Page 46

For three days, she had not stepped outside the golden cage.

The velvet lining still smelled of him.

And then the door opened.

He stood there, dressed in charcoal-black, his presence filling the entire room without a word.

“Come,” he said.

Isolde stepped barefoot from the cage. The silk of her nightgown slid around her thighs like water.

She didn’t ask where he was taking her. She simply followed.

The bedroom was darker than before, the fire low, licking shadows across black marble.

At the foot of the bed, he’d laid everything out:

A gown of deep garnet velvet, slit high along the thigh. A pair of blood-red stilettos.

A lace garter. Black silk gloves. And a necklace—gold and obsidian, sharp and ancient.

She stood in silence, draped in a black robe, her hair falling unbound to her waist.

When Dante entered, he didn’t speak. He closed the door behind him, the sound soft but final, and his gaze never left her.

He then slowly picked up the gown with black-gloved hands, shaking it out gently.

“Off,” he said.

Her breath caught. Then, she obeyed.

Letting the robe fall from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

He approached her like he was approaching fire he wanted to burn in.

His hands didn’t immediately touch her. He circled her first—a slow, possessive orbit.

His gaze dragged across her skin, down her spine, over her hips.

Then, finally, his fingers grazed her collarbone.

He lifted the gown and slipped it over her head. The velvet kissed every curve as it fell into place.

He adjusted the neckline with the back of his fingers, brushing her breasts in the process intentionally.

“Too loose,” he muttered.

She shivered.

He moved behind her, clasping the invisible hooks along her spine, each fastened with a touch that lingered too long.

When he finished, he didn’t move away. His hands slid up her sides to her ribs, fingertips just beneath the swell of her breasts.

He leaned down.

“You shouldn’t be allowed to look like this and still breathe.”

She turned her head. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s my kind of worship,” he murmured.

Each touch was deliberate.

He knelt next. Rolled the garter slowly up her thigh.

“Do you know what they’ll see tonight?” he murmured.

She shook her head.

“Exactly what I want them to.”

He fastened the necklace at her throat, the obsidian drop settling just above her heart.

Then the gloves. Then the earrings.

He stepped back, studying her.

“Perfect.”

Not pleased. Possessed.

“You’ll smile when I tell you to. You’ll stay close. You’ll remember that every man in that room is beneath you because I put you above them.”

She met his gaze.

“And if someone tries to touch me?”

He didn’t blink. “I’ll paint the floor red with their blood.”

He then pulled her against him.

Her heart was a thunder in her chest.

And still she leaned in.

Because his obsession felt like home.

The manor’s doors parted for them.

Outside, the cold night was silent, the courtyard bathed in golden light.

Waiting for them was a Rolls-Royce Phantom—polished obsidian, sleek as a predator. Its chrome gleamed like a blade.

Six armed guards flanked the entrance. Suits pressed, stances locked. Their gazes didn’t drift.

Each stood tall, dressed in matte black suits tailored for movement, their earpieces glinting faintly beneath cropped hair.

Weapons were visible—but it wasn’t the firearms that made the air taut.

It was the stillness.

The way they didn’t blink when Isolde emerged behind him.

The way they bowed their heads ever so slightly as she passed as if she were more than a woman like his queen.

But none of them looked at her.

Not with Dante walking at her side, one hand at the small of her back, the other held loose and lethal by his side.

He walked with command in every step. Slow. Unbothered.

His right hand at the small of her back, steering her like a treasure no one dared touch.

She felt it not just in the press of his palm, but in the way the guards' eyes slid away the moment she met their gaze.

She was his orbit. And no one crossed Dante’s gravity.

The driver opened the rear door. Dante stepped forward and reached into the interior.

His fingers pressed a hidden control panel.

The tinted partition separating the back cabin from the front went completely black.

No one would see.

Then he turned to her.

Offered his hand.

She stepped in.

The car was luxury.

Black leather with blood-red stitching. Subtle fragrance of cedar, musk, and him.

The door shut.

Dante settled beside her, his arm already curling around her waist, pulling her against his side.

He then pulled her onto his lap in one smooth movement. Her knees on either side of him.

The slit of her gown parted around her thighs. His hands on her waist.

His voice came low.

“This dress was made for you. And for me to take you apart while you wear it.”

She flushed. Heat climbed her throat.

His mouth found her neck.

“You smell like temptation.”

One hand slid up her thigh, under the gown. No barrier.

“You wore nothing beneath.”

She exhaled. “You didn’t leave anything for me to wear.”

He chuckled. Dark. Hungry.

“Exactly.”

He watched her, eyes heavy-lidded, molten with possessive heat.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice low like a growl behind velvet. “And I want them to smell me on you before we even arrive.”

Isolde swallowed hard. “Dante…”

He reached out, not gently, gripping her chin between thumb and forefinger.

Her lips parted. Her pupils expanded.

He tilted her head back, examining her like a diamond he planned to shatter just to see how it broke.

“I don’t care if my men hear you scream,” he whispered against her mouth, “but I closed the glass because no one will see you like this. No one ever sees you like this. You’re mine to watch. To ruin.”

His mouth descended, crushing hers in a dark kiss that felt like a declaration of war.

She whimpered, her fingers clutching his suit, her body leaning into the violence of his affection.

When he pulled back, a string of saliva connected their lips.

He pushed her down onto the cool leather seats, kneeling between her parted thighs.

“Lie down. Spread. Now.”

Her breath hitched, her body obeying like instinct.

The hem of her dress rose, revealing pale thighs and a glimpse of dark lace beneath.

She was soft, trembling, his name on her tongue like a prayer and a plea.

Dante’s mouth followed the trail of her ribs, over the fabric of her dress, to the slope of her hips.

He yanked the lace aside with a brutal impatience.

“I bought you a cage of gold,” he murmured against her skin, “and now I want to brand you with something filthier now.”

“Dante,” she gasped, arching into him.

He laughed, low and dangerous, like sin. “Don’t pretend you don’t love when I get like this.”

His fingers curled around her hips, pulling her to the edge of the seat.

Her back arched, her arms reaching up for something solid, but he wouldn’t give it.

Wouldn’t let her anchor. He wanted her undone.

“I dream of you on your knees,” he said. “I wake up hard because I know no man has ever had you the way I have. No one’s ever tasted what I’ve ruined.”

She shook her head, but her hips betrayed her, pressing forward, seeking more.

He pushed her legs wider, trailing his tongue slowly up the inside of her thigh before finally reaching her pussy.

Her moan echoed in the car, raw and high-pitched.

“Let them hear you,” he said without lifting his head. “Let them hear what it sounds like when I own you.”

Her body trembled violently, caught between pleasure and surrender.

He didn’t stop when she came. He didn’t let her recover. He moved up her body, gripping her wrists in one large hand, pinning them above her head.

His other hand wrapped her throat not tight enough to hurt.

“Do you want more?” he asked with his husky tone.

“Y–yes,” she whispered.

“You don’t want. You belong.”

“Yes, Dante. I belong to you…”

Her confession broke something in him. His control. His restraint.

He undid his belt and freed himself, pressing against her heat with punishing slowness.

When he slid inside her, she gasped like she’d been stabbed, but she grabbd his hair in her fist, as if begging him not to stop.

He thrust hard, deep, grinding her into the leather, watching her unravel beneath him like silk torn apart by obsession.

“You love this,” he gritted against her ear. “Say it.”

“I love it,” she cried. “I love you—your darkness… everything—”

His mouth crashed over hers, drowning her confessions with his tongue, with the brutal rhythm of his hips.

Every movement he claimed "you are mine. Not just your body. Your will. Your entire existence."

He came with a guttural growl, collapsing on top of her, chest heaving, breath hot against her skin.

He pulled her close, adjusting her dress gently this time, wiping the sweat from her brow with the silk of his tie.

“I’m taking you to hell,” he murmured into her hair. “But I’m making it beautiful for you.”

And she—mad with devotion—nodded, clinging to the monster she loved.