Page 31 of Devil’s Gambit

Time becomes meaningless. Minutes or hours pass in a haze of sensation—rough then gentle, desperate then tender, taking then giving. He whispers things against my skin that would make me blush in daylight, promises and threats and declarations that all mean the same thing: mine, mine, mine.

The rope burns against my wrists as I pull against it, needing to touch him, to dig my nails into his back, to pull him closer even though there's no space between us. The frustration of not being able to adds another layer to the overwhelming symphony of sensation.

When release finally comes, it's with an intensity that whites out my vision, makes me cry out loud enough that everyone in the farmhouse must hear.

Every nerve ending fires at once, pleasure so intense it borders on pain.

He follows immediately, my name on his lips like a prayer, like a vow, like everything.

After, we lie tangled and wrecked. The rope is still around my wrists—he makes no move to untie me, and I don't ask.

My whole body feels liquid, boneless, like I might never move again, and would be perfectly fine with that.

Every inch of skin feels oversensitive, even the air from the window is almost too much to take.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on my stomach, soothing rather than arousing. I can hear his heartbeat under my ear where my head rests on his chest, still rapid but slowing. The crickets continue their chorus outside. Everything feels soft and hazy and perfect.

"I used to think about this," I murmur against his chest, tasting salt when I press a kiss to his skin.

"About what?"

"Being with someone who made me feel safe enough to let go. To be vulnerable." Another kiss, over his heart. "I never thought it would be with someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"Someone dangerous. Someone I should be running from, not toward."

His arms tighten around me, pulling me impossibly closer. "You could never run from me. I'd find you."

"I know."

I take a breath, feeling the words building in my chest like a storm. They've been there for days. Maybe since the moment he gave me a lock for my door. Maybe since he killed Lorenzo for insulting me. Maybe since that first night when he won me, but offered choices anyway.

"Dante," I whisper, then louder, "Dante, look at me."

He shifts so we're face-to-face, and I see everything in his eyes—desire, possession, something deeper he hasn't named yet.

"I love you." The words come out clear, certain, and irrevocable. "I'm in love with you. Completely. Desperately. Against all logic and self-preservation, I love you."

The words linger in the air between us like a lit fuse. His whole body goes rigid beneath me, eyes widening.

"What did you say?"

"I love you, Dante Caruso." Each word deliberate, each word true. "The Devil of New York. The man who won me in a poker game. The monster who gave me choices. I love all of it. All of you."

He stares at me for a long moment, something breaking in his expression. Then he's kissing me, hard and desperate, like he's trying to crawl inside me, like he can't get close enough. When he pulls back, his eyes are wild.

"Bella—"

"You don't have to say it back. I just needed you to know. Before tomorrow. Before everything?—"

"What am I doing?" He sits up abruptly, running his hands through his hair. "What the fuck am I doing?"

"Dante?"

He's on his feet now, pacing naked across the room like a caged animal. "I can't send you out there. To Tommy. To Sal. Christ, what was I thinking?"

"We have a plan?—"

"Fuck the plan." He spins to face me, his expression feral. "I love you. Do you understand? I love you more than my empire, more than my revenge, more than my own life. I can't let you walk into that trap."

"It's not a trap if we're expecting it."

"It's suicide, is what it is." He's pulling on his pants now, his movements sharp with agitation. "You'll stay here. Hidden. Protected. We'll find another way."

"There is no other way." I sit up as much as the rope allows, which isn't much. "And you can't decide?—"

"I can and I will. You're not going."

"You're acting like Sal." The words come out sharp as glass, and he freezes. "Making decisions for me."

"This is different?—"

"Is it? Because from where I'm sitting—or lying—it looks the same. A man telling me what I can and can't do with my own life."

"I'm trying to protect you!"

"I don't need protection. I need agency." I pull against the ropes, frustration building. "I'm meeting Sofia tomorrow. I'm going through with the plan."

"No, you're not."

"Try to stop me."

"Bella, this is war. If something happens to me—if I get shot, if I die—where will you go?"

"With you." The words come out fierce. "If you go down, I go down with you."

"That's insane."

"That's love."

"You don't understand what you're saying?—"

"Don't I?" I strain against the ropes, needing to be standing for this, needing to face him as an equal.

"I'm not some damsel in distress anymore, Dante.

I started a shootout at the Inferno. Someone died because of me.

I sold my own father to a psychopath. And tomorrow, I'm going to help destroy Sal, maybe even pull the trigger myself. You can't stop me."

His face darkens with anger. "We'll see about that."

He grabs his shirt, pulling it on with sharp, angry movements.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. Before I say something we'll both regret."

"Dante, we need to talk about this?—"

"No, what you need is to understand that some decisions aren't yours to make." He heads for the door.

"Don't you dare leave me like this! I'm still tied up!"

He pauses at the doorway but doesn't turn around.

"Dante!" I pull at the ropes, but they're tied too well, the rough fiber already chafing my wrists. "You can't leave me here!"

"Watch me."

The door closes behind him with a decisive click.

"You've got to be kidding me." I yank at the barn rope, but it only tightens. "Dante! Get back here!"

Silence.

"This isn't funny!"

Nothing.

I collapse back on the bed, wrists already sore from pulling, body still humming with the aftershocks of the pleasure we shared.

The room still smells like sex and anger and declarations of love that might have ruined it all.

My wrists are bound with rope that seemed playful an hour ago and now feels like a metaphor for everything wrong with us.

I'm trapped in a farmhouse bedroom, tied to a bed by a man who loves me too much to let me make my own choices.

Tomorrow I'm supposed to meet with the FBI. Supposed to walk into danger. Supposed to be the bait that brings down Sal Calabrese.

But tonight I'm just a woman in love with the devil, tied to a bed, waiting for him to come back and either free me or prove that love in our world always comes with chains.

The crickets continue their song outside, indifferent to human drama.

I pull at the rope again, achieving nothing but rawer wrists.

"Damn it, Dante," I whisper to the empty room.

And I wait.