Page 14 of Devil’s Gambit

"This one does." He glances over his shoulder, and heat flickers in his eyes when he takes in the dress, my hair, the effort I've made. "Hungry?"

"Starving." The word escapes before I can catch it, raw and honest in a way that makes me want to swallow it back down.

He turns fully now, and I watch the way his shoulders shift beneath the white cotton of his shirt.

The kitchen light catches the angles of his face—sharper than usual, like he hasn't been sleeping.

His eyes find mine, and they're darker than I remember.

Hungry in a way that makes my pulse skip a beat.

"Sit."

I move to the counter, each step deliberate. I choose the seat that puts me closer to him—close enough to see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his hands grip the spatula with unnecessary force.

Steam rises from the pasta, carrying the scent of black pepper and pecorino. He sets it before me with movements that are still precise but edged with tension. Or maybe the same awareness that's making my skin feel too tight.

I twirl the pasta slowly as cheese and egg create golden silk around each strand. The first bite melts on my tongue—salt and richness and comfort I don't deserve but crave anyway. A small sound leaves my lips, involuntary and honest.

"You're full of surprises," I murmur, taking another bite. I let my eyes close briefly, let him see how the simple pleasure affects me.

"Good?"

Another bite. "You know it is." I set down my fork and let my fingers trail along the counter's edge.

The spatula clatters against the stove. The sound echoes in the sudden silence, sharp as breaking glass.

"Isabella."

Just my name, but the way he says it—low and warning and wanting—makes heat pool in my stomach.

"Yes?"

He moves then, around the counter with predator grace. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, exposing the line of my throat.

I watch him notice. Watch his gaze track the movement.

"You're playing with fire."

The words ghost across my skin, raising goosebumps despite the kitchen's warmth.

"I thought you were the Devil." My voice comes out breathier than intended. "Shouldn't you be fireproof?"

Something flashes in his eyes—dangerous and barely controlled. The air between us goes electric, charged with seven days of careful distance about to shatter.

"Eat," he commands, but the word comes out rough, like it's been dragged over gravel.

I take another bite, hyperaware of his proximity. Of the way his breathing has changed—deeper, less controlled. Of the way my body responds to his attention, skin flushing, pulse racing. The pasta might as well be ash for all I taste is it now.

"I've been thinking," he says suddenly, stepping back like he needs distance. "About your situation here."

My stomach drops, the pasta within turning to lead.

"Have you?"

"This isn't..." He runs a hand through his hair, the perfect styling coming undone. "You can't exist in limbo. Hidden away in the library. Drafting documents like a ghost who only appears for meals."

"I thought that's what you wanted." My fingers find the stem of my water glass, needing something to hold. "A useful ghost who doesn't complicate your life."

"Is that what you think?" He moves to the window, and I study his profile against the darkening sky. The tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clench and unclench.

"You haven't exactly been seeking my company."

"Because I—" He stops and works his jaw like he's chewing words he can't swallow. "Because you needed time. Space. To understand that you're not..."

"Not what?" I stand, the barstool scraping against marble. My body moves without permission, drawn by invisible strings. "Your prisoner? Your property? Your whore?"

Each word brings me a step closer. I watch his reflection in the window—the way his eyes track my approach, the way his body goes still like prey sensing danger.

"You said it yourself. We both know what I am, Dante."

"Do we?" He turns when I'm close enough to touch, and his expression makes my heart stutter. Not a cold assessment. No casual cruelty. It’s raw, hungry, and carefully controlled. "Because I'm starting to think neither of us knows what the hell this is."

The admission hangs between us, too honest for comfort. The air is thick, making it hard to breathe.

Step back , my mind whispers. Run .

Instead, I move closer.

"There's another option," he says quietly when I'm close enough to feel his breath. "If you want it."

My pulse jumps. "What option?"

He's quiet for so long that I fear he won't answer. I watch him gather words like weapons, preparing for battle.

"Freedom."

The word falls between us like a stone in still water, its ripples spreading outward. I feel it impact my chest, stealing breath.

"What?"

"I could arrange it." His voice is measured now, but I sense something beneath the surface. "New identity. Clean papers. Untraceable accounts with enough money to disappear. Start over anywhere you want. Be anyone you want."

The kitchen spins slightly. I grip the counter for balance, white-knuckling the marble.

"You'd do that?" My voice is distant, like it's coming from underwater. "Just... let me go?"

"If that's what you want."

"And my father?"

"Him too. Complete relocation. New lives so clean even I couldn't find you."

Run , my mind screams. Take it and run.

But we both know I can't. Sal's people would find me. The families have connections everywhere. A new name doesn't erase old vendettas.

"Why?" The question comes out as barely a whisper.

"Because you deserve better than being someone's broken?—"

"Don't."

My hand moves without permission, fingers pressing against his lips. I feel his sharp intake of breath, the way his mouth parts slightly under my touch. His lips are softer than they should be. Warmer.

"Don't say it again," I breathe. "Don't pretend you're being noble."

I let my fingers trail from his lips, following the line of his jaw. His skin is warm and faintly rough with stubble. The muscle jumps under my touch. My thumb finds his pulse point. It’s rabbiting under my touch.

This is insane, my mind shrieks. You're seducing the Devil himself .

"I finally know what you want, Dante."

The words come out low, certain. I watch his pupils dilate, watch the careful control start to crack.

His voice is rough when he speaks. "Do you?"

"Mmm." I step into his space, close enough that the heat of our bodies mingles.

Close enough that I have to tilt my head back further to maintain eye contact.

The position leaves my throat exposed and vulnerable, and I watch him notice.

Watch his gaze track the line of my neck like he's mapping territory.

"All those novels upstairs," I continue, letting my tone drop to barely above a whisper. "All those careful distances. The locks. The choices. The way you look at me when you think I don't notice."

"Isabella—"

But I'm already moving, going up on my toes to bring my mouth close to his ear.

He goes rigid, every muscle tense. My breath ghosts across his skin as I speak.

"You want me to choose you." The words are soft as silk, certain as gravity.

"To want you. To play all those roles—innocent and temptress, fighter and surrender.

To understand the game and play it willingly. "

My hands slide up his chest, his heartbeat thundering through expensive cotton. His hands come up to grip my waist—not gentle, not harsh. Possessive. Inevitable.

"Complete surrender disguised as choice," I breathe against his ear. He shudders.

"Is it?" His voice has gone dark, dangerous.

"Isn't it?"

I wind my arms around his neck, eliminating the last distance between us. Every point of contact burns—chest to chest, hip to hip, his hands spanning my waist like he's measuring what's already his.

"So, let's stop pretending," I continue, lips barely brushing his ear. "No more locked doors. No more careful distances. No more playing at giving me choices when we both know what this is."

His grip tightens, fingers pressing into silk and skin. "And what is this?"

I pull back enough to meet his eyes. What I see there makes my knees weak—hunger and control and dark desperation.

"A negotiation." I let one hand slide into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. His eyes darken further. "I need something from you. You clearly want something from me."

"What kind of negotiation?"

"The kind where we both get what we want." I lean in again, letting my lips brush the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss but a promise. "I'll be yours. Completely. Willingly. In your bed, at your side, playing whatever role you need."

"In exchange for?"

"Real protection." I press closer, feeling the evidence of his want, his need.

My body responds in kind, heat pooling low and insistent.

"Not guards and locked doors. I want your word that I'm untouchable.

That anyone who tries for me gets what Lorenzo got.

That you'll destroy anyone who threatens me or my father. "

His control fractures. He tries to think through the arousal, but his hands are already pulling me closer, his breathing ragged.

"You're offering yourself to me." His voice is strained. "Permanently."

"In exchange for safety that actually means something. Yes."

"No going back."

"No going back," I agree. "Do we have a deal?"

His control snaps.

His mouth crashes into mine, seven days of restraint shattering in an instant. One hand tangles in my hair while the other pulls me impossibly closer. The kiss is possession and promise and pent-up hunger finally given permission to feast.

I melt into it, into him, even as part of me catalogues this as the moment I sold my safety for my body. Opening my mouth under his, I taste wine and want and something darker. His tongue slides against mine, and the sound I make is embarrassing and honest.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. My lips feel swollen and sensitive.

"Deal?" I breathe against his mouth.

"Fuck." His hands slide down my sides, tracing curves through silk. "Yes. Deal. You're mine, and I'll kill anyone who touches you."

Relief and revulsion war in my chest. But at least I'll be safe. At least I'll survive.

"Then take me upstairs." The words come out as barely a whisper. "Show me what it means to be yours."

"You should run," he says even as his hands slide under my thighs, lifting me. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, dress riding up. “While you can still walk.”

"Too late." I bite his earlobe, and he stumbles slightly. His grip tightens, pressing me against the evidence of his want.

"My room," he growls, already moving toward the stairs, desire overriding any second thoughts.

"Wherever you want." I trace the shell of his ear with my tongue, and he shudders. "However you want. That was the deal."

"Mine." His voice is possessive, triumphant as he takes the stairs. "All mine."