying to auction off my child.
" The crack of his hand across her face echoed through the office, and pain exploded through her cheek.
The force of the slap knocked her sideways.
Before she hit the floor, strong hands caught her—Dante.
His grip was firm around her arms, steadying her, and for one impossible second, she leaned into him.
Not because she wanted comfort, but because she couldn't stand on her own.
"Stand down.” Her father's voice sliced through the moment, and Dante slowly released her. Every muscle in his body had gone rigid. Lark touched her burning cheek, and the room was silent. No one moved, and no one spoke, because apparently even psychopaths had limits.
"You forget your place," Rafael said. She laughed again, only this time it sounded broken.
"My place?" She looked around the room. "My place is wherever you tell me to stand, so men can inspect me?"
His eyes narrowed. "Enough."
"No,” she breathed. Even she was surprised she'd said it. "No,” she said again. She looked at every man in the room, one by one. "You should all be ashamed."
The businessman from earlier smirked. "Sweetheart?—"
"I'm not your sweetheart,” she spat. Her voice cracked like a whip. "I'm a human being." No one answered, not even her father.
Rafael finally sighed. "Take her upstairs.
" Dante didn't move. "I gave you an order.
" Slowly, Dante stepped beside her, letting his hand settle lightly against the small of her back as though protecting her. It was subtle enough that no one else noticed, but she did. Without another word, he guided her toward the door. The instant they stepped into the hallway, she heard the office doors close behind them, and she knew that the meeting was going to continue as if nothing had happened, and she wasn’t about to be sold off to the highest bidder.
They walked in silence, and neither of them spoke until they reached the second floor. The moment they rounded the corner where no cameras could see, Lark stopped walking. "So that's it."
Dante closed his eyes briefly. "Lark?—"
"No,” she whispered, stepping back from him. "You knew what my father was going to do, didn’t you?" His silence answered for him. "You knew."
"I suspected,” he corrected.
"When did you begin to suspect that my father was going to auction me off?” she asked.
"I wasn't sure until yesterday,” he admitted.
Tears blurred her vision. "And you still brought me downstairs to face those men, knowing what my father had planned for me."
His face twisted with self-loathing. "I had no choice."
"There's always a choice,” she countered.
"I have a sister,” he said. The words stopped her cold because he looked like he'd said something he could never take back.
"What does your sister have to do with any of this?” she asked.
Dante sighed. “Her name is Sophia,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Your father has her."
Lark stared at him. "What?"
"He took her three years ago,” Dante said.
He swallowed hard. "I do what he says because if I don't—” He couldn't seem to finish what he was saying, but he didn’t need to. Lark understood what he wasn’t saying out loud.
And now, she understood the misery she saw in his eyes every time he locked her in her room.
He wasn't her jailer—he was another prisoner.
"Oh my God,” she whispered.
"I've looked for her,” he insisted. His voice cracked. "I've tried to save her, but I don’t know where she is.”
"I believe you,” she assured.
Those three words nearly shattered him. "You believe me?" he asked.
She nodded. "I see it in your eyes when you have to lock me in my room."
His laugh was hollow. "My eyes?"
"They're sad,” she admitted.
He looked away. "I hate doing that to you," he said. Before she realized what she was doing, Lark stepped closer. She stood close enough to touch him—close enough to smell cedar and rain clinging to his suit.
"You've been protecting me,” she whispered.
He shook his head. "I've been failing you."
"No,” she breathed. She reached up slowly, letting her fingertips brush the angry bruise across his knuckles. "You've been protecting me in every way you can,” she insisted.
His breathing changed. "You shouldn't touch me."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because if you do—” His voice was rough, making her want to touch him more. "I won't stop myself."
Her pulse raced. "Dante." He lifted a trembling hand, and instead of touching her face, he tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. His fingers barely grazed her skin, but the gentle gesture hurt more than any kiss could have.
"I've imagined doing that for months,” he admitted.
Her breath caught. "You have?"
He nodded. "Every day." The confession hung between them, raw and dangerous.
Lark rose onto her toes without thinking—just enough to close the distance between them, allowing their breaths to mingle, and his gaze dropped to her lips.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered. She couldn't. She wanted to, and she should have, but she couldn’t.
Instead, a throat cleared behind them, and they sprang apart.
Marco stood twenty feet down the hallway, staring openly between them. “Marco,” Dante said.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Marco’s face.
"Well.” His eyes settled on Dante. "Now I know why you've been acting so strange.
" Dante's face drained of color, and Lark's heart dropped into her stomach because Marco wasn't just another guard.
Marco was loyal to Rafael Santos, and if he told her father what he'd just seen, everything was about to explode.
The hallway went deathly silent as Lark's heart slammed against her ribs at Marco's amused grin. He leaned casually against the wall, coffee cup dangling from one hand as though he hadn't just walked in on the most dangerous moment of her life.
"Didn't mean to interrupt," he drawled. Dante moved in front of her so subtly that most people would've missed it, but she didn't. His broad shoulders blocked Marco's direct view of her, instinctively shielding her.
"You need something?" Dante asked, his voice flat.
Marco chuckled. "Boss is looking for you."
Dante didn't blink. "I'll be there in a minute."
Marco's gaze shifted past him to Lark. "Everything okay, Princess?"
Lark forced herself to smile. "I've had better evenings."
"I imagine,” Marco said. His eyes lingered on her reddened cheek where Rafael had struck her, and she noticed something flicker across his face. For a second, she thought it might be sympathy, but that couldn’t be.
Marco looked away. "The old man has quite the temper,” he said as though that explained her father’s anger.
Lark crossed her arms over her chest. "You think?" An awkward silence settled between them, and finally, Marco shrugged.
"Anyway, don't keep him waiting,” Marco ordered. He pushed away from the wall and disappeared down the staircase. Neither Lark nor Dante moved until his footsteps faded.
Dante exhaled. "He saw too much."
"He saw almost nothing,” Lark said.
"He saw enough,” Dante insisted.
Lark rubbed her temples. "You really think he'll tell my father?"
"I don't know,” Dante admitted. That answer frightened her more than if he'd said yes, because Dante always seemed certain. If he wasn't, then she knew that things were getting worse.
"You should go,” she said.
His jaw tightened. "I don't want to leave you."
"You don't have much choice,” she reminded.
"No." His eyes locked onto hers. "I don't." For one reckless second, she wanted to tell him not to go. She wanted to tell him to lock the bedroom door or to run. Hell, she wanted to tell him to do something—anything other than to continue pretending that everything was fine.
Instead, she stepped backward. "I'll be fine,” she lied.
He looked unconvinced. "Lark.”
"I know." She gave him a sad smile. "I'll stay in my room." He hesitated another second before nodding, and when he finally walked away, every instinct inside her screamed after him—don’t leave- but she swallowed the words because asking him to stay would only make everything harder.
Her bedroom had never felt smaller as the lock clicked behind her.
Normally, the sound filled her with rage, but tonight, she just felt lonely.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the balcony doors toward the Chicago skyline at the thousands of lights and millions of people.
Freedom was only a few hundred yards away, but she never felt farther from it.
Her fingers drifted to her cheek, where the sting from her father's slap had faded, but the humiliation hadn't.
She was an asset—a means to an end. She wrapped her arms around herself as questions filled her head.
Was this why every boyfriend had mysteriously disappeared?
Or why every friend she'd ever made had slowly drifted away?
Had her father declined every invitation on her behalf?
He hadn't been protecting her all this time; he was preserving his merchandise, and that realization made her stomach revolt.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. Dante never knocked. The door opened before she answered, and Maria slipped inside carrying a tray. The older housekeeper smiled gently. "I brought you tea."
Lark blinked. "I didn't ask for tea."
"I know,” she said, closing the door quietly. "You also didn't eat dinner."
Lark looked away. "I'm not hungry."
Maria set the tray down anyway. "You should eat something."
"I said—" Lark started.
"I know what you said,” Maria interrupted, surprising her. Maria had worked in the Santos household for almost twenty years, and she rarely spoke unless spoken to, but tonight, something was different.
"You've been crying,” Maria said, changing the subject.
Lark laughed bitterly. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone looking,” Maria said, pouring tea into a delicate porcelain cup. "Your mother used to cry the same way."
Lark froze. "My mother?" No one talked about Isabella Santos—ever. Even mentioning her name usually resulted in one of Rafael's icy stares. "You knew her?"
Maria smiled sadly. "I loved her."
Lark's pulse quickened. "What was she like?"
"So very brave." That wasn't the answer she'd expected.
"Brave?" Lark asked.
Maria nodded. "Your father wasn't always this powerful."
Lark leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
"He was dangerous." Maria's expression darkened. "But not untouchable."
Hope fluttered inside Lark's chest. "My mother fought him?"
"Every day,” Maria said. The housekeeper's eyes became distant. "She believed no one should live in fear."
"What happened?" Lark asked.
Maria was quiet for several long seconds. "She tried to leave."
Lark stopped breathing. "She tried to leave?”
"She packed your clothes." Maria smiled sadly. "You were only three."
Lark couldn't process the words. "She—she tried to take me?"
"Yes,” Maria said.
"What happened?” Lark asked.
"Someone betrayed her,” Maria whispered.
Ice settled in Lark's veins. "My father found out."
Maria nodded once. "He made sure no one ever tried to leave him again."
Lark's throat tightened painfully. "Did he—" She couldn't finish what she wanted to ask, but Maria understood anyway.
"I don't know exactly what happened,” Maria admitted as her voice broke.
"But Isabella never came home." Silence swallowed the room.
Lark had spent years believing her mother had abandoned her and that she had chosen freedom over her daughter.
But now, she knew that everything she believed was a lie.
"Why are you telling me this?" Lark asked.
Maria looked toward the closed bedroom door. "Because your mother would never forgive me if I stayed silent."
Tears filled Lark's eyes. "I don't know what to do."
Maria reached across the small table and squeezed her hand.
"Survive." The simple word carried decades of grief.
"Then,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “when the opportunity comes, run.
" A loud crash echoed somewhere downstairs, causing both women to jump.
Voices erupted through the mansion, followed by the sound of men running through the marble hallways.
Three rapid gunshots caused Lark to shoot to her feet.
"What was that?" she asked.
Maria's face drained of color. "Oh, dear God." Another gunshot thundered through the house, and another. Someone screamed, and the mansion exploded into chaos. Lark rushed toward the bedroom door, and Maria grabbed her arm.
"No!” Maria shouted.
"I have to know what's happening,” Lark insisted.
"You have to stay alive,” Maria countered.
Outside the hallway, men shouted orders as furniture crashed around the mansion.
Automatic gunfire erupted somewhere below, and Lark's heart pounded.
This wasn't an argument. This wasn't one of her father's punishments.
Someone had attacked the Santos compound, and for the first time in her life, the fortress around her prison was falling apart.