Chapter 37 Keep our secrets
Morning settles into the sunroom like a held breath finally released.
Light pours through the tall arched windows, warm and honeyed, spilling across pale stone and polished wood. Dust motes drift lazily in the air, turning and glinting like tiny stars. Somewhere beyond the glass, birds chatter and argue over branches, their songs weaving through the quiet.
I sit at the long table with a plate of food in front of me fresh bread torn open, butter melting into its cracks, fruit cut neatly and glistening with juice. Steam curls from a cup of tea I keep forgetting to drink.
Across from me, Dante doesn't notice any of it.
He's standing, bent over a massive map spread across the table, one hand braced on the wood while the other moves swiftly with a pen.
His brows are drawn together in concentration, lips pressed into a thin line as he scratches notes into the margins, crosses something out, then writes again with renewed certainty.
I watch the way his shoulders tense and relax as his thoughts move. The way his jaw tightens when something doesn't align. The faint smudge of ink on his fingers. This is the man who leads armies, who redraws borders with steel and strategy but here, in the morning light, he looks almost... human.
It feels strange to see him like this.
Alive.
Focused.
Unburdened by chains.
A soft thump breaks the stillness.
The white cat leaps onto the table with effortless grace, a rolled scroll clutched delicately between its teeth. It pads across the map without the slightest apology and drops the scroll directly in front of Dante's hand.
He doesn't even flinch.
"Thank you," he murmurs, already unrolling it with one hand.
The cat turns its head toward me.
And grins.
Then it hops down and strolls out of the sunroom like it has important places to be.
I release a slow breath through my nose.
Minutes pass in companionable silence. The pen scratches softly against parchment. Cutlery clinks faintly as I pick at my food. Sunlight shifts, creeping farther across the table.
Finally, the question I've been holding slips free.
"Dante."
"Hm?" he answers, eyes still fixed on the map.
"Have you ever been in love?"
His pen stills.
It's subtle
so subtle I might have missed it if I weren't watching him so closely but it's there. A pause. A breath.
He glances sideways at me, confusion knitting his brows. "What?" He straightens slightly. "Why are you asking me that?"
I shrug, keeping my tone light. "I'm just curious."
He studies me for a second longer than necessary, then turns back to his work. "Yes."
The word lands heavier than I expect.
"Yes," he repeats, already writing again, as if it's the simplest truth in the world.
"Do you still love her?" I ask quietly.
"Yes."
No hesitation. No softness. No glance in my direction.
Just the truth.
"Then why aren't you with her?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
This time, he stops fully.
He lifts his head and looks at me. His expression shifts, something guarded settling over his features.
"It's... complicated," he says.
Of course it is.
I know exactly who he's talking about. I know the cold stone cell. The chains biting into my wrists. The way his voice broke when he thought I wasn't listening. I know the man who mourned me before my body was even cold.
But I want to hear him say it.
"If you tell me," I say lightly, "I'll tell you something too."
His gaze sharpens. "And if I don't?"
"Then we both keep our secrets."
He holds my eyes, weighing the offer.
"If you ever had to choose," I continue carefully, "between me and her... who would you choose?"
One eyebrow lifts slowly. "Isabella," he says, amusement flickering at the edges of his voice, "are you feeling jealous?"
"No," I reply smoothly. "I'm just curious about what kind of women has your heart."
That makes him frown.
He sets the pen down with deliberate care.
"What exactly are you asking me?" he says.
I shrug again and turn back to my plate. "Nothing important."
Before I can react, he's moved. He pulls my chair slightly away from the table and turns it so I'm facing him fully. One hand grips the back of it; the other braces on the table as he leans down, bringing himself to my level.
"Isabella," he says quietly, "if you're jealous, there's no reason to be."
Why would i ever be jealous of myself? I thinks, irritation and confusion tangling.
"There's only one woman in my heart," he continues, voice steady. "And it's you."
I smile.
Not because I doubt him but because I need him to say it again.
"How," I ask stubbornly, "can I be the only woman in your heart when you just told me you love someone else?"
He exhales slowly, like a man explaining something painfully obvious.
"You shouldn't be jealous of the dead, Isabella," he says gently. "She was my past."
His gaze softens, something raw and unguarded flickering there.
"You are my future."
Then he leans down and kisses me.
It isn't rushed. It isn't uncertain. His lips press to mine with quiet certainty, like a promise already made. I lift my hands and cup his face, pulling him closer, grounding myself in the warmth of him the solid proof that he's here.
Dante's hand sweeps the plate aside without ceremony bread skidding across polished wood, the cup tipping and spilling tea . His other arm circles my waist, firm and sure, and in one smooth motion he lifts me as if I weigh nothing at all.
The table is cool beneath my palms when he sets me down, the sudden height making my breath hitch. Sunlight flashes across his shoulders as he steps between my knees, and before I can speak his mouth is on mine again deeper, hungrier, all patience stripped away.
This kiss isn't gentle.
It's intent.
I gasp, fingers sliding instinctively into his hair, tangling in long black strands that spill loose from their tie.
He makes a low sound at the back of his throat something dark and satisfied and leans closer, pressing his weight just enough to remind me of everything he is and everything he could be.
The room narrows to heat and breath and the slow burn of inevitability.
Then A throat clears.
Soft. Polite. Unmistakable.
Dante stills like a blade halted mid-swing.
For a heartbeat, he doesn't move at all. Then he pulls back with a long, frustrated groan, resting his forehead against my shoulder as if he's negotiating with himself.
"At this rate," he mutters dryly, voice muffled against my skin, "I'll never get an heir out of you."
I laugh breathless, half-startled my hand still threaded in his hair, reluctant to let go.
Behind me, a voice says, "I need to talk to you."
The warmth drains from the room.
Dante straightens immediately, every trace of heat replaced by controlled steel. He releases me and steps back to his side of the table, retrieving his pen as though this interruption has merely reminded him of unfinished work.
Without looking up, he resumes writing precise, sharp strokes cutting across parchment.
I stay where I am for a moment, heart still racing, then slide off the table and smooth my skirts, grounding myself in the familiar weight of fabric.
Isla stands in the doorway.
Her face is pale, eyes wide not with outrage, but with something closer to shock. Her gaze flicks past me, lingering somewhere behind my shoulder, and her expression tightens further.
I turn.
Dante has stopped writing.
He's looking at her now.
The air feels thinner beneath his stare, the kind of silence that presses down on the chest and reminds you this man does not forget. The look he gives her isn't anger so much as warning, ancient and final.
I swallow and step forward, placing myself between them before the moment can harden further.
"Come," I say quietly, gesturing toward the hall.
Isla hesitates, then follows, her steps quick and uncertain.