Page 39

Isolde lay still.

A ghost of warmth remained in her skin, her breath shallow, her pulse fragile beneath the surface of her throat.

Her wrist was limp against the velvet divan, head tilted slightly toward Dante as if even in unconsciousness, her body leaned toward him.

Dante's eyes never left her.

Not even as Roza stepped into the candlelight.

She wore a gown of deep crimson, tight at the waist, slit high on the thigh, her black hair pinned up in an elegant twist that revealed the sharp line of her throat.

Her heels clicked softly across the marble floor, each step deliberate, sensual, mocking.

Her lips curled in a smirk.

"Still playing the hero, Dante?" she said. "I remember when you used to enjoy this game."

Dante's voice was calm. Dead calm.

His hand slowly slid into the pocket of his black coat. "You're still mistaking me for a man who plays games."

Roza chuckled. "You came alone. No guards. No guns. Just fury and devotion. As I knew you would."

She circled him like a vulture with lipstick, her heels clicking louder in the hollow ballroom.

"You still ache for her?" she asked. "This pretty little ghost? This orphan wrapped in silk and collarbones?"

Dante didn't answer.

His eyes dark, calm, absolute remained fixed on Isolde.

"You should've left me dead, Roza."

She stepped closer, slowly drawing a slim blade from her thigh holster. "I couldn't be heartless."

He turned his head then, just enough to meet her eyes.

A soft smile touched his mouth. "No," he said. "But you will."

She lunged.

Fast.

Blade gleaming.

But Dante was already moving.

He caught her wrist mid-swing, twisted hard.

The knife clattered to the floor.

Roza snarled, pulling back, throwing a punch.

He blocked it with his forearm, drove his knee into her ribs, and caught her again by the throat.

He didn't squeeze.

Yet.

His voice was a whisper against her jaw.

"You kidnapped my wife."

Roza grinned through her teeth. "Wife? So formal. Tell me, does she cry prettier than I did?"

He leaned in close, his breath like ice.

"She cries when I let her."

Suddenly-gunfire.

A scream from the far corridor.

Roza's expression flickered.

Panic.

And Dante smiled. Slow. Sinister. "Did you really think I came alone?"

Doors burst open.

Lucien stormed in with five of Dante's elite-dressed in tactical black, silenced weapons drawn.

Roza's guards tried to run.

They didn't get far.

Gunshots echoed.

Bodies dropped.

Dante shoved Roza to her knees.

Her eyes burned with hatred.

"You traitorous bastard," she spat.

He crouched before her, grabbing a fistful of her hair to tilt her face upward.

"No," he said coldly. "I'm just smarter than you."

She bared her teeth, struggling.

"You don't love her," she hissed. "You love the weakness in her. The part that obeys."

His voice dipped low. "I love the part of her that makes me want to stop killing. And I hate that you reminded me why I never will."

He turned to Alex. "Take her alive. Put her in the silence chamber. Chain her like a dog."

Alex nodded.

Guards hauled Roza to her feet.

Still, she smiled through blood. "She'll leave you one day, Dante. And when she does, I'll be watching you die slowly from betrayal."

Dante didn't respond.

He was already at Isolde's side.

He lifted her into his arms slowly, reverently.

She was light too light.

Her hair spilled across his arm like dark silk, her lashes fluttering as consciousness stirred.

His coat swept around them both like wings.

"Dante..." she whispered.

"I'm here."

She blinked slowly, dazed. Her cheek pressed to his chest.

"Did she... hurt you?"

"No," he whispered. "She can hurt me when your prayers are with me."

He carried her out into the night.