Page 25 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

His fingers work the buttons of the bloodied uniform with maddening leisure, each one a small eternity. The bathroom mirror fogs with steam behind us.

"The FBI—" I start, but his mouth finds my throat, teeth grazing where my pulse hammers.

"Don't care." Another button. Another inch of skin revealed. His split lip drips fresh blood onto my collarbone, and we both watch it trail down, disappearing into the valley between my breasts. "Not now."

"Dante, I need to?—"

"No." His hands span my waist, lifting me onto the cold marble counter. The shock of temperature makes me gasp—ice against fever. "You need to stop talking."

The uniform hangs open now, revealing black lace that's somehow survived the morning's chaos. His eyes go dark, pupils blown wide, and I see myself reflected in them—wrecked, blood-streaked, completely his.

He kisses me hard enough to taste copper, swallowing my protests, my attempts at strategy. When he pulls back, we're both breathing like we've run miles.

"You left," he repeats against my mouth, and there's something raw in his voice that makes my chest ache.

"I came back."

"I didn't know if you would." His hands frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones with unexpected gentleness. "Do you understand what that did to me?"

The violence downstairs suddenly makes perfect sense. Every shattered object, every drop of blood—all because I wasn't there when he reached for me.

"I need you, Bella." The confession sounds torn from him. "Need you in ways that terrify me."

The words hang between us, more intimate than anything we've done with our bodies. I slide down from the counter and sink to my knees on the cold marble.

"Let me show you," I whisper, hands already at his belt. "Let me show you I'm here."

His breath catches. Standing above me now, he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all sharp angles and controlled violence, blood still painting his jaw like primitive markings.

My hands tremble as I free him, and then I'm face to face with him, magnificent and proud, already glistening with want.

I look up through my lashes as I take him in my mouth. The sound he makes—broken, desperate—sends electricity straight to my core. His hands tangle in my hair, not forcing, just anchoring himself to this moment, to me.

"Christ, Bella." His hips move slightly, restrained even in ecstasy. "Your mouth is—fuck?—"

I hum around him, using my tongue in ways that make his thighs quake.

There's power in this—bringing this dangerous man to his knees with just my mouth, my willingness to worship him like this.

The marble is hard against my knees, but I don't care.

Nothing exists but the weight of him on my tongue, the salt-sweet taste of him, and the way his head falls back in complete surrender.

His abs contract above me, those perfect muscles rippling with the effort of maintaining control. I run my hands up his thighs, feeling the coiled strength, the way they shake slightly as I take him deeper.

When he's close, trembling with it, he pulls me up and crashes his mouth to mine.

"Tub," he manages. "Now."

He lifts me, carrying me up the three steps. We tumble in together, a graceless splash that sends water cascading over the edges, flooding the Italian marble floor. The water is almost too hot, turning our skin pink and shocking us back into our bodies.

Blood swirls around us, creating patterns like abstract art before dissolving into pink clouds that spiral toward the drain.

He pulls me onto his lap, and I gasp at the feeling of him pressing against me, hard and insistent but not entering. Not yet. The anticipation makes me ache.

"Tell me about earlier," I manage, rocking against him. "The violence. Rodriguez. Your brother."

"I thought you chose them." His hands grip my hips, fingers pressing into soft flesh. "Thought you chose to leave. That you finally saw what I really am."

"Never," I breathe, positioning myself above him.

"I would have burned this whole city to find you." He holds me there, suspended, the head of him barely pressing against my entrance. The tease of it makes me whimper. "Torn it apart brick by brick."

"All that for—oh God—for me?"

"Only for you." He pulls me down in one smooth motion, filling me completely. The stretch makes me cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm losing my mind over you. Becoming someone I don't recognize."

"Is that—" I can barely form words as he starts to move beneath me, water lapping at our joined bodies. "Is that bad?"

"I should tell you to run." His mouth finds my breast, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "Get as far from me as possible."

"Why?" I grind down, taking him deeper as his control fractures.

"Because I'm becoming senseless. Reckless." He grips my waist, guiding my movements. "Beat my own men unconscious because you were gone for an hour. This isn't who I'm meant to be."

"Who are you meant to be?" The question comes out breathless as he hits that perfect spot inside me.

"Controlled. Calculated." He flips us suddenly, my back against the tub's wall, water sloshing violently.

The new angle makes me see stars. His pace is relentless now, each thrust sending water over the edge. I'm drowning in sensation—the heat surrounding us, the fullness of him, the way his muscles flex with each movement, powerful and purposeful.

"I want you, Dante," I whisper against his ear, barely audible over the water. "I choose you."

"Louder." His hand finds my throat, not squeezing, just owning. "Say it louder."

"I choose you!" The words tear from my throat as he drives deeper. "I want you. Only you. Always?—"

He swallows the rest with a kiss that tastes like possession.

"She thinks—" I gasp between thrusts, "Sofia thinks I'm free now. Thinks she saved—oh fuck—saved me."

"Free," he laughs darkly, grinding against me and making coherent thought impossible. "You'll never be free of me."

"Don't want to be." My confession comes with my first orgasm, washing over me in waves that make me sob his name.

He doesn't slow down, doesn't let me recover. Instead, he stands, pulling me up and turning me to face the wall. The tiles are cold against my palms, a sharp contrast to his burning body pressed against my back.

"Remember our deal?" I manage as he enters me from behind, one smooth thrust that makes my knees buckle.

"Which one?" His mouth trails my neck.

"Protection for—for submission. No catching feelings."

His laugh rumbles through his chest into my back. "We shattered that the first night."

"So, what—" My words cut off as he reaches around, fingers finding where we're joined and circling with devastating precision. "What now?"

"New deal." His voice is rough in my ear, breathless. "You want me. Only me."

"And you?"

"I burn the world for you." His pace increases, each thrust driving me higher. "Destroy anyone who threatens you. Give you everything."

"You already promised—" I begin, gasping as he shifts angles, “Promised me Sal's destruction."

"Now I'm promising you more." His free hand finds my breast, thumb circling. "Everything, Bella. My empire. My soul. Whatever's left of it."

The intensity makes me shake, makes me push back against him desperately. "I wanted to be good once," I confess, the words tumbling out between moans. "Wanted to prosecute men like you. Clean up the city."

"And now?" He's relentless, driving me toward another edge.

"Now I want—" The sentence breaks as pleasure builds. "Want to lie to them. For you. The FBI thinks—thinks they have?—"

"A victim," he finishes, voice dark with satisfaction. "Their star witness."

"But I'm yours." The second orgasm crashes over me, making me cry out so loudly it echoes off the bathroom walls. "Completely yours."

He follows me over, pressing so deep and pulsing inside me, my name a broken prayer on his lips.

We stay pressed against the wall, shaking, water cooling around us. When he turns me in his arms, his kiss is different—softer but no less consuming.

"The world could end," he murmurs against my mouth, "and I'd let it burn as long as you're with me."

The water's fully pink now, evidence of violence washing away, but new marks are already blooming on my skin—his fingers on my hips, my thighs, my throat. Tomorrow, I'll wear them like jewelry, proof of what we are to each other.

"We should get out," I say when I can speak again.

"Not yet." He holds me tighter, like I might dissolve if he lets go. "Just—not yet."

We stay until the water goes cold, until our skin wrinkles, until our lips are swollen from kissing. When we finally emerge, he wraps me in a towel. His hands are reverent now, treating me like something holy despite the sins we've committed.

The silk robe he chooses is midnight blue, soft as water against my oversensitive skin. He helps me into it with infinite care, fingers lingering on every inch they touch. I watch him towel off, mesmerized by the play of muscles across his back, the fresh wounds that exist because I left him.

"You're staring," he says without turning.

"You're worth staring at."

He turns then, completely naked, completely unselfconscious.

Every inch of him is devastating—broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, abs that ripple with each breath, those v-lines that lead to what I've just thoroughly worshipped.

Even in rest, he radiates danger, barely contained violence wrapped in beautiful skin.

"Come here," he commands softly.

I go, helpless against his gravity. He lifts me like I weigh nothing and carries me from the bathroom. The hallway is empty, everyone wise enough to disappear.

"This is insane," I whisper against his neck. "Everything's about to explode."

"Let it." He shoulders open the bedroom door. "I have what I need."

He lays me on the bed with surprising gentleness and follows me down. The silk robe parts, and his mouth finds every sensitive spot—the hollow of my throat, the curve of my breast, the soft skin of my inner thigh.

"The rest of the day," he murmurs between kisses that make me arch. "No FBI. No war. Nothing but this."

"Can you do that?" My hands tangle in his still-damp hair. "Forget everything?"

"With you here?" He looks up at me, and there's vulnerability in his eyes. "The world could be ending and I wouldn't care."

"That's not very strategic."

"I'm done being strategic about you." His mouth travels lower, earning a gasp from me. "Done pretending this is just an arrangement."

"So, what is it?"

He moves back up my body and frames my face with his hands. "It's whatever you need it to be. Just don't leave again. Don't walk out without me knowing. I can't—" His voice breaks slightly.

"You can't what?"

"Can't lose you."

"You won't," I promise, pulling him down. "The new deal, remember?"

"That's not a deal," he says, entering me again with aching slowness. "That's the truth."

This time is different—languid, thorough, like he's trying to memorize every sound I make, every way I move beneath him. His hands map my body like he's drawing a treasure map, X marking every spot that makes me gasp.

I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, and think about how wrong Sofia was. This isn't Stockholm syndrome. It's not my mind trying to make sense of trauma or survival instincts misfiring.

This is real. Twisted and dangerous and probably doomed, but real.

Tomorrow, I'll have to face the FBI agent who thinks she saved me. Navigate the war I started. Pretend to be a victim when I'm anything but.

But right now, in this bed that smells like us, with his weight pressing me into expensive sheets and his mouth whispering promises against my skin, I know the truth:

This isn't fake.

This is choosing to burn with him rather than freeze without him.

And I'd make that choice again.

Every time.