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The stubborn crease on her forehead didn’t disappear, but it softened. Her heart raced wildly, confused by the pull he had on her.
She slid into the seat, and before she could reach for the belt, Dante leaned over her. He grabbed it himself, buckling her in safely. Then he grasped the back of her neck, leaned in, and kissed her—his tongue teasing her lower lip before pulling it into his mouth, sucking softly, then letting it go.
“Happy birthday, Anya,” he whispered against her mouth, his voice filled with tenderness.
Anya’s entire body jolted, heat rushing up her neck. “Thanks,” she breathed, her back pressed tightly against the seat, heart thudding so hard it echoed in her ears.
Even as her lungs struggled to keep up, her eyes stayed locked on his.
He smiled at her dazed reaction, and shamelessly pressed several more kisses to her lips, and her face. Quick, shameless kisses that sent shivers all over her body. His affection made her smile, even as she trembled in his arms, overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch.
When he finally pulled away, he flashed her a playful grin before shutting the door with a satisfied thud. He jogged around the car and slid into the driver’s seat.
As soon as he sat down, he leaned over again, clearly aiming for another kiss.
But she placed a palm on his cheek and pushed him back gently, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “Drive,” she said with a half-smile, half-frown.
Dante exhaled with exaggerated disappointment, giving her the most adorably boyish pout she had ever seen on a man like him—arrogant, powerful, and so damn sure of himself.
But he backed off and started the engine. The car roared to life, and soon they were speeding down the road.
Somewhere along the way, he turned to her and said, “Close your eyes.”
“Why?” she asked, already grinning.
“It’s a surprise,” he said with a grin. “Trust me.”
Too curious to argue, Anya obeyed, excitement bubbling in her chest.
When the car came to a stop, she kept her eyes shut. She could hear him get out, and seconds later, he was opening her door. Before she could ask anything, strong arms swept her off her feet.
“Let me walk!” she protested immediately, squirming in his hold and about to open her eyes.
“Don’t do that,” he mumbled, his lips brushing her temple. “Keep them closed. Just trust me.”
She could hear voices around them—laughter, footsteps, distant chatter. They were definitely in a public place, and here he was, carrying her in his arms without a care in the world.
Overwhelmed by shyness, she turned her face into his chest, trying to hide. But the noise around them did little to drown out her embarrassment, or the warmth blooming in her chest.
He carried her through a doorway, and suddenly, there was silence. There was a soft ding—the elevator. The quiet hum of an elevator followed, then more steps.
Finally, he set her down.
“You can open them now,” he said.
Anya slowly opened them, blinking as she looked around. Her breath caught.
They were back in the same suite they’d stayed in on their first night together. Except today, it was transformed.
Red roses were scattered everywhere—on the dark wooden floor, the bed, and the windowsill. Soft yellow fairy lights were strung along the walls, glowing warmly and casting gentle shadows.
The curtains were wide open, showing the city skyline sparkling under the night sky. The moonlight mixed with the lights, making the room glow softly.
The room smelled of roses and wine, with silk sheets on the large bed.
In the center, on a black plate set on a white velvet ottoman, bold white letters read:
YOU WILL MARRY ME.