Page 34

The morning was unnaturally still.

The kind of stillness that smelled like metal and memory.

Isolde sat at the marble breakfast bar in Dante's penthouse, one leg tucked under her, dressed in nothing but his oversized black button-up.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she nursed a cup of tea.

Her eyes hadn't left the skyline in over fifteen minutes.

She hadn't slept.

Not since the night someone tried to drag her out of this tower and back into hell.

And Dante he hadn't left her side.

Even now, he sat across from her, silent. His bare forearms rested on the counter, sleeves rolled just below his elbows, revealing the ink spiraling along his veins.

His gray silk shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, collar loose.

He hadn't shaved. His jaw was sharp, his eyes darker than the sky outside.

Neither of them spoke.

Until the elevator chimed.

Dante stood immediately.

Alex entered, accompanied by two of Dante's men each holding a black velvet box.

The silence cracked.

Dante's hand tensed on the edge of the counter. "What is it?"

Alex nodded once.

"They arrived ten minutes ago. Courier dropped them in the lobby. No signature. No trace. But there was... a note."

One of the men placed the first box on the counter.

Dante opened it without ceremony.

Isolde blinked-once.

Then again.

Inside lay a single, severed hand.

Cleanly cut.

Preserved.

And wearing the ring of one of Dante's own soldiers.

Isolde's stomach turned. She clamped a hand to her mouth.

But Dante didn't flinch.

He opened the second box.

Inside: an eye. Pale. Icy blue. Still wet.

And beneath it, a folded piece of thick paper sealed in wax.

Dante broke the seal. Read silently.

Then laughed.

Soft. Cold. Unhinged.

He handed the note to Lucien.

Alex read aloud. "Tell your pet her eyes are pretty. But mine are older.

- R."

Dante looked at Isolde. Not with fear.

But with something worse. Fury.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't move suddenly.

He just stood there, breathing like a man tethered to the edge of control.

"She's not trying to kill me," he said softly. "She's trying to unmake me."

He turned to Alex.

"Call Dominik. Get me eyes inside the Polish ports. She's not sending pieces just for fun-she's letting me know she's closer than I think."

Alex nodded and left.

Dante didn't look at the boxes again.

He crossed the room toward Isolde, knelt in front of her, and placed his blood-scarred hands on her thighs.

"You see now?" he said quietly. "You don't live in my world. You're carved into it. And they'll gut you just to hear me scream."

She didn't know whether to cry or run.

His voice broke. "And I would. I would die if I lost you."

That night, Dante led her into a room she hadn't seen before.

The walls were black velvet. The air smelled of sandalwood and cold marble.

There was no furniture just a large mirror framed in gold and an antique four-poster bed with crimson silk sheets.

He closed the door behind them and turned the lock.

Isolde stood in the center of the room.

Barefoot. Bare-throated. Dressed in only a thin silk slip.

"Why are we here?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

He stepped behind her, fingers brushing the side of her neck.

"I needed to see you."

"You see me every day."

"Not like this."

He turned her gently.

Gestured toward the mirror.

"Look."

She did.

And what she saw stole her breath.

The girl in the reflection didn't look afraid.

She looked... claimed.

Her skin bore faint bruises on her hips. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown.

Her lips still stained from the wine they'd shared earlier.

Dante stood behind her shirtless, pants unzipped just enough to be dangerous, his hands resting lightly on her hips.

He whispered in her ear. "I want you to see what they'll never have."

His hands slid around her waist, pressing her back to his chest.

"I want you to see what's mine."

He pushed the slip down her shoulders.

It slid to the floor.

She was bare.

Vulnerable.

But he didn't ravage her.

Not yet. He moved like worship.

One hand between her thighs.

The other across her stomach, holding her tight.

His voice-raw and reverent. "They think they can take you."

He thrust his hips against her slowly.

Her breath hitched. "But they can't. Because you live in my blood now."

He kissed her neck.

Then her shoulder.

Then her spine. "And if anyone tries again... I won't just kill them."

He growled against her skin "I'll feed them to my pet hyenas."

She moaned as he kissed her there in front of the mirror, body pressed against his, his movements slow, possessive.

There was no escaping the way he held her gaze in the reflection.

No escape from the way he said her name like a threat and a prayer.

After.

She sat curled against him on the silk sheets.

His hand combed through her hair.

Neither spoke.

Because they both knew:

Roza had only begun to play her game.

And Dante was already building a new war.

One where losing wasn't an option.

Not with her still breathing.