Page 12 of The Dante (Those (Damn!) Texas Dantes #1)

That realization hit him harder than it should have.

He didn’t untangle himself from her warmth.

Instead, his grip tightened, anchoring her there as if to convince himself that this wasn’t a fleeting moment, that she wasn’t just another conquest to be discarded when the night ended.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to letgo.

The tension in his muscles refused to ease, wound tight with something unfamiliar. Was it possession? Uncertainty? Or something more dangerous—something he couldn’t prevent? He had never been the type to dwell, to let a moment extend beyond its use. But this— her —wasn’t something he could dismiss.

His hold was tight as if keeping her close would quiet the thoughts clawing their way into his mind. Because the truth was settling in, unshakable and inevitable—this wasn’t just about dominance. It never hadbeen.

His breath hitched—so slight it was almost imperceptible, but he felt it, felt the shift inside him that he wasn’t ready to name.

He loosened his grip for a fleeting second, as if debating whether to let her go, but the idea was gone before it could take root.

His fingers shifted more tightly around her waist, his body instinctively pulling her closer.

He wasn’t just holding her. He was keepingher.

Maybe, for the first time, he wasn’t in charge of what happened next.

She had become something more than a moment, more than a fleeting indulgence.

He wasn’t ready to call it anything, wasn’t ready to admit what was shifting inside him, but the significance of it settled in his chest all the same.

Aconnection that defied the logic he had built his life around.

If he admitted it, even to himself, it would change everything.

And Titus Dante didn’t do change. He had learned long ago that change led to weakness, to cracks in the foundation that men like him couldn’t afford.

Adaptation was necessary, but emotions—attachments—were liabilities.

He had built his empire on domination, on never letting anything or anyone dictate his course.

But right now, with Jazz in his arms, that certainty wavered. She had slipped past his defenses without permission, without effort, and for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure he had a choice.

Her breath was steady now, her body warm against his, but Titus remained alert, his mind restless. His fingers moved absently along the curve of her breast, feeling the soft rise and fall of each breath, surrendering himself to the quiet. He had expected distance after, but instead, she stayed.

And so did he.

Jazz shifted slightly, pressing her cheek against his chest, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with something fragile. “If my father hadn’t owed you so much money, would you have even been interested in me?”

The words hung between them, heavier than he had expected. Her voice was soft, but added kindling to a brightly burning fire deep inside. Did she really believe that? That what burned between them could be reduced to a businessdeal?

The idea gnawed at him, not just because it was wrong, but because it exposed something he hadn’t wanted to confront—how easily she could see him as the kind of man who took what he wanted and left nothing behind.

Maybe that’s who he was. Maybe that’s who he had to be.

But with her, it felt like a lie. And that was treacherous.

The thought irritated him more than it should have, but he didn’t say anything.

The words sat on his tongue, unspoken, locked behind the essence of everything he refused to admit.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, easing the tension in his jaw, keeping his expression unreadable.

He glanced at his palm, where the faint outline of the mark—the Dante Brand—was forming, an intricate design beginning to take shape beneath his skin.

It pulsed subtly, awarmth he wasn’t sure was real or imagined, as if it recognized who lay beside him.

The edges were blurred, shifting as if resisting full permanence.

It was a bond, one that neither of them had chosen, yet one that bound them all thesame.

It was a Brand that ran through the Dante line for generations upon generations, supposedly connecting soul mates.

She didn’t know. Not yet. But when she did, would she accept it—or would she run? Would she look at him the same way, or would she see the mark as another chain, another way for him to keepher?

He wasn’t sure what burned hotter in his chest—the idea of her rejecting it outright, or the thought that she might accept it but never truly trust it. That she might stay but always keep a part of herself locked away fromhim.

That wasn’t an option. If she was his, she was his completely.

His grip on her tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin as if to will the thought into reality.

He didn’t share, didn’t offer half-measures.

Either she was his in every way, or she wasn’t his at all.

And the idea of the latter, of her slipping away from him, sent something cold slicing through the possessive heat in his chest.

Fate had made its choice. But had Jazz? And if she didn’t, what then? Would he let her go, allow her to walk away as if she hadn’t already woven herself into him, into something deeper than possession?

No. That wasn’t an option. He didn’t know when it had shifted, when she had become more than an inevitability, but now, the idea of losing her sent something piercing and unforgiving through his chest. If she hadn’t made her choice yet, he would make sure she did—and there would only be one answer.

He could tell her the truth. That fate had chosen long before either of them had. That no amount of debt or strategy had brought her to him—only inevitability. But Jazz wasn’t ready for that truth, and maybe, neither washe.

So he gave her something else, something easier to accept. “I would have wanted you no matter what.”

She didn’t respond right away. He felt the slow release of her breath against his skin, the tension she tried to hide. She wanted to believe him. He could feel it in the way she held herself, in the way she stayed close despite the doubt creeping into the edges of hermind.

She tilted her head slightly, just enough for him to see the question lingering in her eyes, the unspoken doubt. “Would you tell me if that weren’t true?”

Titus met her gaze, his fingers tightening slightly at her waist. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

It wasn’t a direct answer, but it was enough to make her hesitate before nodding, her lips pressing together as if considering his words.

He could feel the tension in her muscles, the silent war between wanting to believe him and fearing that this—whatever it was—was built on something fragile.

The gradual release of a soft sigh and the gentle nuzzling of her head into the crease of his arm did nothing to alleviate the doubt that lingered below the surface. She was afraid.

He let the silence stretch between them, waiting, watching as her breathing slowed again, her body slackening into his. And just when he thought she had fallen asleep, she whispered, “Love doesn’t protect people in your world, does it?”

His jaw clenched, but his voice remained steady. “No. Power does.”

She didn’t challenge him or push for more, but the silence that followed felt heavier than words ever could.

And the way her fingers rubbed slightly against his chest, the way her heart beat an erratic tattoo, told him everything.

She was retreating, folding into herself in a way that made something dark and restless wrap inside and through him.

She didn’t like his answer, and worse, she was trying not to let him see that she didn’t likeit.

That unsettled him in a way he couldn’t ignore. He was used to knowing every move before it was made, to bending circumstances—and people—to his will. Butthis?

The quiet disappointment she tried to mask, the way she pulled back ever so slightly, as if preparing herself for something inevitable—he didn’t know how to counterthat.

He could fight threats. He could destroy obstacles.

But he had no strategy for this, no defense against the way she made him question things he had never questioned before.

Domination had always been his weapon, his armor, but with her, it felt like an illusion.

She made him question whether that was enough—whether winning was enough. And if it wasn’t, then whatwas?

Jazz shifted slightly against him, her fingers skimming lightly over his chest, tracing absent, thoughtless shapes, her touch deceptively casual. “Tell me about your business. What is it, exactly, that the Dantes do?”

Titus went still for a fraction of a second before forcing himself to relax. “We own things,” he said simply. “Hotels. Casinos. Real estate. Shipping. Investments.”

Jazz lifted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Legal things.”

“Mostly.” He let the word hang, letting the importance of it settle between them. He could feel the shift in her, the way she tensed slightly, waiting, expecting more. And she would. Jazz wasn’t the type to accept half-truths.

He dragged a hand down her back, his touch slow, measured. “ Every legitimate empire has its shadows. Ours is no different. We ensure that things move the way they’re supposed to, that interests are protected. That people don’t forget their place.”

Her fingers paused against his chest. “And what happens when they do?”

He met her gaze, unblinking. “We remind them.”

She held his gaze while she considered. “And the other parts?”