Page 42

Few days past by.......

The rain came softly that night, falling in delicate threads against the tall glass windows of the penthouse.

The city lights blurred behind the droplets, casting the room in gold and silver.

Isolde stood barefoot in the kitchen, her long ivory nightdress flowing just past her ankles.

Her braid rested loose down her back, and her hands trembled slightly as she placed the kettle on the stove.

She shouldn't have been able to move after what happened.

But she couldn't sleep.

Because he wasn't beside her.

And when Dante wasn't near, the silence pressed harder.

He found her there-shoulders tense, fingers curled around a teacup she hadn't yet poured.

Dante's shirt was half-unbuttoned, his black pants low on his hips, his body a silhouette of restrained power.

He moved without sound, stepping behind her like a shadow called home.

She felt him before she saw him.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked softly.

She shook her head.

He reached past her one arm on either side of her body and turned off the kettle before it screamed.

His chest brushed her shoulder. His heat closed around her like a wall.

"You should be resting."

"I needed to know you were okay."

He turned her gently to face him.

Her eyes lifted.

And he saw it again-what he always did.

That softness. That quiet, innocent loyalty.

It undid something inside him every time.

She placed a hand on his chest.

"I hate when I wake up and you're not there," she whispered. "It feels like the world is quieter. But not in a good way."

He caught her wrist. Brought it to his lips. Kissed the pulse point gently.

"I had blood on me," he murmured. "Didn't want you to smell it in your sleep."

"I wouldn't have cared."

"I would have."

He paused.

Then lowered his head.

And confessed what he rarely did "I'm always afraid you'll look at me and see what I am and think of leaving me again."

Her brows drew together. She stepped closer, cupped his face.

"I do see you."

"You see the man."

She nodded.

"And the monster."

Another nod.

"I love both," she whispered.

Later, in the dark, she sat in his lap on the velvet armchair, curled against his chest, her fingers tracing the scar across his ribs.

She wore nothing now.

Only the warmth of his body, his breath against her temple, his arms wrapped around her like iron.

He whispered against her hair "You should've run from me."

"I couldn't."

"Why?"

She looked up at him.

Eyes wide. Vulnerable. Lit with the kind of sincerity that made men weep or kill "Because I feel safest where the rest of the world fears you."

Dante pulled her closer.

One hand gripping her thigh, the other at the nape of her neck.

His voice was rough.

Dark.

"I've never wanted anyone the way I want you. Not just to hold. Not to fuck. I want to bury you inside me so deep I forget there was a before."

Her lips parted.

He kissed her.

Hard.

Devouring.

Claiming.

"You're mine. Say it."

"I'm yours."

He leaned in, forehead pressed to hers, their breaths tangled.

"Good girl."

He took her back to bed.

Not with violence.

Not with tenderness.

But with the kind of worship that felt like ruin.

He kissed her neck slowly leaving trail of sloppy kisses until he reached between her breasts.

Her hands curled in his hair.

Her mouth whispered prayers in the dark.

She belonged to him.

And he-though he'd never say it-belonged to her in a way that made him dangerous to anyone else who breathed.

They didn't speak for a long time.

They didn't need to.

Because they were learning the same truth:

Obsession doesn't always scream.

Sometimes it sleeps next to you.

And watches you breathe.