Page 45

After few days.....

The underground auction house was lit in gold too warm, too rich, too decadent.

The kind of place where sin wasn't just welcomed, it was celebrated.

Velvet drapes shimmered along the curved walls, and at the center of it all sat Dante.

He lounged in the elevated VIP alcove like a predator disguised in a tailored midnight suit, his cufflinks obsidian, his watch custom-engraved, ticking time only for those who deserved to bleed.

He didn't bother hiding his boredom as priceless artifacts were paraded by.

His knuckles drummed once against the marble armrest, gloved in black leather.

Then, they brought out the necklace.

A hush fell.

"This," the auctioneer announced with reverent breathlessness, "is the 17th-century Ligurian Choker. Blackened platinum. Diamond latticework wrapped in cursed Sicilian history. Once owned by the Marchesa who poisoned four of her husbands."

Dante's spine straightened with calculated grace. Interest flickered in those eyes, dark like ink spilt across parchment.

The bidding began at three million.

Someone across the room lifted a paddle. Dante didn't move.

His chin remained slightly tilted, profile cut like vengeance.

"Five million."

Another paddle lifted.

"Seven."

He finally raised one hand-slow, deliberate, fingers adorned in deathly rings. No paddle. Just Dante.

"Ten million," the auctioneer stuttered.

"Withdraw," Dante said without glancing sideways.

The competitor lowered his paddle. Fear did the bidding now.

Sold.

He entered the penthouse like he owned the sky.

Isolde was curled on the golden chaise, of the golden cage wrapped in a silk robe, her hair unbound, a storm of dark waves.

She looked up when he stepped in, her eyes wide and always waiting.

"Where were you?" she asked softly.

He didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he stepped into the golden light and slowly unbuttoned his coat. Beneath it, he carried a black velvet box.

Isolde's breath hitched.

He crouched before her, like a beast paying tribute to its keeper-or the other way around. He lifted the lid.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

"It's yours," he said, his voice low, dangerous in its calm. "Just like everything else I touch."

She reached for it, hesitant. He caught her wrist midair.

His fingers wrapped tight, not hurting just asserting.

"Not yet," he murmured. "Let me."

She turned around slowly, breath shallow.

The robe slipped off one shoulder, revealing her bare neck. Pale. Fragile. Vulnerable.

He inhaled as though her skin was perfume.

The choker fastened with a near-silent click, hugging her throat like a brand.

He brushed her hair aside with fingers reverent, yet possessive.

"There," he said against her ear, his lips a breath from skin. "Now you wear my madness."

Later that night, Isolde stood before the mirror, fingertips grazing the necklace.

She should've felt trapped.

She didn't.

Her obsession with him had bloomed like bruises-quiet, deep, hidden.

She couldn't stop craving the violence of his love.

She loved how he destroyed for her.

How he made the world smaller, crueler, just so she would only see him.

He came up behind her then, shirt unbuttoned, hair messy from a storm no one else saw.

He pressed his mouth to her shoulder.

"I killed the last person who looked at you for too long today," he whispered, voice slow and syrup-thick. "He smiled. That was enough."

Isolde trembled, in fear and guilt that another guy was killed because of her. "The guard who was placed in front of her cage yesterday, but he stared at her for than two seconds, which he knew he shouldn't have, but he did.

Dante always keeps an eye on Isolde, and she knows it.

She never even asked that guards name, knowing what Dante would do when he got to know about it, but again, it didn't help.

"Why me?" she asked her throat, getting tight from mixed emotions not knowing how to feel anymore about all this.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he lifted her hand, kissed the tips of her fingers like they were scripture. Then his expression changed. Sharpened.

"You were made for me. You just don't remember being carved from my ribs."

She didn't move, afraid if she did, she'd shatter.

Her fingers curled against his chest, clutching fabric, pulling him closer.

He grinned darkly and scooped her into his arms like a man reclaiming stolen property.

He carried her and then lowered her into the canopy in the cage.

She lay back, heart pounding, silk robe clinging to her frame, the antique necklace still clasped tight around her throat like a jeweled collar.

Dante didn't say a word.

He watched her. Slowly removing his coat. His jacket.

Button by button, his black dress shirt followed-until nothing remained between her and the raw lines of him.

Broad chest. Inked arms. Muscles that tensed with restraint.

He knelt beside her, his hand finding her ankle.

"Spread them," he said, quiet and cold.

She hesitated.

He smiled.

There was no warmth in it.

He gripped her thighs and pulled her apart-not violently, but with unshakable control.

Her robe bunched at her waist. The cool air touched bare skin. His eyes burned.

"You don't get to hide," he whispered. "Not from me. Especially not when you're the one who asked to be kept."

"I didn't-" she started.

"You stayed," he interrupted. "You stayed. You could've screamed. You could've run. But you begged for a cage. And I gave you gold."

Yes it was true she chose him. She chose him.

He leaned down, kissing the inside of her thigh.

"You wear my name in diamonds."

She trembled. "Dante..."

His fingers moved-up her thighs, parting her fully.

"You are not pleasure."

He dipped his head. His mouth on her.

"You are purpose."

She cried out, arching into the velvet, body tightening under his tongue.

One hand gripped the bars above her. The other fisted in the cushion.

He held her down.

"You want more?" he asked, voice muffled by her skin.

"Yes," she whispered. "Please..."

"You don't beg yet."

He stopped. Her body writhed with frustration.

Then she saw him reach into his jacket.

Something silver.

A tiny blade.

Her breath caught.

He didn't use it on her. He sliced his own palm.

Blood welled instantly. He held it above her, and a single drop landed on her stomach.

"Every piece of me is yours," he murmured.

Then he licked it off her.

Her body bucked.

"You're crazy," she said in pure shock.

His hand slid around her throat.

"You say that like it changes anything."

He kissed her then rough, blood-warmed, mouth claiming every piece of her body.