Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Natasha
Did I say something wrong? Why was Dante staring at me with those terrifying eyes?
Confusion flooded my mind, but panic took control. I backed away instinctively until the cold wall pressed against my spine. Nowhere left to go.
What was he planning to do to me now? Would he throw me down the stairs? Stuff me in a sack and dump me in the Hudson?
I held my breath as he approached, trembling from fear and cold. But what happened next caught me completely off guard—Dante bent down and scooped me up from the freezing floor, carrying me in his arms.
He ignored my gasp and rigid body completely, tossing me onto the massive bed that dominated the center of the room. The mattress was incredibly soft. I sank immediately into bedding saturated with Dante's scent.
Then Dante grabbed the thin blanket and worn pillow from the floor, hurling my pathetic bedding out into the hallway.
He slammed the bedroom door and locked it. The sound echoed endlessly in the quiet room. I couldn't make sense of what Dante was doing. My stomach twisted into knots from anxiety.
Was this some new form of punishment? Or was he about to follow Katerina's orders? Would he take out all the humiliation Vera had caused him on my body, using the excuse of creating an heir?
While my mind raced and my body pressed rigidly toward the headboard, Dante walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dipped heavily under his weight.
He turned his head to look at me, clearly irritated and impatient.
"I'm not so heartless that I'd make a sick woman sleep on a cold floor. So put those paranoid little fantasies of yours away."
Dante's large frame settled on the bed's edge. That intense masculine presence washed over me. I shrank back again in fear. But this seemed to enrage the short-tempered young pakhan even more.
He suddenly reached out, grabbed my wrist, and yanked hard, dragging me from the headboard right in front of him.
I was forced to meet his eyes. That face that had occupied all my girlish fantasies was less than ten inches from mine. I could feel his burning, angry breath hitting my face.
"You drive me crazy looking like that, Natasha.
" His voice came through clenched teeth, every word dripping with aggression.
"Tell me. Why are you always so scared of me?
Why do you act so goddamn timid around me?
You have a mouth that works. You knew this whole thing was a massive misunderstanding.
Why didn't you tell me the truth? Why...
why did you let me blame you? Hurt you?"
I froze. He knew everything?
I avoided those penetrating eyes, my voice barely audible.
"I didn't want my family to suffer. That's all."
I took a deep breath. My lungs sent a sharp pain through my chest from the fever. I forced myself to lift my head and meet his gaze, my body shaking uncontrollably.
"And Dante, you know damn well—even if I'd told you the truth back then, you wouldn't have believed me." I voiced my deepest fear, my words trembling along with my body. "You would've thought it was just my pathetic attempt to ruin what you had with Vera. Would you have believed me?"
Dante's grip on my wrist loosened slightly. The rage on his face finally showed a crack.
Then he let out a heavy sigh and released my wrist completely, putting distance between us.
"I'm not a patient man. I'll admit that." His tone softened somewhat, though it still carried his trademark hardness. "But I'm not some psycho who slaughters innocents either. I wouldn't massacre your entire family because your sister betrayed me."
He paused, his eyes locked onto mine.
"Given what you know about me, you should've realized that. You've had feelings for me for three years—did you fall for me because you thought I was some mass murderer?"
Dante's sudden mention of those three years of longing left me speechless. My cheeks burned from both fever and embarrassment.
Admitting I'd crushed on my sister's fiancé for three whole years wasn't exactly something to be proud of. I could only bite my lower lip hard and force my gaze toward the lamp on the nightstand.
Thankfully, Dante didn't push me to answer. He inhaled deeply, hands folded on his knees.
"Leo intercepted airport surveillance footage and found Vera's handwritten note in Nikolai's room.
" Dante's voice leveled out as he stated the facts.
"I've uncovered the whole truth. I know Vera planned her escape all along.
I know Nikolai forced you into this as a scapegoat. You were completely in the dark."
My head snapped toward him.
Dante looked at me, jaw muscles tight.
"I'll admit—yesterday, rage and humiliation blinded me. I didn't verify shit. I just took everything out on you. I'm sorry, Natasha."
Dante's unexpected apology left me frozen.
I fought down the ache rising in my throat, pretending complete indifference as I looked away.
"It's fine. Like I said, I don't care. None of it matters anymore."
I rushed through the words. Then I threw myself backward, grabbed the heavy silk comforter, and buried myself completely under the covers. I pulled it over my head, wrapped myself tight, bit down hard on the back of my hand, and tried desperately not to let him see my tears or hear my sobs.
But in the next second, the comforter—and me with it—got scooped up by a pair of strong arms.
Dante lifted me, blanket and all, right off the bed and crushed me against his chest. His strength was overwhelming. He gave me no room to struggle.
"I'm sorry, Natasha. I'm sorry for forcing you to apologize in the bridal shop. I'm sorry for tearing your clothes in the lounge. I'm sorry for leaving you to freeze in the greenhouse."
Dante held me. He kept apologizing in that low, rough voice right against my ear.
With every apology, the hurt inside me multiplied. That crack finally shattered completely.
I couldn't pretend anymore. Through the blanket, I clutched Dante and broke down completely.
I had so much bottled up, and no one had ever cared.
In over twenty years with the Kornilovs, I'd been a ghost. Nikolai never looked at me once.
He blamed me for Mother's death in childbirth.
Vera stole all my toys, dresses, and even my paintbrushes.
The servants mocked my weakness and insignificance behind my back.
I thought I'd stopped caring about my shitty birth. I thought I'd gotten used to this trainwreck of a family. I was strong, so I could bury my pathetic, shameful feelings for Dante.
That's what I'd been telling myself all along.
I'd forced myself to swallow every injustice. I'd built thick walls around myself. I told myself that if I didn't hope for anything, I couldn't get hurt. But it was never true. The wounds inside me had never healed. They'd just festered in the dark.
I sobbed uncontrollably, trying to cry out two decades of suppression. My shoulders shook violently. Tears poured out beyond my control, soaking huge patches of the blanket.
Dante didn't speak. He just tightened his arms and let me fall apart in his embrace.
I cried until I couldn't breathe. When I tried to catch my breath, I suddenly became aware of something extremely awkward.
Through the thick comforter, I felt something unmistakably hard and hot pressing against the outside of my thigh.
My crying stopped abruptly. I slowly poked my head out from under the blanket.
Dante and I stared at each other, both looking mortified. Awkward silence filled the air. I looked at him with swollen red eyes. He stared right back at me without blinking.
A flash of obvious embarrassment crossed Dante's face. He cleared his throat and looked away toward the wall.
"Don't blame me entirely. You're wearing nothing but a thin silk nightgown, and you've been squirming around in my lap. I'm a healthy adult male. This is just a normal physiological response."
I stared at him, completely at a loss for words. I just wasn't used to wearing much to bed—it made me feel like I couldn't breathe.
So I hadn't anticipated this face-burning situation at all. It looked like deliberate seduction.
But before I could explain my sleeping habits, Dante leaned in abruptly, his nose nearly touching mine.
"So answer me, Natasha. What you said sitting on that floor—was it true? Do you really not have feelings for me anymore?"
His face was so close, those black eyes seeming to see straight through my soul. Under that gaze, I realized I couldn't lie to myself anymore.
I'd spent three whole years loving him. I collected every article about him. I drew countless sketches of him. At every family dinner, I greedily stared at his profile.
During my dark teenage years, Dante had been my only comfort. Those feelings had taken root deep in my bones. They grew stubbornly, wrapping tightly around my heart.
Even after the misunderstandings and hurt, if he showed me just a little warmth now, if he looked at me seriously—I'd surrender pathetically in an instant.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and met his eyes honestly.
"That was just talk. I've never stopped loving you."
Dante didn't waste another second. He crushed me against him and kissed me hard.
His mouth claimed mine with brutal intensity, his tongue pushing past my lips before I could even process what was happening. The kiss was demanding, possessive—nothing like the fumbling sweetness I'd imagined during all those years of silent longing. This was raw hunger.
I gasped against his mouth, and he took full advantage, deepening the kiss until my head spun.
His hand slid up my spine, tangling in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wanted it.
The other hand gripped my hip through the thin silk, his thumb stroking small circles that sent heat flooding through my body.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide with want.
"You want to prove you love me?" His voice came out rough, almost a growl. "Then show me, Natasha. This is the best way."