Page 43

Dante

The instant the plane shuddered to an even keel, a feral energy erupted within me. My seat belt snapped open like a broken promise and I was on my feet, the stale recycled air thick in my nostrils, a metallic tang clinging to the back of my throat.

“Sit down, Dante,” Sin purred, the silken sound a cruel contrast to the icy glint in his eyes—eyes that held the cold knowledge that he’d won the first round. He treated me like a recalcitrant flea, a mere inconvenience.

“Fuck you, Sin,” I snarled, my words a weak physical blow in the suffocating silence of the cabin. My shoes thudded on the polished hardwood floor, a rhythmic drumbeat of childish defiance against the smirking Rowen, his face a mask of chilling amusement. “You won’t win this pathetic game of yours. You know it.”

Sin’s attention, a tangible thing, snapped to mine like a predator’s jaws. His smile, however, was slow, deliberate, a predatory unveiling of white teeth.

“Yes, Dante. Enlighten me. Your futile struggle... amuses me.”

The subtle shift in his voice, a low tremor of barely controlled power, sent a shiver down my spine. This wasn’t amusement; it was a calculated enjoyment of my torment.

“You’re the goddamn Devil, Sin,” I spat, the taste of bile rising in my mouth. The cabin, once a sterile box, felt suddenly claustrophobic, the pressure building against my chest like a physical weight.

“There would be no need for games if—” His voice was a caress, laced with steel. “If Mr. Franks had honored his debt. Now, be a good boy and sit down.”

His unspoken threat vibrated, a physical pressure against my chest, a rancid taste of fear blooming on my tongue. It hung in the air, thick and suffocating, a miasma of stale sweat and terror, the recycled breath of a thousand trapped souls clinging to the edges of sanity.

I knew better than to test him. Every cell in my body screamed it; I was playing Russian roulette with my own damn life.

Sinclair relished his games.

He was the goddamn architect of agony, the maestro of misery. The more screams he orchestrated, the more his cruel heart swelled with perverse satisfaction. The sickening sweetness of his power... how could I have ever, in my na?ve youth, aspired to be him? The memory was a bitter pill, a festering wound.

And yet... the chilling grip of his command held me captive. My legs felt like lead and my throat choked with the unspoken. The silence roared.

I sat.

The coarse weave of the chair scratched against my skin, a brutal counterpoint to the silky-smooth veneer of his sadistic control. The metallic tang of blood—my own, a trickle from a split lip I hadn’t even noticed—filled the suffocating stillness, and it was at that moment I realized he’d broken me long ago and now I simply obeyed.

The rest of the flight was a tomb of silence, heavy and suffocating.

The stale air tasted of recycled anxieties, clinging to the back of my throat like a shroud. My gaze, glued to the smudged window, tracked the receding lights of Nebraska, shrinking into insignificant pinpricks against the vast, indifferent black.

There was nothing to say. Sin, his usual icy mask impenetrable, wouldn’t have deigned to respond, anyway. And Rowen... Rowen, lost in his damn book, a goddamn literary gourmand, was already miles away. He inhaled those pages, the way a starving man might devour a banquet; a ravenous hunger for knowledge that burned brighter than any earthly passion.

Professor Rowen Shay, they called him. Head of the History Department at NYU. The irony choked me. I imagined the esteemed professor, his colleagues praising his erudite pronouncements, utterly unaware of the blood-soaked reality that clung to him like a second skin. Unaware of the underworld he patrolled, its shadows clinging to him in the sterile hush of first class. Sin’s choice of security wasn’t random. It was a chilling testament to Rowen’s capacity for darkness, a darkness I tasted in the metallic tang of fear that coated my tongue.

The hum of the engines throbbed, a relentless pulse against the deafening silence of my soul. Nebraska slipped away, swallowed by the night and with it, any hope of escape.

New York City, New York.

The pre-dawn blackness clawed at my eyes, a physical weight even before the shuddering halt of the plane at JFK. The icy breath of the tarmac hit me like a fist as we taxied into Sinclair’s private hangar—a black hole yawning in the bleak landscape. There they were, his black SUVs, hulking shadows, engines throbbing with barely contained menace. Sinclair, of course, took his sweet fucking time. Each second stretched into an eternity, the frigid air biting deeper with every glacial tick of the clock as Rowen and I stood, shivering, while he engaged in his elaborate, nauseating display of polite appreciation for the pilot. Smooth flight? Uneventful? The man’s voice dripped with the honeyed venom of false charm that grated on my nerves.

Manners. Everything Sin believed in. A suffocating facade meticulously crafted over a core of ice. He’d begun his lessons in the art of manipulation before I even knew the difference between a smile and a sneer. It wasn’t the way of the world he taught. It was the way of Crispin Sinclair—a brutal, chillingly effective system built on fear and unwavering control. The world, according to Sin, was a chessboard and every soul, a pawn to be sacrificed at his whim. The taste of betrayal was bitter on my tongue as the phantom sting of his whip still burned across my back.

“Rowen, why are you helping him?” I shivered, standing beside the SUV as we both waited for Sin to disembark the plane. The icy February wind did little to chill the sweat clinging to my skin. I fucking knew not to step into the vehicle before Sin. That was a punishment I learned the hard way when I was young, a brutal lesson etched into my memory, a vow I’d sworn never to repeat. The fear wasn’t just of Sin. It was of myself, of the monster I knew I could become.

“Like you, I don’t have a choice, Dante,” Rowen rasped, his voice tight with a barely suppressed fury. His words hung in the air, brittle and strained. “So, stand there and be quiet.” His gaze, usually so steady, flickered away, betraying the turmoil beneath his controlled exterior.

He was lying.

I knew it. He wanted to be rid of Sin, yet because of some twisted code of loyalty or misguided compassion, he remained.

“I can help you,” I insisted, my words a desperate plea, even to myself. Rowen wasn’t free. Not like Silas, who tasted the wind’s bite and the sun’s scorching kiss on his skin. Rowen lived in Sin’s shadow, a shadow that clung to him like the reek of mildew and decay. Sin’s summons was a physical thing, a pressure in his chest, a metallic tang on his tongue, forcing obedience. His rare escapes weren’t freedom, but a brutal reprieve, a descent into the fetid darkness of the underground cages. There, the air hung thick with the stench of sweat, blood and fear, a suffocating blanket against the raw agony Sin inflicted. The clang of steel on flesh was a symphony of torment, each blow a searing brand on his soul. Even in the brief respites between battles, the flickering lamplight cast long, distorted shadows that danced with the ghosts of his past. Rowen found refuge only in the worn pages of his books, their ink-stained stories a paltry shield against the encroaching darkness, a meager solace in the face of an unending nightmare. He wasn’t merely fighting for survival. He was clawing his way through the thick, suffocating sludge of despair, desperate for a sliver of light in a world consumed by Sin’s relentless cruelty.

“No one can help me,” Rowen said, his words a bitter echo of my own inner screams. His refusal wasn’t just about Sin’s unpredictable nature. It was about the inescapable weight of their shared history, a history that bound them together in a toxic embrace.

A history I desperately wished I didn’t share, even in the smallest, most peripheral way.

To help Rowen meant to somehow condone Sin’s actions, to become complicit in the very evil I had dedicated my life to fighting against. It meant violating the core principles I held most dear. And yet, the alternative—standing by and watching him fall—was a torment I couldn’t bear. The choice, a brutal sacrifice at the altar of a loyalty I barely understood, felt like a slow, agonizing death. This wasn’t just about helping Rowen. It was about betraying myself and the possibility that I would ever escape the shadow of our past.

The SUV’s smooth leather seats hugged me as we entered the bustling city. The vibrations of the engine beneath my feet reminded me of the fleeting sense of freedom I once had. Sinclair’s grip on my life was suffocating, but the city’s lively energy offered a brief escape.

The cool night air brushed against my skin as we drove further into the heart of the city. The lights of the surrounding buildings flickered against the dark sky, a stark contrast to the heavy weight of Sinclair’s control. I longed to be like the carefree people on the streets, but my reality was a constant reminder of the heavy chains I was bound by.

“And what were you two whispering about?” Sinclair’s voice, a low growl that scraped against the silence, sent a chill down my spine. The air hung thick with unspoken threats, heavy as the stale scent of old cigar smoke clung to the vehicle’s interior.

Rowen remained impassive, a statue carved from granite, his silence a tangible weight.

I hissed, a venomous whisper, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Sinclair’s amusement was a cruel, sharp blade. “Then enlighten me.”

I met his gaze, defiance burning in my chest, a bitter taste coating my tongue. “I offered to help Rowen escape your clutches. He refused.”

Sinclair threw back his head, emitting a harsh, barking laugh that echoed in the small, cavernous space. The sound grated against my teeth. “And would you care to know why he refused, Dante?” His eyes, cold and calculating, gleamed with malicious satisfaction.

“It doesn’t matter. He refused.” My voice was tight, controlled, a thin veil over the rage that threatened to consume me.

“Because he’s indebted to me,” Sinclair purred, his words dripping with insidious meaning.

My eyes snapped to Rowen, his profile stark against the windows grimy glass, his stillness a chilling mask.

“Tell me you didn’t ask him for a favor,” I ground out, my words tasting like ash.

Sinclair’s grin was a predatory flash of teeth. “Oh, Rowen did more than that, Dante. He took over Silas’ debt.”

Sin’s words hit me like a physical blow, the air rushing from my lungs. I squeezed my eyes shut. The image of Silas’ haunted face seared into my mind’s eye. “What debt?” I choked out, my voice raw.

“You, of course.”

My eyes flew open, blazing with fury. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Stop it, Sin.” Rowen’s voice, low and dangerous, cut through the air, a tremor of something close to fear in its controlled tone.

Sinclair ignored him, his words dripping with a calculated slowness. “It’s about time young Dante learned the truth. Jane didn’t ask for Silas when you were at the Trick Pony. She didn’t want him.”

His admission hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

“She wanted you.” I gasped, the realization slamming into me with the force of a physical impact. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the suffocating silence. Sinclair’s smile was pure evil, a chilling, triumphant expression.

“Yes. But I refused. There was no way I would ever set foot in that place again. Not even for you. But Silas... Silas and Rowen refused to leave you there. Silas knew Rowen wouldn’t survive another night with that... woman. So, he offered himself. And because of what Silas endured to save you... Rowen took over Silas’ debt to me.”

The rage that exploded within me was a blinding, searing inferno.

“You son of a bitch!” I roared, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and unfiltered. “You are a vile, contemptible piece of shit! You could have gotten me out of there without either of them sacrificing themselves to that bitch’s whims!”

Sinclair simply nodded, his smirk unwavering, his eyes glittered with a cold, cruel satisfaction. “Yes, I could have.” His unspoken words hung in the air, heavier than the suffocating silence that followed. “But I chose not to.”